The Old Guard - Azalea Town Café, the Morning After
The smell of hot broth and steeped tea drifted through the open windows of the Azalea Café.
It was still early. The sun was just climbing past the treetops, the streets still damp with morning mist. Inside, locals had already taken their usual seats. No one rushed here. The place was old, settled, the kind of spot where conversations stretched slow and the chairs creaked comfortably beneath the weight of memory.
A small crowd had gathered around the main screen.
The broadcast was on loop—no commentary now, just raw footage. A camera angle from above the battlefield played on mute. Swampert, drenched in mud hammering Heracross through a cracked stone floor. Heracross refusing to fall. Then the moment when both Pokémon collided—Focus Punch and Megahorn—and the entire arena seemed to buckle.
From the counter, an older man stirred his tea slowly.
“Bugsy didn’t embarrass himself,” he said, voice low but clear. “Not one bit.”
Across from him, a woman in a thick-knit shawl nodded. “Heracross almost took it.”
“He had to Rest,” said a younger voice nearby, a trainer barely out of his teens. “That fight drained him. You could see it.”
“Still got back up,” the older man muttered. He turned slightly toward the screen, where the final moments of the match played again.
“He got up,” he repeated. “But so did Bugsy’s team. You all forget—this was Bug-types going blow for blow with an elite-tier team. You think Scizor, Durant, Heracross made it easy? That wasn’t a wipe. That was a brawl.”
The teenager quieted.
The woman sipped her tea. “Swampert was terrifying.”
The man nodded. “He was. But you know what? It’s about time someone remembered what Bugsy’s crew can do.”
Someone else chimed in from across the room. “You see the replay where Illumise kept dodging? Got two clean hits in during Rest?”
“Yup,” the older man said, smiling faintly. “Bugsy had them fighting like their lives were on the line. And they almost held.”
The footage looped again.
This time, they all watched in silence as Swampert took Heracross’s Reversal and didn’t fall.
Then the hammer arm.
Then the dust.
Someone murmured, “He’s not from around here.”
The old man didn’t answer right away.
Then he said:
“No. But I think we’ll be hearing his name again real soon.”
(break)
Clicks and Crits - Live Battle Breakdown
“Alright, alright, quiet in chat, we’re going frame-by-frame!”
The screen split cleanly between two feeds: on the left, a paused freeze-frame of Swampert slamming through Bugsy’s Stealth Web battlefield; on the right, a rapid-fire chat scroll full of emojis, capital-lettered gasps, and slow-mode warnings.
A man leaned in close to the webcam. His bright green hoodie bore the words “Clicks and Crits” across the chest. His eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth twitching between a grin and a slow shake of the head.
“This—this wasn’t even the climax,” he said, jabbing his stylus toward the Heracross exchange. “He used Rest. In a Star Badge match. Got pelted by Thunderbolt and Signal Beam mid-cycle, and still came up swinging. Tell me that isn’t the coldest thing you’ve seen all month.”
The chat burst again.
>“REST STRATS ARE REAL??”
> “LMAOOO that Heracross held tho”
> “Swampert's built like a truck made of other trucks”
> “LOL he is immune to thunderbolt wtf was bugsy doing”
Clicks took a breath, flipping his view to a new slide. This time, it was a still of Bugsy’s face during the final Earthquake.
“People keep sleeping on Bugsy,” he said. “But look—Bug-types don’t last long against this kind of pressure. And he took down a Metagross, nearly dropped a Swampert that tanked three full sets of utility pressure, and made the guy actually rest in the middle of a match.”
He tapped the screen once.
“Respect.”
Then he switched again—this time to a rotating 3D scan of Swampert’s final charge.
“Okay. Look here. That Hammer Arm? That’s after a Close Combat, a Megahorn, and Reversal. He’s limping. He’s bleeding. But he’s still punching through defense like a freight car.”
He pointed.
“Watch his eyes. He never blinks.”
Someone in chat typed:
>“Champion-tier composure.”
Clicks paused.
Then leaned back, arms crossed.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d believe it.”
He looked into the camera directly.
“This dude? Whoever he is? He didn’t come to play badges.”
(break)
League Circle - Johto Gym Leader Roundtable, Private Channel
The League call was muted at first—just flickers of video feeds and the faint sound of coffee being poured.
Bugsy’s face was drawn but calm, eyes sharp as ever. He’d cleaned up since the match, dressed now in a deep green hoodie with sleeves rolled past his elbows. Across from him on the screen grid, Falkner sipped something from a porcelain mug and didn’t hide the frown between his brows.
“Let me just say it outright,” Falkner said, voice even. “You let him take all six with just two Pokémon?”
Bugsy raised an eyebrow.
“He signed up for a Star Badge match.”
Falkner’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “That doesn’t mean you roll over.”
In another corner of the call, Whitney leaned back in a plush seat, hair in a loose braid. She kicked a sneaker up on the desk, smirking faintly.
“I think it was hot,” she said. “Not like, cute-hot. But intense. That Swampert? I felt those hits through the screen.”
Bugsy nodded once. “So did I. So did Heracross.”
Morty hadn’t spoken yet.
He sat in dim lighting, face half-shadowed. The only light came from a candle beside him and the slow flicker of the replay playing in his periphery.
When he did speak, his voice was soft.
Morty nodded. “That’s not just strength. That’s message. Intent.”
Falkner snorted. “Or arrogance.”
“Or discipline,” Bugsy cut in.
There was a pause.
Whitney glanced toward the screen, where the feed paused on Swampert standing bloodied but tall over Heracross’s fallen form.
“You think he’ll come to Goldenrod?” she asked.
Bugsy gave a half-smile. “If he does, he’s not bringing Swampert.”
That drew a couple raised eyebrows.
“He told me. Quietly, after the match. He’s rotating his team. Wants every one of them at the same level. No repeats unless necessary.”
Falkner scoffed. “Good. Because if he throws a Salamence or Metagross into another mid-Gym, I’ll file a complaint.”
Whitney laughed. “You won’t.”
Falkner didn’t answer.
Morty’s gaze was fixed elsewhere now, somewhere none of them could see.
“I want to see how the others react.”
Bugsy leaned back in his chair.
“They’re already watching.”
(break)
League Strategic Oversight - Indigo Plateau, Internal Operations
The footage played silently across a wall-sized holo-screen. No sound. Just angles. Overhead. Side view. Slow motion. Thermal.
Swampert's Hammer Arm landed.
Heracross folded.
Dust rose.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
And the playback looped.
A small group sat at the far end of a dark-paneled conference room, lit only by dim overhead projectors and the quiet pulse of data terminals. Badges shimmered on their lapels—some plain, some gold, some deep black.
At the head of the table, Director Aleva narrowed her eyes.
“Pause.”
The feed froze with Heracross mid-collapse.
She glanced down at the file in her lap. No last name. No origin flag. No regional transfer paperwork. No League-accredited mentorship.
Just a name: Al.
Age listed as unknown. Registration ID: Manual override from the Hoenn database. Flagged as anomalous.
“Trainer experience?”
“Unknown. There’s no pre-record of his badge journey. It starts cold.”
Another voice added, “No Gym tracking data prior to Falkner.”
The Director stared at the frozen image on screen.
“Metagross. Swampert. Salamence. Gardevoir. Breloom. Manectric.”
She recited the list slowly, like cataloging weapons.
“Half of those are League-response tier.”
Silence followed.
A second analyst chimed in. “We’ve tagged the match under Code Gray: Unaffiliated Elite. Not a threat classification, just watchlist.”
Aleva nodded.
“Leave it at Gray. No escalation.”
Another pause.
Then: “What about intent?”
A third analyst shrugged slightly. “He’s not grandstanding. No post-match declarations. No social tracking. Zero media presence. But…”
He flipped a screen.
“…every battle has been decisive. Clean. Minimal commands. The Pokémon aren’t just powerful—they’re disciplined. They’ve been trained to think.”
Someone muttered, “Could be military. Or former League.”
“No matching registry,” said the analyst flatly. “None we can access, anyway.”
Aleva didn’t look away from the screen.
“Do we expect him at Goldenrod?”
A beat.
Then a murmur of consensus.
“Yes.”
She tapped her stylus lightly against the edge of her folder.
“Fine. Assign a taskforce. Passive observation only. No contact.”
She turned her gaze once more to the frozen frame on the screen—Swampert’s bloodied silhouette, still upright in the dust.
“And flag it for remote trace if another Elite-type battle surfaces.”
The League room remained still, the air tense with possibility.
Then a soft ping echoed across the table—a secure notification.
Director Aleva glanced down.
Her brows lifted.
She tapped her console, expanding a seal only a handful of League officials ever saw.
International Police Directive — Priority Classification: Yellow Spiral.
The room shifted.
Aleva straightened in her chair.
“This just escalated.”
A voice crackled softly over her terminal. Calm. Clipped. Unmarked accent.
“Indigo Oversight. We’ve reviewed the Azalea footage.”
Aleva didn’t respond—just waited.
“We’ve seen teams like his before. But not untagged. Not without origin. Not without trail. You have no trainer logs. No developmental records. No League grooming or combat schooling. And you’re telling me he shows up cold in Johto running a team like that?”
Aleva’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not saying he’s hostile.”
“We’re not saying he is.”
Another pause.
“We’re sending someone.”
“Under what classification?”
“Interview only.”
Aleva tapped her screen once.
A list of field agents appeared.
The one selected was already en route.
The voice continued, quiet as ever.
“We need to know where he came from. Because people like him don’t just appear. Not with those Pokémon. Not with that strength without any history.”
Aleva closed the message and sat back.
Silent agreement passed across the table.
The League would keep watching.
But the International Police were moving.
(break)
Sinnoh – Battle Tower Observation Lounge, Fight Area
Rain tapped against the thick windows of the tower’s upper floor.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of ozone and copper—disinfectants, polish, and pressure. Monitors lined the walls, each displaying high-tier replays from active League and Frontier circuits.
A woman with cropped silver hair sat cross-legged in one of the back chairs, a data pad resting on her knee.
She wasn’t watching Sinnoh matches.
Her eyes were fixed on Johto.
Specifically: Azalea Gym. Star Badge Match. Unedited Cut.
The screen looped again. Swampert stepped through the Wide Guard into a full-body Hammer Arm that folded Heracross backwards. Not a lucky hit. Not brute panic.
Calculated pressure. Executed under exhaustion.
She tilted her head.
“Two Pokémon,” she murmured. “Six takedowns. Star-tier.”
A voice buzzed from the pad at her side—her assistant, piping in from the briefing room.
“You’re supposed to be reviewing the Kalos bracket.”
“I will,” she replied. “After I figure out where the hell this guy came from.”
Another pause.
“Do we have his League tag?”
“Nothing confirmed. Johto says he's 'Al'. That’s it.”
The silver-haired woman smiled faintly.
“Well then.”
She leaned forward and flagged the match file under “External Tier-3 Review.”
“If he crosses into Sinnoh, I want to know.”
(break)
Kalos – Trainer’s Lounge, Lumiose Outskirts
Sunset poured golden light through the open-air pavilion of a private trainer compound just outside Lumiose City.
A slim young man in a dark blue jacket leaned over a wall-mounted holo-screen, a glass of citrus tea forgotten in his hand.
He wasn’t the kind to stare.
He’d fought in Unova. Trained in Hoenn. Watched battle footage like others breathed.
But he’d rewound this one.
Twice.
Now, as the final moments of the Azalea fight unfolded—Swampert’s roar, Heracross crashing down, the field collapsing—he paused the frame and stared at the dust cloud rising beneath the blue titan’s boots.
He tilted his head.
“You don’t see that in Gym circuits.”
A voice behind him—his coordinator—looked up from a tablet. “What?”
He tapped the screen. “This guy. Two Pokémon. Six knockouts. And not a rookie sweep. Bugsy Star Badge.”
“That match was yesterday.”
He set the tea down without drinking it.
Then quietly added:
“If he ever comes to Kalos, I want the first match.”
(break)
Professor Elm’s Lab, New Bark Town
Stacks of notes littered the edge of the terminal. Elm leaned over the main monitor, glasses perched halfway down his nose, fingers dancing across the touchpad as regional data logs flowed by in rapid succession.
He wasn’t watching the battle like the others.
He was reading the raw telemetry.
Every Gym battle in Johto fed data into the regional net—movement stats, pressure calculations, biofeedback from League-monitored Pokémon. It was a treasure trove for developmental theory.
But this one—
This one had made his system stutter.
He tapped again, isolating the Swampert’s vitals. Then the Metagross. Then the timestamps for how long each one remained on the field.
Thirty-nine minutes of combat.
Two Pokémon.
Six knockouts.
He squinted at the stress markers from Swampert’s file.
They spiked—sharply—then leveled.
Not because damage had decreased.
Because Swampert had adapted.
Elm leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“This isn’t just power,” he murmured. “This is stress buffering. Mental fortitude aligned with muscle memory.”
Elm turned slowly to his assistant.
“Pull the neural signature data.”
“From the Swampert?”
“From all of them.”
The assistant blinked. “That’ll take days to collate.”
Elm nodded. “Do it anyway.”
He looked back to the screen.
“They don’t move like recent partners,” he said quietly. “They move like they’ve known each other longer than they’ve been alive.”
His voice dropped lower.
“I want to know where he got them.”
(break)
Team Rocket Internal Monitor, Unknown Location
The room was low-lit and windowless, painted in shades of rust and gray. Screens lined the far wall, flickering with filtered League broadcasts, surveillance nodes, and coded file requests.
A single operator sat at the primary desk. No name tag. No uniform beyond a black collar shirt and a wrist chip bearing Rocket credentials. A half-empty mug of instant coffee steamed quietly next to the keyboard.
He tapped twice. Opened a flagged folder.
MATCH ID: JHT-STAR-2287
Location: Azalea Town Gym
Classification: Star Badge Challenge – Tier 3
Trainer Alias: AL
Team Composition: [Metagross, Swampert, Breloom, Manectric, Gardevoir, Salamence]
The Rocket operator narrowed his eyes.
He let the footage play—audio off. The full match, no edits. Swampert standing alone against Bugsy’s last four. Roar. Rest. Wide Guard. Earthquake. Hammer Arm.
The operator said nothing.
He simply highlighted the word “Swampert” and cross-referenced every known League performance file tied to that species in the last two decades.
Nothing matched.
Not the stance.
Not the endurance curve.
Not the move set density.
Certainly not the precision.
He switched to thermal overlay.
Watched the body heat pattern remain steady even under damage load. No flinches. No spike-and-crash fatigue.
He tapped once and brought up the threat classification interface.
Target Status:
→ Non-Affiliated. Not Rocket. Not League.
Threat Potential:
→ Team Power: High
→ Tactical Sync: Unverified, likely Military or Rogue Elite
→ Strategic Value: Unknown
→ Engagement Protocol: DO NOT ENGAGE (Passive Tracking Recommended)
At the bottom of the screen, the file was tagged with a bright orange header:
UNREGULATED ENTITY — STRENGTH CONFIRMED
MONITOR AND WAIT.
He leaned back in his chair.
The match ended.
But his eyes stayed on that final frame—Swampert half-kneeling in the rubble, still awake.
And hit save.
Absolutely—perfect for a bit of levity and flavor in this otherwise serious interlude. Here's a brief POV from a random guy who made a wild bet on Al going 2-for-6 in the Star Badge match… and walked away rich.
(break)
Some Pub in Ecruteak
“Alright, alright, listen—I didn’t know he was gonna win like that.”
Koda grinned as he leaned back against the sticky booth cushion, pint in one hand, the other waving as three friends crowded around his table, all wearing expressions somewhere between jealousy and disbelief.
“You bet what? Like—actual coin? On a sweep?”
“No, no,” Koda said, laughing. “That would’ve been stupid. I put down 1,000 on 2-for-6. You know, just for laughs. I figured—new face, weird name, guy walks in with a Metagross and a thousand-yard stare? Something’s either gonna break him or he’s gonna break the floor.”
He tapped his phone and pulled up the digital slip.
Wager: AL (Challenger) defeats 6 Gym Pokémon using only 2 Pokémon.
Odds: 88.7 to 1
Payout: 89,700?
“And what happened?” he said, raising his glass. “That Swampert came in and dug a grave with his bare fins.”
His friends stared at the slip.
“You... really just guessed?”
“Swear on my Jolteon,” Koda said. “I just looked at him and thought—‘That dude’s either gonna vanish in two minutes or commit structural war crimes.’”
One of the others groaned and slammed their head into the table.
Koda just toasted the ceiling and took another sip.
“To wild guesses,” he said.
“And to the walking earthquake who made me rich.”
