Curtis didn’t answer. Instead, he stood with his shoulders slumped, and his eyes gazing dully downwards, an expression of misery pasted on his face. “Grandpa . . . isn’t here,” he said despondently, staring at the ground. Kenta looked at him interrogatively. “Not here?” he repeated. “Well . . . where is he, then?”
“He’s been taken to the local jail.”
Hibiki heard Kenta gasp. The two brothers looked at each other, then back at Curtis. “Why’s he in jail?” asked Hibiki nervously. “Did he do something wrong?”
“Of course not,” insisted Curtis angrily, glaring at the door. “Those pigs issued a decree about three weeks ago, declaring that custom-made pokeballs were no longer allowed to be made without a permit. Can you believe that crap? We’ve been following a tradition for more than seventy years, hand-making apricorn pokeballs for needy trainers since before Professor Samuel Oak received his first Charmander. They can’t just step in now and halt our life calling!”
“You weren’t able to get a permit?” asked Kenta, watching as Curtis stomped his way moodily over to a workman’s bench in the far corner of the room. The latter shook his head, his back turned to the Nyna brothers. “Only big merchandisers like Devon and Sierra Mana can get permits. We’re just two people, keeping an ancient way of life in practice to this day.
“Anyway, Grandpa declared the decree pish-posh and went right on with making apricorn pokeballs.” Curtis held up his arms, as if trying to reason with an invisible enemy. “You have to understand- he feels old and useless, and needs to do something to keep his hands busy. When the fuzz found out he was still working, they came in one night and just took him away. I tried begging them to let him do what he wants until his arthritis made him too clumsy to carry on, but they wouldn’t listen.” Curtis covered his face with a hand, looking ashamed of himself. “Then they hauled him off to the jail about six blocks away. They let me remain free, with a warning to keep my nose out of mischief. Lousy bunch of high-and-mighty . . .”
Kenta cleared his throat. Curtis stopped immediately, and waved his arms frantically in front of him in apology. “Oh, no, I don’t include you with them, Kenta!”
“And it’s just as well you shouldn’t.” Kenta gave him a small smile, winking at Hibiki. “Curtis, we need a favor. My brother and I have two pokémon that are outside the government’s tracking system, and they’re both getting pretty darn cold without a pokeball to stay in for the winter. Do you have any apricorn balls we could use for storage?”
“Oh, um, sure. Two unregistered pokeballs coming up.” Curtis shook his sleeve, and three different-colored pokeballs immediately rolled out and bounced to the ground. He looked down at them, grinning innocently. “Sorry, heh, heh, heh. When I heard you knocking, I panicked and shoved ‘em up my sleeve.”
“You’ve still been carrying on apricorn-crafting?” gasped Hibiki, amazed at Curtis’s daring after having the police visit his house. Curtis smirked proudly. “Like I’d stop working in Grandpa’s absence. He’d create a pokeball out of my skull! I visit him in jail every day, and he always asks me about my progress.”
“Really?!” Hibiki’s jaw dropped in amazement. He barely felt Kenta push one of the apricorn balls hastily into his limp hand. “You must have over a hundred custom-made pokeballs done by now! I mean . . . three weeks is a long time! Where do you store them all?”
Curtis looked at Hibiki with a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Um . . . well, I don’t know if I should be telling you that . . .”
“Classified information?” asked Kenta playfully, observing the green pokeball he’d chosen from the three on the floor. “Curtis, this Friend Ball is amazing. I can’t wait to try it out on Bolt.”
Hibiki looked down at his own ball; it was colored black and white, and seemed a bit bigger than Kenta’s Friend Ball. Curtis walked up to Hibiki and pointed down at Munchlax, who was eying the refrigerator in the northern corner of the room. “You’ve got a Heavy Ball. Go ahead and re-capture your pokémon in it. Un-cork the top, and give it a good toss.”
There was a plug in the top of the Heavy Ball, and Hibiki twisted it off before letting the ball fly. “Hey, Munchlax,” he muttered, “think fast.” In a flash of light, his gluttonous companion pokémon was gone, and the Heavy Ball lay dormant on the floor. Curtis gave a triumphant bark of laughter, and picked up the Heavy Ball with a delighted grin on his face. “Here,” he said, giving it back to Hibiki, “there’s one captured pokémon that those pigs won’t be able to warp away from you. Use it well.”
“Thanks, Curtis,” beamed Kenta, tossing the Friend Ball to himself. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can repay you, is there?”
“Well . . .” The young pokeball craftsman pushed his glasses up his nose, not looking directly at either Kenta or Hibiki. “I don’t suppose . . . if it’s possible . . . could you somehow get poor old Kurt out of jail?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kenta shot him a thumbs-up. “Leave it to us. Hibiki, let’s get a move on.”
“Wait!” Curtis held out his hand. The brothers stopped at the door, and Kenta turned and looked back at him. Curtis looked bewildered. “Just like that?” he asked blankly. “You’re really going to rescue him?”
“Of course,” said Kenta, grinning at him. “After what you’ve done for us, it’s the least we can do.”
Curtis continued to look at Kenta with a strange expression, then shifted his eyes slowly to Hibiki. “Something’s going on,” he said slowly, crossing his arms and watching the brothers. “Kenta, you came here because you wanted to talk to Grandpa. You’re in disguise, so you obviously want people to continue thinking you’re dead. And the only reason you’d want to consult Grandpa is because he knows the deepest secrets about making pokeballs.” Curtis raised an eyebrow. “Training and capturing pokémon in secret? It’s almost as if you’re operating under the radar . . . Sergeant.”
“Perceptive as always, Curtis,” laughed Kenta easily, shaking his head. “Like I keep saying, you’d make an awesome detective if you were ever to work for Silhouette.”
Curtis tried, and failed, to conceal a smile. “I’d just like to know what you’re up to,” he said in a sincere voice, looking down and kicking his foot back and forth. Kenta gave him a wave, as he slid open the door. “Don’t worry, Curtis. I trust you. Before the day is out, we’ll be back to tell you how the jail visit went. Then I’ll give you your answers.” He stepped outside, moved to shut the panel door, then paused, thinking. “Oh, and Curtis, don’t let anyone find out you’re making pokeballs. Unless, that is, you want them to know.”
Kenta let the door shut with a snap, and Hibiki’s last glimpse of Curtis was the abashed-looking young man performing a somewhat-shoddy salute, wearing a determined expression. The brothers looked at each other, and Hibiki shot Kenta a thumbs-up, grinning excitedly. “All right! Phase one complete!”
“You said it, bro,” Kenta smirked, twisting his fist playfully in Hibiki’s hair. “But we’ve still gotta get to Kurt, and see what we can do about this Master Ball. Get my uniform out of the pack, would you please?”
Hibiki removed his school backpack and zipped it open, remembering almost instantly where in the bag Kenta’s military getup was folded after having taken inventory on it twice. “Here you go,” he said, handing Kenta the pants, jacket, and police cap with the wig sewed around the edges. His brother accepted the clothes in his arms with a self-satisfied grin. “See? Look at that,” he said, turning around and trotting off. “When you double-check inventory, you know where everything is when you need it later.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get you. See you in a minute.”
Kenta returned from Curtis’s backyard a short while later, looking to all the world like the cop he once was. Hibiki marveled at how well the wig suited him; even after first impression, Hibiki still couldn’t tell that the wig was fake.
“You look . . . very professional. If I didn’t know better, I’d behave around you.”
“Heh. This is why I like having you around.”
The brothers began their walk down the empty street of the chilly town, and Kenta busied himself with shoving Brendan’s clothing back into Hibiki’s backpack. Looking at Bolt’s Friend Ball and considering it for a moment, Kenta shook his head and pushed it in as well. “It’s not your old Luxury Ball,” he muttered, “but it’ll hold you fine just the same. Stay in the bookbag for now, buddy, this next mission’s a covert operation.”
Seeing a police building about five blocks off in the distance, Hibiki pointed it out to Kenta. “Wow! It really is close by. What can I do to help out?” he asked eagerly. Kenta stopped, and Hibiki halted next to him, looking to his brother for instruction. Kenta’s face was impassive.
“. . . I hate to say it, but you won’t be able to come with me for this one.”
Hibiki looked at him, mildly surprised, and a tad bit disappointed. “I can’t? Then what’ll I do?”
Kenta pointed to a tiny building across the street, titled “Hikita’s.” “I ate there once with Bakuphoon, back during my trainer days. Go ahead in, and order us some chicken and rice for lunch, while I’m away.” His head was lowered. “Sorry, Hibiki. We can’t afford to be seen together in front of the police. It’d be too suspicious.” He looked his brother directly in the eye, glaring passionately at him. “Understand this. If I fail this mission, or if I ever get caught when I’m not with you, I need you to stay where you are, and not come after me. Deny you know me, if you’re called as a witness. Will you do it?”
Hibiki looked at him, horrified, and after a long pause, barely nodded. “I’ll do as you say.”
“I won’t be long.” Kenta smiled at him. “We’ll be eating together while the food’s still hot, count on it.” He patted Hibiki on the shoulder. “See you in a half hour or less.”
“He’s been taken to the local jail.”
Hibiki heard Kenta gasp. The two brothers looked at each other, then back at Curtis. “Why’s he in jail?” asked Hibiki nervously. “Did he do something wrong?”
“Of course not,” insisted Curtis angrily, glaring at the door. “Those pigs issued a decree about three weeks ago, declaring that custom-made pokeballs were no longer allowed to be made without a permit. Can you believe that crap? We’ve been following a tradition for more than seventy years, hand-making apricorn pokeballs for needy trainers since before Professor Samuel Oak received his first Charmander. They can’t just step in now and halt our life calling!”
“You weren’t able to get a permit?” asked Kenta, watching as Curtis stomped his way moodily over to a workman’s bench in the far corner of the room. The latter shook his head, his back turned to the Nyna brothers. “Only big merchandisers like Devon and Sierra Mana can get permits. We’re just two people, keeping an ancient way of life in practice to this day.
“Anyway, Grandpa declared the decree pish-posh and went right on with making apricorn pokeballs.” Curtis held up his arms, as if trying to reason with an invisible enemy. “You have to understand- he feels old and useless, and needs to do something to keep his hands busy. When the fuzz found out he was still working, they came in one night and just took him away. I tried begging them to let him do what he wants until his arthritis made him too clumsy to carry on, but they wouldn’t listen.” Curtis covered his face with a hand, looking ashamed of himself. “Then they hauled him off to the jail about six blocks away. They let me remain free, with a warning to keep my nose out of mischief. Lousy bunch of high-and-mighty . . .”
Kenta cleared his throat. Curtis stopped immediately, and waved his arms frantically in front of him in apology. “Oh, no, I don’t include you with them, Kenta!”
“And it’s just as well you shouldn’t.” Kenta gave him a small smile, winking at Hibiki. “Curtis, we need a favor. My brother and I have two pokémon that are outside the government’s tracking system, and they’re both getting pretty darn cold without a pokeball to stay in for the winter. Do you have any apricorn balls we could use for storage?”
“Oh, um, sure. Two unregistered pokeballs coming up.” Curtis shook his sleeve, and three different-colored pokeballs immediately rolled out and bounced to the ground. He looked down at them, grinning innocently. “Sorry, heh, heh, heh. When I heard you knocking, I panicked and shoved ‘em up my sleeve.”
“You’ve still been carrying on apricorn-crafting?” gasped Hibiki, amazed at Curtis’s daring after having the police visit his house. Curtis smirked proudly. “Like I’d stop working in Grandpa’s absence. He’d create a pokeball out of my skull! I visit him in jail every day, and he always asks me about my progress.”
“Really?!” Hibiki’s jaw dropped in amazement. He barely felt Kenta push one of the apricorn balls hastily into his limp hand. “You must have over a hundred custom-made pokeballs done by now! I mean . . . three weeks is a long time! Where do you store them all?”
Curtis looked at Hibiki with a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Um . . . well, I don’t know if I should be telling you that . . .”
“Classified information?” asked Kenta playfully, observing the green pokeball he’d chosen from the three on the floor. “Curtis, this Friend Ball is amazing. I can’t wait to try it out on Bolt.”
Hibiki looked down at his own ball; it was colored black and white, and seemed a bit bigger than Kenta’s Friend Ball. Curtis walked up to Hibiki and pointed down at Munchlax, who was eying the refrigerator in the northern corner of the room. “You’ve got a Heavy Ball. Go ahead and re-capture your pokémon in it. Un-cork the top, and give it a good toss.”
There was a plug in the top of the Heavy Ball, and Hibiki twisted it off before letting the ball fly. “Hey, Munchlax,” he muttered, “think fast.” In a flash of light, his gluttonous companion pokémon was gone, and the Heavy Ball lay dormant on the floor. Curtis gave a triumphant bark of laughter, and picked up the Heavy Ball with a delighted grin on his face. “Here,” he said, giving it back to Hibiki, “there’s one captured pokémon that those pigs won’t be able to warp away from you. Use it well.”
“Thanks, Curtis,” beamed Kenta, tossing the Friend Ball to himself. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can repay you, is there?”
“Well . . .” The young pokeball craftsman pushed his glasses up his nose, not looking directly at either Kenta or Hibiki. “I don’t suppose . . . if it’s possible . . . could you somehow get poor old Kurt out of jail?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Kenta shot him a thumbs-up. “Leave it to us. Hibiki, let’s get a move on.”
“Wait!” Curtis held out his hand. The brothers stopped at the door, and Kenta turned and looked back at him. Curtis looked bewildered. “Just like that?” he asked blankly. “You’re really going to rescue him?”
“Of course,” said Kenta, grinning at him. “After what you’ve done for us, it’s the least we can do.”
Curtis continued to look at Kenta with a strange expression, then shifted his eyes slowly to Hibiki. “Something’s going on,” he said slowly, crossing his arms and watching the brothers. “Kenta, you came here because you wanted to talk to Grandpa. You’re in disguise, so you obviously want people to continue thinking you’re dead. And the only reason you’d want to consult Grandpa is because he knows the deepest secrets about making pokeballs.” Curtis raised an eyebrow. “Training and capturing pokémon in secret? It’s almost as if you’re operating under the radar . . . Sergeant.”
“Perceptive as always, Curtis,” laughed Kenta easily, shaking his head. “Like I keep saying, you’d make an awesome detective if you were ever to work for Silhouette.”
Curtis tried, and failed, to conceal a smile. “I’d just like to know what you’re up to,” he said in a sincere voice, looking down and kicking his foot back and forth. Kenta gave him a wave, as he slid open the door. “Don’t worry, Curtis. I trust you. Before the day is out, we’ll be back to tell you how the jail visit went. Then I’ll give you your answers.” He stepped outside, moved to shut the panel door, then paused, thinking. “Oh, and Curtis, don’t let anyone find out you’re making pokeballs. Unless, that is, you want them to know.”
Kenta let the door shut with a snap, and Hibiki’s last glimpse of Curtis was the abashed-looking young man performing a somewhat-shoddy salute, wearing a determined expression. The brothers looked at each other, and Hibiki shot Kenta a thumbs-up, grinning excitedly. “All right! Phase one complete!”
“You said it, bro,” Kenta smirked, twisting his fist playfully in Hibiki’s hair. “But we’ve still gotta get to Kurt, and see what we can do about this Master Ball. Get my uniform out of the pack, would you please?”
Hibiki removed his school backpack and zipped it open, remembering almost instantly where in the bag Kenta’s military getup was folded after having taken inventory on it twice. “Here you go,” he said, handing Kenta the pants, jacket, and police cap with the wig sewed around the edges. His brother accepted the clothes in his arms with a self-satisfied grin. “See? Look at that,” he said, turning around and trotting off. “When you double-check inventory, you know where everything is when you need it later.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get you. See you in a minute.”
Kenta returned from Curtis’s backyard a short while later, looking to all the world like the cop he once was. Hibiki marveled at how well the wig suited him; even after first impression, Hibiki still couldn’t tell that the wig was fake.
“You look . . . very professional. If I didn’t know better, I’d behave around you.”
“Heh. This is why I like having you around.”
The brothers began their walk down the empty street of the chilly town, and Kenta busied himself with shoving Brendan’s clothing back into Hibiki’s backpack. Looking at Bolt’s Friend Ball and considering it for a moment, Kenta shook his head and pushed it in as well. “It’s not your old Luxury Ball,” he muttered, “but it’ll hold you fine just the same. Stay in the bookbag for now, buddy, this next mission’s a covert operation.”
Seeing a police building about five blocks off in the distance, Hibiki pointed it out to Kenta. “Wow! It really is close by. What can I do to help out?” he asked eagerly. Kenta stopped, and Hibiki halted next to him, looking to his brother for instruction. Kenta’s face was impassive.
“. . . I hate to say it, but you won’t be able to come with me for this one.”
Hibiki looked at him, mildly surprised, and a tad bit disappointed. “I can’t? Then what’ll I do?”
Kenta pointed to a tiny building across the street, titled “Hikita’s.” “I ate there once with Bakuphoon, back during my trainer days. Go ahead in, and order us some chicken and rice for lunch, while I’m away.” His head was lowered. “Sorry, Hibiki. We can’t afford to be seen together in front of the police. It’d be too suspicious.” He looked his brother directly in the eye, glaring passionately at him. “Understand this. If I fail this mission, or if I ever get caught when I’m not with you, I need you to stay where you are, and not come after me. Deny you know me, if you’re called as a witness. Will you do it?”
Hibiki looked at him, horrified, and after a long pause, barely nodded. “I’ll do as you say.”
“I won’t be long.” Kenta smiled at him. “We’ll be eating together while the food’s still hot, count on it.” He patted Hibiki on the shoulder. “See you in a half hour or less.”