Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hala pauses, resting on his walking stick in a patch of sunlight coming down through the trees, bright and brittle like the air in his lungs. His knees are aching; the cooler climate of Sinnoh has settled into his bones distressingly. He should have heeded Nanu's warning.

Other regions have... seasons. So just pack careful, okay?

This temperate fall has nothing on the high slopes of Lanakila, but here warm weather is much farther than a short hike away. He's not the young man he used to be.

His pupil, on the other hand...

"Fuckin' look at this!"

Guzma is oblivious to the snap in the air; he is young and vibrant and burns hot enough to stay warm. He has expanded out of himself since they left Alola, splitting out of his husk like a sullen metapod becoming a butterfree-- although, admittedly, not without occasional attempts to stuff himself back in. Today he’s forgotten to sulk and he practically bounds along the forest paths, an excitement in his face that Hala has not seen since he was a child.

"What have you found, my boy?"

"Look." Guzma turns, smiling a lopsided smile full of teeth that makes him look no less boyish.  "They make cocoons out of stuff." He points up to a high branch of an evergreen. "They're little bugs and they make cocoons out of stuff. See? All of those ones used leaves, but that one made a cocoon out of house insulation. They can use whatever they can find. That's cool. You're cool," he tells the hanging pokemon, who are eying this tall stranger with polite wariness.

"Do you want to catch one?"

"Nah.” His shoulders roll with the shrug, shedding the idea like the shore sheds the waves. “I'd have to swap out one of my team. Maybe I'll grab a picture though."  

He pulls out his phone, flipping it open and craning on his tip-toes, arm straining to get the little camera as close to the pokemon as he can.

"Would you like to use mine?" Hala offers, tapping the disposable camera hung around his neck.

"Come on, I'd look like a nerd," Guzma says absently as he stretches his gangly figure to its limits and takes a few precision shots. "Or a tourist."

Hala chuckles. He understands Guzma's ire, but he thinks that it's a fair Reversal to come to other people's regions and wander around gawking for once.  "We should stop at a laboratory and get you a proper pokedex."

"Teacher." Guzma turns a chiding expression on him, dresses his actual respect in withering sarcasm. "I just said I’m trying not to look like a tourist."

"Ah yes. Of course. My apologies." It's hard not to smile, but Hala has lots of practice looking solemn for children... for a few moments at least. Guzma has no idea how much of himself he's showing, how obvious his joy of discovery is, and how wonderful it is to see. If he knew, he would hide it.

It'll be good for him,  Nanu had advised, when Hala broached the idea of taking his pupil on a journey. People in other regions don't respect bug-catchers as much as they should. Let the kid put the fear of Golisopod in a couple rock-type trainers; he'll get his confidence back, then you can work on de-escalating his asshole.

But it isn't the battling that is working the change in Guzma: it’s the excitement of seeing how much exists outside Alola.

"So I suppose you won't be accompanying me to the tour of the underground tunnels?” Hala asks without looking at Guzma, shifting his weight on his stick and peering at the ground around it.

"Nah, I'll come," Guzma mumbles, busy tapping a message into his phone when Hala looks over, perhaps sending his picture to someone else.

There, there is his old shell. He has remembered not to be enthused about Hala's idea. But the fact that he is even willing to come... it makes Hala very hopeful. There are still flashes of the self-destructive fire that rages in him, but Hala is beginning to see something new, something he once feared he would never see in Guzma again-- the fire that nurtures.

It takes several days and several false starts to find their way through the forest on foot; Hala’s map is not as helpful as it might be. Guzma takes it in stride. The place is alive with bug-types and it keeps his spirits up. Hala recognizes a few of the pokemon, bug and otherwise, from his travels long ago-- and of course caterpie are as prevalent in Alola as here-- but most are new to him, some almost unrecognizable.

Guzma’s expertise serves him well; it’s he who points out that the seed pods dangling from the big conifers have eyes, pulls Hala to the side and leads his gaze up to a large sleepy winged thing well-camouflaged in the dappled shadow, identifies the source of the soft chiming songs they hear at night.

However poorly Guzma manages with other human beings, he knows how to handle bugs. Hala tries not to comment on it, because Guzma will stop if he senses even a hint of approval, but he watches with fascination. Over the course of their journey Guzma manages charm dozens shy creeping things into posing for photos or carefully accepting morsels of food. When one night one of the little singing bugs creeps into their camp, clicking in soft xylophone tones, Guzma grins at it and beat-boxes back. The resulting conversation goes on for some time; Hala thinks that neither participant understands it, but they both seem to enjoy it greatly.

He doesn’t realize how much Guzma has observed and how well he’s taught himself until they finally reach the edge of the forest, clothes and skin ground-in with dirt and mulch, and the open space beyond the tall tree trunks almost shockingly strange. Hala pauses to check the map and Guzma strolls off, distracted, toward an odd-looking tree.

"What is this? Ohhh dip, who are you, little dudes?"

Hala looks up at Guzma's new find, and freezes. The little drone clasped between his big hands makes an uncertain whine.

"Put it down," Hala breathes, stuffing his map into his satchel without pausing to fold it, and reaching for his pokeballs. Combee may not look as fearsome as some pokemon, but they are aggressively territorial and they come in overwhelming numbers. This will be no sport fight. This will be a matter of survival.

"What?" Guzma follows his gaze over to the tree, and recognizes for the first time that what looked like solid bark is a wall of similar pokemon, starting to hum in agitation. A dark figure descends from the leaves; the hive's queen buzzes threateningly. "...okay. Yeah. Got it."  For once, there is no bravado in his voice.

"No sudden movements."

"Ya boi’s been swarmed before, you don't have to tell me," Guzma says, his voice uncharacteristically calm.  He is still-- as still as Hala has ever seen him-- and he loosens his grip and leans forward. The combee sits frozen on his open palms, and Guzma holds them out unwavering.

He starts humming, a soothing little song Hala remembers from days long, long ago, when he was a small, happy child with a net, coaxing a frightened wimpod out from whatever hiding-place it had been startled into on that particular day.

The compound bug-type looks around cautiously, making up something in its minds, and then shoots up into the tree to rejoin the hive. A wave of its hivemates pass it as it reaches safety; this new group descends to hover around Guzma angrily.

Guzma holds very still, and hums.  He doesn't flinch when they get close enough to smack his cheek with their beating wings. Hala holds his breath as one lands on him, wings stiff and stinger flexing. Guzma lets it crawl across him without so much as a twitch, and only when it decides he’s no threat and takes flight does Hala breathe again.

Slowly, one or two at a time, the scouts drift away back to the hive, and the defensive wall breaks apart into gently buzzing little drones again, twirling out in slow circles to forage in the flowers. The vespiquen rises back into her perch in the tree, still watching, but no longer menacing.

"Guzma-?"

"Give them another minute, Teach, they're still a little riled up," Guzma says, uncanny in his calmness. His still-outstretched arms are starting to tremble with strain.

Hala follows his lead. He waits, anxious, until Guzma finally shifts away, drawing his arms back so slowly, moving foot by foot, watching the combee intensely.

When he reaches Hala's side he relaxes. "Oh... shit. That could’ve sucked."

"That was incredible!"

"Nah, it's just what you gotta do. Swarming bug-types feed off each other's energy. You gotta make sure you bring the energy down. Be part of the scenery, be cool."

"But how did you know-?"

"When you're out in the Poni Wilds and you piss off a swarm of scyther, you learn real fast," Guzma says, looking a little haunted.  "it's not a thing you want to have happen twice."

"I see," Hala says. "You're quite the trainer."

"Shut up," Guzma snaps, cheeks reddening.

"It's true. You understand pokemon deeply. It's wonderful."

"Not wonderful enough to beat that little Kantonian brat." His ease is gone. His shoulders are back at his ears, his back hunched. "Don't humour me."

Hala understands so many things about Guzma-- the fire in him, the pride. But one thing he has never understood is how honest compliments can make the young man so low and miserable.

Of course you don't understand, Olivia had told him, last time he’d voiced his confusion on the topic. You're a fighting type. And she'd patted his arm and smiled slightly at him.  

Hala is relieved to leave the woods behind at last; they find rooms in Eterna City and he takes the time to bathe and stretch thoroughly before dragging Guzma along on the long-threatened tour of the underground tunnels.

Guzma takes being in a tour group exactly as well as Hala expected, muttering snide comments that bounce around the cave walls, scowling with his hands in his pockets as their guide rambles through a history lesson peppered with safety tips, and breaks off as soon as he's allowed with his borrowed explorer's kit, calling out his partner to help. What they mostly seem to be doing is scratching graffiti into the stone by the light of their lanterns; harmless enough, it will only be dug up later, so Hala says nothing and concentrates on the likely patch of wall he's found.

Digging is slow work; Hala goes about it half-heartedly, trying to find it meditative instead of deeply boring. He turns up a few stones with interesting shapes, a lump of dull and cloudy quartz, nothing much. The eager young people around him are starting to lose their steam too. They fidget and chatter to each other, making up interesting stories about uninteresting finds.  One young woman finds the imprint of a leaf, and is crowded instantly by her less fortunate peers, who want to see something besides dirt.

Hau would enjoy this despite the disappointing results, Hala thinks, and finds himself deeply homesick.

He looks down the tunnel to where Guzma is crouching with Golisopod beside him; man and monster both seem tired of carving rude messages into the wall, and have actually begun to dig. Golisopod's secondary arms pick at the walls eagerly and for a moment it's easy to see the link between its smaller form and its current bulk; it could be a wimpod again, scrabbling happily in the stinking seaweed for edible garbage.

Guzma taps a crack in the wall with his trowel; Golisopod raises a foreclaw and gathers blue energy into a glittering chisel, hacking the gap open with Razor Shell.  When the rock is loose enough, Golisopod dispels the attack, water energy splattering to the floor and evaporating into nothing. It raises its empty, curled claws: Guzma knocks his knuckles against them with a nod. It dips its head to nibble his untamable hair and the two of them start digging again.

Hala retreats from his patch of wall, letting a hopeful looking man take his place, and settles back with their guide to nurse his bottle of water and think fond thoughts of warm sunshine and a mug of tea.

"Come on, now! You aren't old enough to be tired!" their guide coaxes him. "You're about my age, aren't you? And I’m never too old to dig!”

"I'm simply conserving my energy," he says sagely, secure in the knowledge that nobody in Sinnoh will know that he’s quoting one of most infamously lazy people in Alola.

"Oh, fair enough, fair enough... say, where are you from?"

"Alola."

"You don't say!" The man's eyes widen, and Hala takes interest. Most don't know the region, or know it only vaguely as vacation destination. "Do you know a woman-- well, I suppose it's a long shot-- but do you know a rock trainer named Olivia?"

"I may. The woman I know owns a small gem and fossil shop in Akala when she isn't busy with her other duties."

"Why, that's her! Akala, that's right, that's the name. She got busy with some thing or another years ago, I don't have as much business with her these days--"

Talking about friends is infinitely more satisfying than picking at rock; Hala easily settles into conversation, privately enjoying the surprise on the man's face when it is revealed that his old fossil dealer is a great deal more than a simple shopkeeper to the people of Akala. Comparing stories and trying to explain the nuances of what her duty is consumes a pleasant hour, and they only break it off because the allotted time for the tour is coming to an end.

"Gather around, fellow diggers! Let's see what you've all found! Who wants to show their finds first?"

There's a general uncertain milling, broken by a strident--

"Yo."

Hala's brow furrows in disbelief.

"You, tall young man in the back!"

"Not me." Guzma tips his head to the side. "This one."

Golisopod proudly lifts a small sheet of rock between its foreclaws.

"Wonderful!" The crowd parts as much as it can to let the guide through. "Let me see, please."

Golisopod hisses.

"Nah, bud. Let him see it. He's not gonna take it away from you. And if he breaks it, I'll break his face," Guzma adds, turning a flinty look on the guide. Reassured, Golisopod surrenders its treasure.

"Ahah! You’ve found the remains of a prehistoric pokémon. This is a claw fossil!"

Guzma visibly restrains himself from showing interest-- too undignified and childish, Hala suspects-- but Golisopod gives an inquisitive little chirp entirely at odds with its size and leans in.

"Many millions of years ago, when the spot we’re standing was covered by the ocean--"

Hala hides a smile as Guzma pretends not to listen to the guide's lecture, but when the words 'bug-type' come up he actually can't stop himself from leaning in, and on the description of a timid bottom-feeding scavenger, he interupts.

"Sounds like a wimpod."

"A... beg your pardon?"

Guzma grumbles and fishes a battered wallet out of his back pocket, yanking out a battered photograph. Even at this distance, Hala can recognize it. He took it. He had no idea Guzma still had it. He would have guessed it had been thrown away long ago, after the fight that saw them parting ways as student and teacher the first time.

It's simply a picture of a gangly young boy, dark-haired and a bit wild, with a net over one shoulder and a wimpod held proudly to the camera.

Guzma holds it by the top edge, deliberately obscuring the boy's face.

"I've never seen a pokemon like that, but it does look like the fossils I've seen. A bug type, you say? Who knows, maybe it's a distant ancestor!"

"But then why are wimpod all the way over in Alola?" Guzma challenges him.

"That's something to ask at the mining museum in Oreburgh, my young friend," The guide says with an easy smile, passing the chunk of rock back, and Golisopod takes it and cradles it protectively.

Guzma snorts at the idea, and pushes his way over to Hala, making a show of disinterest. Golisopod does no such thing; it follows eagerly, showing Hala its find with obvious pride.

It's only a fragment of creature, much obscured by rock; he sees the chipped outline of a claw, and dark shadowed patches of little feet or fins.

"Well done," he says to the Golispod, because he knows Guzma will snarl if praised directly.

It makes a rasping peep.

"Would you like to go to the museum in Oreburgh?" Hala says, still looking at the Golisopod. It looks bemused.

"Maybe," Guzma grunts, looking past them.

"Then perhaps we'll go that way instead of hiking Mount Coronet?"

"Whatever."

Golisopod looks between them, ticking two secondary claws together uneasily, at a loss for what else it's meant to do. Hala wants to reassure it that it's performing admirably as a conversational proxy, but it would defeat the point of the exercise.

"A good idea, I think. Our knees will thank us." More than ever he misses the ready availability of ride pokemon; it's everyone for themselves here. And he's never been comfortable in the temples and ruins of other regions-- there's an emptiness to them, an absence. He much prefers the Ruins of Conflict, where he knows that something hears when he speaks.

So: when they leave Eterna they head to Oreburgh. There’s not much else of interest there besides the museum, where Hala immediately loses Guzma to a display of fossils and recreations. The kahuna opts for discretion; Guzma obviously wants to know more about his discovery, but his dignity forbids him from looking too eager in front of him. He tells the young man to meet him in the gift shop and makes his own slow way around the place, taking pictures and acting unrepentantly the tourist, shopping for those at home. For his grandson a bright colored keychain. For Nanu, a garish t-shirt that will make him roll his eyes.  He doubts that any of the trinkets in the shop would much impress Olivia; he'll shop for her elsewhere.

"Hey." Guzma slinks in as he's standing in line to pay. "We gotta go to the PMC."

"Of course," Hala says. "Is something wrong?"

"Nah, I just gotta do something."

'Something' turns out to be transferring his scizor back to Alola, which he does only after letting it out for a snack and a pep-talk.

"I'm picking you guys up a new teammate, that's all. You'll meet it soon. We'll train it up to beat fools down, right?"

Scizor's wings buzz with excitement, and it exchanges a complex series of claw-to-fist bumps with Guzma before he sends it back to its ball and surrenders it reluctantly to the technician at the front desk. He watches the entire process with his arms crossed, not moving until the transfer is complete and he’s certain his friend has arrived safely.

"You've decided to catch something, then?" Hala asks, waiting too until the transfer is complete and his interest won’t make Guzma change his mind.

"Not exactly."  Guzma clears his throat. "You know that weirdo over on Akala? Guy with a trailer by Brooklet Hill?"

All becomes clear. "The fossil restoration center."

"Yeah, they do that here, too. And since, you know, Golisopod was so into that claw fossil..."

"Yes," Hala agrees carefully. "'Golisopod' did seem fascinated by it."

"So. You know." Guzma clears his throat. "I'm gonna head back to the museum."

"I'll take a stroll through town then and meet you back at the hostel," Hala says, with a confidence he doesn't quite feel. Once he held Guzma too close, pressed him too much, pinned him under the weight of affection and expectation; after Guzma's explosive rebellion he overcompensated, keeping his distance, forcing himself not to nag or coax. Instead of feeling free, the boy had only felt unwanted. Now he's trying to pick a path between smothering him and neglecting him, and he's never entirely sure of his footing.

As in the ring, balance is key.

Wandering the town pales quickly. There really isn’t much more than the museum, although it is larger than Iki Town nonetheless, and while it is new and different, it doesn’t have the familiar feel or the vibrancy of home. What Hala actually ends up doing is stopping at an unoccupied pokemon battle ring and letting Hariyama out to spar; meditation is all well and good, but straining against an all-but-unmovable partner is a much more preferable way of clearing the mind. He aches pleasantly with the exertion, and his step is lighter when he returns to the hostel.

Guzma is already there, cross legged on the floor of their shared room with Golisopod squatting across from him, and between them a wriggling little monster with wide-set and startled-looking eyes is exploring its new world.

"It does look a bit like a wimpod, doesn't it?" Hala says quietly, trying not to startle any of them.

"Yeah," Guzma says, not taking his eyes off it. "Moves like one, too. And eats like one, huh, squirt?" he adds, offering it the squashed remainder of a calorie bar. It falls on the tasteless snack with enthusiasm, little mandibles gripping the food as if it might make a dash for it. "So it's called an anorith and it's rock-type but they don't know if the rock typing is because of the restoration process or because they were always rock types. Which is a load of grimer-food, because they're supposed to know their shit."

"Perhaps nobody knows yet. Fossil restoration is a new art, after all."

Guzma frowns. "Whatever. Anyway, I asked about if these things were around Alola too, and they didn't know that either. Said to check with this professor in Hoenn." He rolls his eyes.

Hoenn is a bit out of the way, but Hala doesn't say so, settling down to sit on his little bed and stretching out his arms. The extra travel will be worth it if it means continuing to see something besides resignation on his pupil’s face.

"Hoenn, then," he says instead, and watches Guzma watching his new friend with a pang of nostalgia.

He pictures Guzma as he is now, posing like he did when that battered old photograph was taken: a tall man with severely bleached hair, a little wild, holding out a little bug-type. In Hala's imagination, he looks... happy.

Chapter Text

Hoenn from the air is beautiful and just enough like home to make Hala's soft pangs of homesickness a constant companion. Light on the water, islands dotting the sea, and smoke rising from a mountain-- though Mt. Chimney dwarfs even dormant Lanakila. As their short-hop plane takes them over the forests and coast, he feels every kilometer of distance between himself and Melemele.

"It says there's a hot spring on the foothills of the volcano," Guzma says, leafing through Hala's travel guide in the next seat, squished into the available space like a wimpod into a crack in a cave wall, knees practically at his ears. "Says it's a 'popular destination for elderly citizens.' So I assume we're going."

"Oh-ho! Such disrespect," Hala laughs. "Perhaps we should find a dojo to spar in. Then the hotsprings can ease the sting of your defeat."

"Hah, you think so?"

"Unless your form has improved."

"I wouldn't spar with you, Teach. I'd be afraid to break something."

"Like your pride!"

Guzma takes the ribbing with just a curled lip and a jut of his chin, but his shoulders are relaxed and his body is loose. There's even a twinkle of amusement in his gray eyes instead of the dark shades of a hurricane fury.

"So where are we going, again?"

"Mauville. Like most good tourists," Hala admits wryly. "There's a game center and a battle institute where I thought we could try our luck."

Guzma flips through the guide until he finds the right section. "Says they're opening ribbon shop, too. You think Plumeria would like one?"

Hala considers this. "I think so."

"Not too frou-frou?"

"Not at all. A fighter's soul can still be moved by beautiful things.” Hmm. Perhaps Olivia would appreciate a ribbon herself; they can be difficult to come by in Alola.

Guzma nods absently. "I've been collecting postcards for the grunts, but I can't just send a postcard to Plum. Found this for Gladion in Sinnoh," he says, fishing in a pocket for an odd little device.

"It's a...what is it?"

"Just a little game." Guzma passes it over. Hala cups it carefully; it is a small plastic disc, bisected red and white like a stylized pokeball.  It has only two buttons, and a simple screen on which a digitized image of a cleffa bounces. "You catch fake pokemon by walking, you earn prizes for your actual pokemon. Seemed like something he'd like."

"I think you're right," Hala admits with a smile. "From everything Hau has told me."

Guzma shrugs one shoulder, movement sharp and jerky with enough force behind it to inflict significant damage if there was anything for it to impact. "...He's not a bad kid, you know, even if he is kind of a nerd."

"I know."

"He's had it kind of rough."

"I know."

"I didn't... really help.”

"It can be difficult," Hala says, trying not to look too directly at Guzma. "To know how to help those you care about.

“Don’t make this a teaching moment,” Guzma grumbles, and that’s the end of that conversation.

Mauville is bustling with tourists like them; it reminds Hala not a little of Heahea. The available streets are choked with people, as several avenues are cut off for construction; the open air shops are being swallowed slowly by a strange indoor shopping mall. Not unlike the one in Hau’oli, but on a much, much larger scale; Hala isn’t sure he likes it. Guzma looks malcontent, scowling coldly at the crowds and elbowing people who bump into him a little too violently.

“It’s just for tonight,” Hala soothes. “We could rent bicycles here if we wanted, to see the rest of the main island faster.”

Guzma’s nose wrinkles magnificently. “That’s not happening.”

Hala nods in relieved agreement. He’s never been much of a bicycle rider; he finds it clumsy and painful compared to a well-trained tauros.

The chill is wearing off the morning; Hoenn’s weather is a little more hospitable than Sinnoh’s, but only a little.  They push uncomfortably through town, and Hala watches Guzma’s temper visibly fray. He jams his hands into his pockets to hide that they’re clenched into fists, and Hala does not tell him that he is proud that Guzma is even trying to control himself. Instead, he looks out for some safe haven, finally seeing a café that’s slightly less crowded than everything else.

“Ah, I’m not suited for these crowds,” he says aloud. “Perhaps a cup of tea?”

Guzma gives him an odd look, but follows in his wake as Hala wades through the crowd toward the café. Hala strolls through unbothered, a lapras easy on the waves of humanity; Guzma cuts through the crowd like a sharpedo through foaming rollers, leaving everyone who encounters him uneasy.

“You don’t want tea,” Guzma says in an undertone, once the door closes between them and the noise outside.

“I can always drink tea.”

There’s a young man in the corner crooning something into a microphone as he strums a ukulele; it’s in old Kantonian, of which Hala can get about one phrase in five, but as background noise goes he prefers it to the chatter outside.

“You think I’m going to make a scene.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Really?” Guzma scoffs. “Don’t tell me you think I’m a goody-two-shoes all of a sudden.”

“If you were going to, you would have gotten into a fight with that man who hit you with his satchel. I wouldn’t have blamed you.” A man so self-absorbed in a phone conversation that he could walk almost squarely into someone Guzma’s size could have used a bit of a fight. But not in such a public place, admittedly.

“So why am I in time-out, then?” Guzma asks, and for the second time Hala thinks of a sharpedo; his sudden smile doesn’t reach his granite-hard eyes.

“I meant what I said. I don’t like these crowds much myself! There’s a reason that I live in Iki town and not Hau’oli, you know.”

“You love people.”

“I love tauros. I’d prefer not to be trampled by a herd of them.”

“Heh.” The granite cracks a bit.  “We should just go looking for that ribbon shop and then get out of town ASAP.”

“A tempting thought.” He’s not sure he wants to spend a night here. He’d rather walk the plane ride out of his bones and camp.  “But first tea. Or I may get in a fight with the next person who walks into me.”

Guzma rolls his eyes, skeptical but no longer offended; he orders milky tea, puts enough honey into it to feed an entire flock of oricorio, and sits backwards on a chair in the corner furthest from the door. Hala takes his own plain green tea and is about to join him when he notices that the singer has stopped for a drink of water and is looking with interest at his pupil.

He steers away; when Guzma gives him a questioning look, Hala discretely tips his head toward Guzma’s admirer.

Not long before the young man approaches—politely, indicating the chair opposite Guzma with a small motion of his hand and asking something Hala cannot hear. Guzma jerks a nod at him, and then pulls together an answer—“Yeah, sure.”

Hala drinks his tea, and tries not to eavesdrop, though he glances over occasionally—one time, he sees Guzma pull something from his pocket and offer it to the young man, sees unfeigned pleasure in the singer’s face. Hala hides a smile in his tea.  Guzma may be rough around the edges, but he has his odd moments of charm, has a way of winning other young people over.

The singer’s break apparently only lasts so long; it’s not quite ten minutes before they part ways, Guzma bringing his tea over to sit with Hala, the young man returning to the little stage setup.

“A new friend?”

Guzma snorts. “Yeah, something like that. He was nice. He’s a trainer trying to hit pro, and he works here to make ends meet. Hopefully I helped a little.”

“You gave him something.”

“Yeah, I had a TM for Round kicking around—don’t remember where I got it, not a move I’m ever gonna use. He says you can’t find it around here too easy.”

Hala almost says ‘that was kind of you’ and decides that pointing out the obvious is not likely to help keep Guzma’s mood in its current mellow state.

“Asked him about the ribbon shop. Kinda disappointed him when I said I was shopping for a lady back home,” Guzma adds, preening a little. “Guess I caught his eye.”

“I see Golisopod isn’t the only one of you capable of making a good First Impression,” Hala jokes, and Guzma sighs and rolls his eyes.

“You know what I liked best about him, Teach? He has puns I haven’t heard about a hundred times before.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Hala says, with dignity befitting a kahuna.  “Pardon my frivolity! And did the young man know where the shop is?”

“Other side of town, inside the big new building,” Guzma says, his sigh genuinely resigned this time.  Hala winces along with him. More crowds to wade through. “We head to the nearest entrance, that way, turn south, we can’t miss it. He said it’s pricey, though.”

“Ah, well. It’s to be expected. The ladies will be happy with anything we bring home, though.”

“Yeah, well, Plum deserves better than ‘anything.’” Guzma drains the last of his sweet tea and fidgets with the empty cup, flicking his middle fingernail against the slightly cracked porcelain just hard enough to make a little tink-tink sound.  “She’s done a lot lately. She does a lot. She had to apologize to that little Kantonian kid and ask for help when I was… you know, not around. That had to sting.”

Hala nods. He almost asks; it’s on the tip of his tongue and he swallows it with a drink of tea.  He must not ask, about the world beyond the wormholes. Guzma’s eyes show white almost all around the gray when he has to talk about it; Hala fears doing more harm than good by asking about what he saw in the other world.

“Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Hala agrees firmly. “Plumeria is a loyal lieutenant. Are you and she… ?”

“Yeah, nah, I met her when she was twelve,” Guzma says, mouth twisting.  “I was old enough to babysit her. That’d be weird.”

Hala agrees, privately, but young men have done stupider things.  And so have young women, even ones as otherwise sensible as Plumeria. He had wondered.

“She’s my friend, though,” Guzma says, and it lands heavily, significantly. “Not a grunt, you know?”

Hala nods, and wonders if Guzma truly has no other friends. He had been friends with Kukui once, but that friendship was strained to its breaking point even before Guzma angrily swore off the island traditions and went to join the Skulls.

“Well, then. You’re right; we won’t settle for just anything. Perhaps if the prices are too high we can make up the difference battling, what do you say?”

“What, doubles?”

“Why not? We used to do well at the Battle Tree.”

“Just surprised you trust me to have your back.”

“Of course I do,” Hala says, and looks away as Guzma processes that.  “I feel much refreshed. Shall we go?”

“Sure.”

And they do.

The inside of the Mauville Mall is cold enough to make his skin prickle, and even the air feels polished. The walls bounce noise back around them; it sounds like they’re in a crowd even when they have a few square meters all to their own.

Hala is trying to keep an open mind, and failing. He doesn’t like this place. He can’t imagine being one of the denizens of the much-advertised second floor living quarters, breathing marble-smooth, snow-cold air day in and day out.

They find Ritzy Ribbon Retail tucked into one of the new extensions, surprisingly uncrowded when they arrive, despite the ‘grand opening’ banner still hanging above the door, but they soon see why. Guzma’s admirer was understating the shop’s exclusivity, if anything.

Guzma visibly recoils from some of the price tags, and the well-groomed attendant’s practiced smile gains the edge of an ice shard.

“Perhaps you want the tourist district up north? You can get more common ribbons there,” she says, gliding across to him silently, as if even the sound of her sensible heels against the floor would be too gauche.  “Or perhaps a souvenir snowglobe? Casual trainers usually can’t afford our ribbons, I’m afraid.”

Perhaps Guzma’s temper is catching—or perhaps the tea break didn’t do as much to defray Hala’s own irritation as he thought, because he takes a great deal of pleasure in the way she balks when he smiles too widely and puts on his friendliest booming voice.

“Oh, I assure you, that isn’t the problem. Guzma is an island champion, as well practiced as anyone who ever defeated your elite four.”

“Is that so, sir?” she says, unimpressed. “And you? Are you an ‘island champion?’”

“He’s a kahuna,” Guzma says, bridling. “And he’s in the elite four.”

“Oh, yes.”  Her mouth puckers as if she’s tasted something sour. “You two must be from Alola. You just got your own league this year, didn’t you? How… quaint.”

“Would you care to test my mettle?” Hala asks, dangerously mild.

“Come on, Teach, don’t make a scene,” Guzma says, fighting down a smirk.

“It has been a slow day,” she says, looking between them both.  “What about you?” That’s to Guzma.

He meets her gaze boldly. “Oh, lady, I’m always down to scrap.”

“Three on three, I think,” she decides. “You’ve beaten the ‘island challenge’ and I’ve beaten the elite four. Sound like a fair fight?” She adds sweetly.

Guzma crosses his arms, tips his head, and gives her an unsettling smile.  “Aw gee, lady. Go easy on me. I’m just a little bug trainer from the berry fields.”

Hala watches her plucked eyebrows lift, her dainty smirk curl just a little further, her disdain more subtle than his menace but just as much a challenge.

“Oh really? I didn’t know there was an evolution between ‘bug catcher’ and ‘bug maniac’. Adorable. I train ice.” she says, taking three balls from her belt. “So it should be a nice even match, shouldn’t it.”

“And here I just sent Scizor back to the ‘pelago,” Guzma laments insincerely. “I’ll just have to do my best.”

The attendant locks the front door, hanging a sign, and gestures them toward the back of the shop—“This way, please!” – her voice still locked into its cheerful customer-service pitch.

“You don’t have Vikavolt with you, do you?” Hala asks quietly.

“Don’t need it,” Guzma murmurs back. “I’m not even going to spring Heracross on her.” He flicks two ultraballs off his belt – and a plain pokeball, his newest addition.

“Don’t get cocky,” Hala warns.

“I’m not. I can do this in two and I want her to know it. She’s going to be sorry she badmouthed us.”

They step through the employee exit back out into open air-- compared to the climate inside, it feels warm and welcoming.  Hala breathes in the dust and scent of straggling plants and relaxes fractionally.

The ribbon shop’s plain back door opens onto a strip of grass and concrete that runs along the back wall of the mall; a half dozen other doors open up here, too, each shop its own stoop.  There are a few bicycles locked to a single central rack, a few weary looking sales staff smoking or drinking coffee in their few minutes to themselves. They look up, disinterested until they see the attendant from the Ritzy Ribbon, and then they elbow one another and mutter.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” Guzma asks his opponent, his thoughts running parallel to Hala’s. “Nice to know I’m getting such a rare privilege.”

“I hope it’s very educational,” his opponent says. “You’re certified as a referee, I hope… ‘kahuna?’”

“I am indeed,” Hala says, taking his place on the edge of the cracked pavement. “Trainers; state your names.”

“Aiko, of Lavaridge town!”

“Guzma, straight out of Hau’oli city!”

“The rules agreed are three on three! Either opponent can switch their pokemon at any time! There shall be no use of revives or healing items! It is agreed?”

“Agreed,” the two chorus, eyes locked on one another.

“Then trainers-- battle!”

Aiko throws her first ball with the graceful flick of a wrist; Guzma throws overhand, almost slamming the ball into the space between them. Her ball opens first and light pours free, revealing the graceful shape of a Lapras.

Hala saw which ball Guzma chose, and is entirely unsurprised when the shape that coalesces out of it is much, much smaller.

Anorith blinks around; this will be its first time battling anything but a few wild pokemon. It catches sight of the massive water-type and squeals in alarm.

“Ssh, squirt, I got you,” Guzma soothes, dropping to his haunches. Anorith clicks its mandibles worriedly, wriggling in place and looking side to side for a likely hiding place.

“Are you joking,” Aiko demands.

“Well, I couldn’t let it miss the chance to see a trainer who beat the elite four,” Guzma drawls.

Aiko’s eyes harden, the slight not lost on her. “Lapras, Hydro-”

“Protect!”

As Lapras gathers its attack, the little bug hunkers close to the ground, a fragile shell of light forming around it; the brutal power of a well-aimed Hydropump smashes into it, a relentless torrent, and spatters harmlessly away. Anorith looks up as it dissipates, looking surprised to be unscathed.

“Good job, squirt!” Guzma cheers it, holding out its ball. “Now get back here.”

It squeaks and runs into the beam of light, dissolving again into safety.  

“Anorith has been recalled! Guzma has twenty seconds to choose his next battler, or forfeit!”

“Good job, buddy,” Guzma croons to the ball as it settles in his hand. “What a tough bug!”

Aiko clears her throat sharply.

“Leash your mudsdale, lady, I’ll beat you in a second.” He flicks an ultraball out carelessly, making a show of not even watching it land.

“Brine!” Aiko snaps, and her lapras rises up on its flippers, the gathering energy lifting it off of the concrete as it rises and comes crashing down in gobs, blue-green and with the phantom smell of salt, on the just-forming pokemon. “And again!”

“Brick Break,” Guzma calls out casually, and a massive claw cuts through the water as Golisopod hurtles forward through the surf.

Aiko reacts instantly, arm swinging out to the side. “Dodge it-!”

A burst of liquid energy surges under Lapras, buoying it up and away in the direction indicated, but Golisopod slips into the surge and rides it like the native swimmer it is.  One forearm lashes out, tipped in red light, so fast that the sound lags the impact: Hala sees the strike connect with the lapras’ skull a split-second before he hears the sharp crack. Lapras moans, reels, and gathers itself again-- it’s well trained and resilient, and furious now.

Aiko’s eyes flick back and forth; she sees how little Brine did to it, she watches it move, and she adjusts-- there’s barely a hesitation before she bellows “Thunderbolt!”

Guzma whistles sharply, and even as the smell of ozone rises around the lapras, his golisopod darts in again, claws leaving a trail of shadows in the air. It bludgeons Lapras in the base of the neck, leaving dark, crackling sparks. The smell of iron fills the air.

Lapras shrieks defiance at it, bows its head and spits a trail of light that channels the electricity hanging in the air; Guzma barks for it to dodge and Golisopod hurls itself sideways, but cannot escape the lightning strike. Hala cringes as it wails, curls on itself, and dissolves into light, streaking back to the ball that Guzma is already holding out at the ready.

Aiko hesitates as Guzma produces his last ball-- she’s seen two bug variants now, is unsure what he has in store. That hesitation spells her lapras’s defeat, because Guzma shouts “Fell Stinger, one length straight ahead!” before his ariados has even completely materialized, and it responds, even in the second of disorientation. It does not assess the situation, it does not look at its surroundings. It moves half-blind at his command, rearing onto its back legs and bringing its forelegs down in a sharp wedge, trusting that it will hit something but empty space.

Hit it does, low on the lapras’ broad chest, just below where Golisopod’s Sucker Punch landed; the lapras wheezes as the wind is knocked out of it. It sags to the concrete, and the recoil of the blow seems to resonate back through Ariados, leaving a chitinous gleam at the edges of its limbs, at the tips of its mandibles.

The phantom water beneath Lapras dissipates into vapor and motes of light that twinkle away into nothing. Its long neck bows, head landing heavy on the already-dry ground.

“Lapras is unable to battle,” Hala bellows. “Aiko has twenty seconds to choose her next battler, or forfeit!”

Aiko huffs out a breath and calls her lapras back, tucking its ball close to her chest and murmuring to it for a moment before she produces a second ball.

“Glaile, let’s go! Double edge, down and left, NOW!”

It responds as readily and recklessly as Ariados, solidifying in already motion.

Guzma whistles again, and Ariados whirls toward the ball of ice hurling toward it instead of away. It tears shadows in the daylight as it rams its leg into the glalie mid-attack. The maneuver comes at a price; Ariados is too close to even attempt to dodge, and Glalie crashes into it, the impact of ice-on-exoskeleton like a hammer falling. Both of them reel back, Glalie in a daze, Ariados crumpled miserably on itself.

“Guzma,” Hala calls, worried.

“I’ve got this!” Guzma snaps, his eyes stern but his mouth curled up into a grin. “Ari, you good?”

The bug pulls itself up, unsteady on its feet, but it as it shakes off the impact it seems to blur. The soft drone of its native energy fills the air, the buzz of a million distant wings, and the edges of its mandibles fairly crackle with its new resolve.

It gargles at him, apparently a reassurance, because he nods sharply back.

“Yeah, you’re a champ!”

“Glalie?” Aiko calls, worried.  

“Gaala,” it rumbles back, voice like the crack and moan of old, old ice.

She takes a breath. “S-”

Guzma whistles; Ariados charges forward.

“-ubstitute-”

Ariados’s leg slashes air, countering an attack that doesn’t come; Glalie slips back past its reach and vanishes into a glittering cloud of chaff.

Guzma sucks in a breath through his nose, nods.  “Smart. You can’t do that more than once, though. You’re just stalling me now”

Aiko meets his eyes.

“Glalie,” she says softly. “Explosion.”

“Oh sh-”

Guzma’s profanity is lost in the percussive roar that rocks the battlefield, hurling Ariados back against the wall of the building behind it, vaporizing the cloud of chaff. The observers take a step back: an untended bottle lying by the bike rack shatters. Dust blooms up over the battlefield, spilling out in a lazy ring, revealing Glalie at the epicenter. For a second it hangs almost peacefully, then its eyes close, and it drops, utterly spent.

There’s silence as both trainers rush to their fainted pokemon, Guzma hurriedly looking over Ariados for serious wounds and murmuring to it, Aiko kneeling beside her glalie and stroking its hard brow sadly.  

“Both pokemon are unable to battle,” Hala calls out, reluctant to break the moment, but aware of his duty. “Aiko and Guzma, you have twenty seconds to choose your next battlers, or the match will result in a draw.”

Both of them call their pokemon back to their balls. Aiko lifts her last ball, looking between Hala and Guzma with confusion.

“But-- he only has the little anorith left, doesn’t he? He wouldn’t do that?”

Hala shakes his head. “Golisopod is a tactician. It retreats when battle turns against it, before it faints. It can still battle.”

The name is unfamiliar to her, but she knows the names of the other two. Hala sees realization set in. “Golisopod is… the big one.”  

“Yes.”

“Damn,” she says brightly, affixing her best customer-facing smile. A brave show. Hala is beginning to soften to this one.

Guzma stands, lifting Golisopod’s ball.  “It’s a jynx, isn’t it, your last partner? You look like the type, like a glamour trainer. Even though you knew I had bugs. You were gonna toss me a jynx because I’m just a little bug catcher from nowhere and you wanted to show me you weren’t scared.”

“All right, fine,” Aiko sighs.

“Bad move.”

“Ten seconds,” Hala interjects.

“You still want to do this? You could save a revive if you just call the battle now,” Guzma offers slowly, feeling out the words as they come.

Aiko’s mouth compresses into a thin berry-pink line. “No. Let’s see this through. I’m not done yet.”

Hala watches the emotions play across Guzma’s face. Confusion, yes. Perhaps a little regret.

Respect.

“Five seconds.”

“Golisopod!”

“Jynx!”

For a long second, the trainers stare one another down. Jynx and Golisopod look at their trainers, at one another.

“Jyn-Jynx,” the psychic-type observes, standing straight, and there is challenge in its voice.

Golisopod hisses an agreement, dips its head politely to its opponent.

Aiko takes a deep breath and beams as if she’s announcing a shop promotion. “Jynx! Sheer Cold!”

Guzma’s eyebrows loft. He snaps his fingers, and Golisopod is already a blur when he finishes the words “First Impression.”

It’s over in a moment. Golisopod is across the distance before anyone can blink, armored foreclaw falling in a cruel overhand slash onto Jynx. Chittering, ravenous arcs of energy crawl across the psychic-type’s skin, making it shudder as the hit strikes to its very core, and then it collapses in a heap, hair haloing around it as it slumps on the concrete.

“Jynx is unable to battle! Guzma is the winner,” Hala says, because the formality is necessary.

“Good job, partner,” Guzma says, approaching Golisopod. The bug brightens, exhausted though it is, and raises its curled claws; Guzma bumps them with his knuckles, forward-top-bottom-explode.  “How are you holding up?”

It chitters happily at him, leaning into his touch as he gently traces a long electricity burn across its head and straightens one of its drooping antenna with gentle touches.  

“Hang tight, gonna get you something to make you feel better.” He pats it gently on its armored forearm before turning and marching resolutely towards Hala. “Hey, Teach, you got any revives on you?”

“I do. And potions. Do you need two… or five?”

Guzma scowls at him, but when Hala offers five golden crystals, five little blue phials, Guzma takes them all, stomps off grumbling toward Aiko.

“Hey. Good fight. Whatever.” He sticks out his hand as if to shake hers, but his fingers are curled loosely around three revives and three max potions.  

“It was.” She accepts the items with good grace, cracking the first of the revives over her fallen jynx. As the crystal snaps between her fingers, the release of stored energy bathes the monster’s body; it absorbs it, comes blinking back to full consciousness with the clawmarks across its face already starting to heal.

Aiko beams at it, clasps hands with it before offering it the potion and its ball. She looks like an entirely different woman than the haughty shop-keeper that tried to turn them away; her posture has relaxed, her face is kind, and there are small lines around her eyes now that were invisible when she smiled her plastic smile before.

She looks up at Guzma, gives him an only faintly chiding frown. “You’re kind of a jerk. A baby anorith?”

“And you fielded a psychic type, who’s the real jerk?”

“Both of us, maybe.”  She smiles ruefully. “But that was fun.”

Guzma dips his head. “Yeah. You’ve got style. Sheer Cold for the last attack? Stylish. And I didn’t see that Explosion coming.”

“Nobody does,” she says, regaining just a little of her old smugness. “If I’d known that big one was water-type before I wasted moves on it, I could have taken you.”

“Yeah, and I’d known your glalie had substitute I’d’ve toxic-threaded it out of the gate and let it eat damage,” Guzma counters. “Ifs and buts don’t win battles, according to that guy.” That with a head-tip towards Hala.

“...you know, if this is what an island challenge trainer fights like, I think I’m glad I didn’t challenge him.”

“Yeah, you’re gladder than you know. He trains fighting.”

Her eyes widen, and then she shakes her head again, laughing softly at herself.

“I have to get back to work, uh… Guz-ma?”

“Guzma. Yeah.”

“But, if you still want those ribbons.”  She clears her throat. “I’ve been looking for a partner to challenge the Battle Institute. I have my eye on some decorations they sell at the Battle Frontier, but it’s hard getting BP alone. If you could win a few rounds with me tonight, I could use my employee discount for you tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” he asks, hand creeping to scruff the short hair on the back of his head.

“‘Yeah,’” she repeats playfully.

“Hala too?”

“Only if I don’t have to fight him.  My partners are going to need some time to recover from this one.”

“Deal, then.”

“I get off shift at 1800-- we could get dinner first? Warm up in the food court? You’re going to love the food court.”

“Uh…” Guzma glances over to Hala.

“Oh, go on,” Hala tells him, smiling easily. “It won’t kill us to spend the night in town after all.”

They barely make it to the night’s hostel before Guzma wants to be out again-- he has preparations to make, wants to shuffle his team for the battle institute, wants to find lower level trainers who can help him instruct little Anorith, wants to be out and doing.

There are lessons that Hala isn’t best suited to teach. Guzma needs to have friends his own age… or at least acquaintances. He should be out with his peers. He should flirt, court, and battle with people who neither condescend to him nor worship him. It will be good for him.

So: Hala stays behind as Guzma vanishes back into the bright shining city. He busies himself with little necessary tasks: uses the communal showers to wash the last of the plane off, changes into cleaner clothes, joins the young backpackers in washing his dirty laundry in the sink and drying it on the line outside. He puts his few valuables into a locker, helps a young couple find their missing eevee, watches some local television… and finds himself still with hours left in the day. He is in a quieter state of mind, now, thinks he can handle the crowds again.

It isn’t long before he finds himself missing Guzma at his side; he sees a dozen interesting or noteworthy things, and they weigh strangely heavy on him with no-one to share them with.  He takes a few snapshots, out of a feeling of obligation, and wanders.

The butterfree is venturing away from its safe husk; every day Guzma seems less inclined to force himself back into the shape he used to be. It’s bittersweet; Hala feels like he has his pupil back only in time to lose him again. He tells himself that that’s foolish; reminds himself to be grateful that Guzma is finding joy in life, is coming so far and learning so much.

He still feels melancholy as he walks alone through the town, passing by store windows without seeing their contents.  He glances into the all-but-abandoned game corner, run down and shabby, and decides against it, instead wandering north into a more residential district, then finding himself an hour later at the northern entrance, where buildings end and a road leads north, over harsh terrain toward the smoking volcano.

The top of Mount Chimney glows faintly red even against the afternoon light. The angle of the sun casts strange shadows, turns old rockfalls and flows into the tracks of some great creature, into clawmarks and dragmarks and footholds. But that’s only a trick of the light.

Hala realizes that his hair is standing on end, loose strands lifting up from his neck and brow, tingling with static when he tries to smooth them down.

He has the sudden sense that something is behind him, watching him; it’s a feeling he’s well acquainted with, but one he hasn’t felt since leaving Alola. His z-ring is cold on his wrist.

He’s likely imagining things. After all, what could be in that mountain that would catch the attention of his guardian deity so far across the sea?

Yet he cannot shake the sense of relief as he turns back toward town, walks away from the mountain. Odd. He’s always been fond of volcanoes, before.

Hala's sense of unease doesn't fade with sleep; he drinks more coffee than he usually needs in the morning and tries to listen to Guzma's account of the night before-- the fighting, the victories, the pitfalls, but something else distracts him at every turn. They return to the ribbon shop. Aiko looks pleased to see them, this time, and with the promised discount Hala is able to buy a very handsome ribbon for Olivia, and still it feels as if there's something he's forgetting.

They set out to the north; he tries to find pleasure in the walk, but his head feels heavy. The exertion should wake him up, but instead it just tires him.

Guzma steals his guidebook from clumsy hands, flipping to the glossy photo of the Lavaridge gym leader's badge.

"-ssso a ribbon's nice, but if I bring that home to Plum-- Teacher. Hey, Teach?"

Hala shakes his head hard. His ears echo with a sound not heard.

"I'm sorry."

"You okay?" Guzma folds the book, looking at him with confusion.

"I thought I heard something." He thumps his palm below his own ear.

"You need to sit down?"

"No. No, my boy, I've got hours left in me yet!"

Guzma falls quiet after that, shooting him glances of mingled irritation and concern-- as the morning wears on and Hala strains after a voice in the silence, more concern than irritation.

He has heard the voice of the guardian before-- the echoes of it. No safer to hear a Tapu's voice directly than to stare at the sun; it has to be softened, reflected, as the moon softens the light of the sun.

The land around them is scorched, and the dust is choking, and if he had to put a word to the shadow of an idea being shouted into his head, it is--

"Ground."

"Teach?"

He stops, holds up a hand, trying to make sense of the echoing noise.

Ground sleeps! Ground! a strident warning, loud enough to make his head ring now. It has the frantic tones of a nursery leader watching their youngest charge wander towards a napping bewear. When Guzma reaches for his shoulder, static jumps between their skin, making his pupil swear and recoil.

Big! Old! Ground! the warning comes again.

"Hala," Guzma said, and grips him again, even though a second, smaller charge snaps between them. "Hala, are you okay?"

"I don't think I should go further," he admits. "I'm sorry. It's hard to explain."

"You're kidding." Guzma's face falls in dismay, and Hala steels himself to make another push forward.

NO! BIG! GROUND! BIG! He tastes the ash of the volcano, smells baked-dead grass, feels his skin withering under unforgiving heat.

"Uh, Teach?"

"Just a second to rest, we'll push on."

"Your hair's standing up." Guzma looks down at the ring on Hala's wrist and his eyes widen. "Is this a kahuna thing?"

"It is a kahuna thing," Hala admits, twisting the stone band. It's frigid on his skin. "I can return to Mauville; we'll meet after you've had your fight and done your exploring. I'll give you some money--"

"You look like crap, Teach, I'm not just going to--" Guzma scoffs, attitude shifting into defiance. "Who cares about some gym battle or whatever?  I don't."

"Guzma, no." He's talked about nothing but beating Flannery all morning.

"Psht, whatever. You just want some time without me."  Guzma cups his shoulder, gives him a strong push to turn him back the way they came. "Yeah, I'm on to you. No such luck."

Turning away from Mount Chimney comes with a feeling of intense relief-- not his relief, perhaps, but still palpable. They haven't been walking two hours and he's exhausted, feeling as old as his years.

Retracing their steps to Mauville takes less than half the time, and they find themselves in the same cafe from earlier. Guzma's new musician friend is nowhere to be seen, but Guzma only casts a cursory glance around before settling in over his cocoa and focusing intently on Hala.

"You doing better?" he makes no effort to hide his concern. Hala is grateful for it. It is a strange, lonely feeling, being guided by something greater than him, and he is grateful that Guzma seems to accept it at face value.

"I am, thank you."  He feels a little foolish-- but not so foolish as to ignore the warning of his guardian. There is something near or in that vast mountain that Koko wants to keep him from. The guardian may be fickle and flighty, but it has never led him astray.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "I think I'm not meant to go to that mountain. I'll make it up to you somehow. Is there something else you had hoped to do-?"

The noise of the crowd outside spills into the silence, and then Guzma speaks so quietly Hala has to ask him to repeat himself.

"I said, did you call that nerd at the lab in Littleroot. You wanted to visit, right?"

His weariness proves a blessing, now-- it masks his shock.  "Professor Birch? I hadn't, yet, but I'll call Professor Oak tonight, he can make our introductions."

"We'll do that. Whatever. It's right by Petalburg, we can both wreck shop with that Norman guy."

"You want to go to the lab?" He still half-thinks he's misunderstood.

"Yeah, whatever, why not?" Guzma's cheeks go pink; he scowls darkly. "What're you looking at?"

"I thought I saw -- someone drop something outside," Hala says, looking away. It sounds completely unconvincing to his own ears, but Guzma accepts the excuse surprisingly easily, making a show of looking over his shoulder to see this imaginary distraction himself.

They finish their drinks and retrace their steps to the Pokemon center, the route familiar this time, the crowds slightly less trying. Guzma takes up a looming post outside when they arrive, shoulders and back slumping but still almost as tall as the door, and Hala calls Professor Oak’s lab.

It's past noon here, making it evening in Alola: he half expects to be told that Oak has gone home for the night-- instead, one of Oak’s assistants tells him that the good professor has gone to the observatory for the evening. He shoots a glance out the window at Guzma, who is entertaining himself by trying his little anorith's strength against a young bug catcher-- which shows a startling amount of good sportsmanship, considering Guzma's usual fully-powered and ruthless tactics. Battling with a partner he wanted to impress was good for him, Hala decides.

He calls the observatory, startles Molayne's young cousin and the charjabug that appeared to be sleeping against the call screen, is passed to Molayne's office and finally sees Samson Oak looming in the background over a screen showing... something no doubt fascinating and important. There is a map of the island superimposed with cryptic lines and symbols that mean nothing to Hala.

Molayne’s face breaks into a smile. "Alola, Hala! We weren't expecting to hear from you. How's Sinnoh?"

"We've moved on to Hoenn," Hala says. "The trip has certainly been an interesting one! But I had hoped to speak with Professor Oak."

"Samson!" Molayne turns over his shoulder. "Kahuna Hala needs to talk to you."

Hala can't make out the abstracted reply, but he knows a dismissal when he hears one. Molayne smiles and rolls his eyes in amusement. "We've been watching the storm developing on Melemele. He’s been pestering me all afternoon."

"A storm?" Hala's eyes widen. "This time of year?"

"That's what caught our attention. Turns out it was just Tapu Koko stirring it up! It was riled up about something, that's for sure-- but it settled down just as suddenly not too long ago."

"...I see." It could be a coincidence. Perhaps. "We were going to visit Mount Chimney, but we were turned back by... the weather as well."

"Oh, I've heard it's pretty nasty out there," Molayne says, nodding quickly. "Almost as bad as Haina when you approach from the south. And there's an ancient pokemon hibernating inside, that might have something to do with it...."

"What?” Hala’s brow furrows up. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

"It's strange," Molayne muses. "I heard it from a friend at the Weather Institute, after that bad heat wave and the storms out there a few years ago. I almost had to twist his arm-- he said I wouldn't believe him. He thought I was making fun of him, why would I make fun of something so serious?"

"...Things are different, in other regions," Hala sighs. "They hardly believe their old legends anymore. I suppose to him, it seemed unbelievable, and he thought you would feel the same. You remember how Aether was, when they first arrived."

"Oh, I remember." Molayne's kind, gaunt face hardens a little. "'Quaint local superstitions.' They didn't say that for long."

Hala hides a smile. "No indeed." The Guardians had been too active, too present, too... assertive to be denied for long. He remembers the conservation teams on Melemele, composed entirely of fresh young faces and accents from other regions, all in near-hysterics, shamefacedly describing the strange being who haunted them and left impossible energy readings in their equipment. And how they gaped when the 'quaint, superstitious locals' reacted with no more than a shrug and 'Oh, that's just Koko. It's curious about things.'

Somewhat guiltily, he takes a great deal of pleasure in the memories. Alola is a welcoming region, a peaceful place, but it is tiring having peace confused for naivety.

However: "Then there is something in that mountain."

"Groudon itself, said Bartie."

Big! he remembers feeling. Old! Ground! The memory of a shock sparks up his arm.

"Ah." He closes his eyes and dips his head for a moment. "Ah, I see." Koko rarely shies from battle… but even it would be wary of such an ancient spirit of the earth, and one against whom it would be half powerless. It is a fickle, ancient god itself, but at times it seems fond of him, and he is touched by this sudden protective impulse.

Oak chooses this moment to recall that he's been summoned, wandering over and blinking at them both. "See what? What are we talking about?"

"The weather, Professor," Hala rumbles.

He glances out the window again. The young bug catcher appears to have lost the battle, going by the three balls clutched to his chest, but his mouth is set and he shows no sign of being overwhelmed by the upset-- he is considerably calmer, in fact, than many of Hala’s own young opponents, after an unsuccessful round of the island challenge.

Guzma has dropped to his haunches to meet the boy at eye level, talking to him with animation, and Hala is willing to guess it is a critique of his bug-wrangling technique. Guzma’s broad hand skims the air, miming a flying type attack, and the boy listens with growing interest. Guzma's teeth flash, a nasty smirk, and Hala wonders exactly which dirty tricks he's filling that innocent young mind with.

A man closer to Guzma's age approaches them both, smirking. This newcomer is a backpacker or a hiker-- heavy boots, heavy pack, musculature to match. He says something that makes Guzma's eyes narrow. The young bug catcher shrinks back.

Guzma's teeth show again, the expression less friendly, and he waves his new opponent to the opposite side of the makeshift ring.

"Hala?"

The hiker has sent out a graveler, a kantonian variation.

Guzma doesn't bother to rise from his haunches, grinning wickedly as he throws out Golisopod's ball.

...Well, the hiker is about to learn a valuable lesson, perhaps a bit more... forcefully than the boy before him.

Hala tears his gaze away, back to his call. "Mm, yes, I'm sorry, Professor. I have a favor to ask you..."

They leave Mauville that afternoon, lucky enough to catch a ride on a supply truck on its way to Slateport-- it cuts an easy half a day off of their journey, and instead of sleeping in Slateport they press on to Oldale. Guzma's victories that afternoon have energized him, and conversation flows easily. Guzma talks cheerfully about his grunts, about Plumeria's chances at the new pokemon league, did Hala hear she has a z-ring now, did he know Gladion's already doing his own research, and there is such innocent pride in his voice that it makes Hala's heart ache.

They reach Oldale almost too soon, the easiness melting away as Guzma shutters off in the presence of strangers again, hides himself behind a Swagger. Hala misses his open enthusiasm. Misses the boy he was before their falling out-- before he left his parents' house.

Hala regrets so much. He should have intervened earlier, spoken to Guzma's father before he alienated his son completely. He shouldn't have let Guzma go off enraged and alone to Ula'ula. Should have swallowed his pride and brought him home years ago, before he could be entangled in Lusamine's designs. Should have.

"I was proud how you handled that young bug-catcher," Hala tells him that night, as they finish a dinner of nutrition bars and vending-machine snacks out under the only half-familiar Hoenn stars.

"He was just some dumb kid," Guzma says, shrugging. "Didn't need to give him the works."

But you would have, a month ago, Hala doesn't say.

"Not like I have a rep around here to uphold, anyway," Guzma says, which is almost the same thing.

"That's true," Hala agrees. It strikes to the core of his worry: this newfound peace his pupil has found is fragile, and could be so easily broken once Guzma is back among people who will only see him as a gang leader. Hala has no idea how to prevent that, to shelter this spark of happiness without smothering it.

They stay out until the cold threatens to make him shiver, and he leaves Guzma with a promise of an early morning.

He goes to sleep uneasy.

The next day they reach Littleroot, small and quietly cozy in the still morning, so different from Mauville, and the lab of Professor Birch, only a few hours ahead of schedule.

Critical hours, it would seem: when they knock on the door, there's no response. Hala tries the knob, and steps into quiet, familiar chaos.

"Looks like Kukui's place, but bigger," Guzma notes, eyes sweeping across scattered notebooks, stray paper pinned everywhere, mugs left like silent gravestones to mark so many undrunk cups of tea.

"Fewer holes in the ceiling," Hala observes. He lifts his voice to ringside volume: "Hello! Professor Birch!"

There's a startled sound from a distant room, and then the back door flies open and a sturdy-looking man in an unkempt white lab coat bursts out, pokeball clutched in one hand.

"SHOO! I mean it! I have a well-trained fighting type, and I--"

"Shoo you," Guzma retorts instantly, back straightening, and the stranger stops and gives them both a noctowlish blink.

"...I'm so terribly sorry. I thought the local mightyena had finally figured out how to open the door. Can I help you? If it's magazine subscriptions, we already get them all. Invaluable for nesting wurmple."

"My name is Hala," Hala says, trying to interject a note of calm into the things. "Professor Oak said that he would tell you we were coming-?"

"OH, oh, the Alolan visitors! I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon! I was going to clean up. Hello! I'm Professor Birch. And you are? Hala, you said that. And what was your name again? Oak told me, let me think, something with a G--"

Guzma clicks his tongue against his teeth, lifts his chin. "It’s ya boy Guzma.”

“That’s right, I knew it was something like that-- but I thought he said--”

"We can come back, if it's an inconvenient time," Hala says, although by the look of the place there aren't many convenient ones.

"If you like. Oh! But this could be an excellent opportunity, we're right in the middle of some fascinating research. I'm actually collecting data for my colleague, Professor Rowan," Birch says cheerfully, and turns again to Guzma. "Samson tells me you're a bug type trainer, this might interest you especially."

Guzma looks taken aback, hulking into his shoulders like a startled torkoal. "Who's Samson?"

"Professor Oak," Hala is quick to explain.

"Not 'the' Professor Oak, of course--"

"He is to us," Hala points out, and Birch laughs sheepishly.

"He would be! Of course. Yes, Samson Oak. Not Samuel in Kanto. But you do like Bug-types, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"Great! Come back and meet some then."

Birch's nervous energy has a pull to it; Guzma follows with jaw set and a look of suspicion, Hala giving him what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Birch leads them into the back room of the lab, and there is a moment when Hala thinks his ears must have gotten plugged from travel and are starting to act up before he realizes that there’s a persistent, growing hum in the air, too low for him to properly hear, but too loud to ignore. As soon as he knows it’s there his teeth start to feel it, and his fingernails, and he’s about to ask what it is when Birch gestures excitedly.

He follows Birch's pointing and sees an enclosure on the side of the room, roughly as tall as Guzma and twice as wide, wire netting dangling from the ceiling and making a curtain around a trio of small plastic tubs full of sand. The sand is alive with pale bodies, maybe half a dozen little digging bugs not much bigger than a wimpod burrowing happily, scratching and surfacing and peering over the plastic sides. It isn't until one of them crawls out of its sandbox and prods the netting that Hala's eyes refocus and he realizes that what he took for leaves or some other natural decoration is another dozen of the same species, claws latched around the wire. Their skin is darker, duller-- and they are uncannily still except for the occasional startling twitch or very slow shift.

His chest is almost touching them: Hala takes a step back. Guzma takes a step forward. One of the clinging bugs startles and smacks a thick spade-like claw into the wiring-- the impact is hard enough to dent it and accompanied by a shower of debris that hits Guzma square in the face and dissipates before it hits the ground.

Guzma ducks back, eyes watering, but his voice is very gentle and very earnest when he says "Sorry, buddy. Sorry."

"They're very short sighted, especially now," Birch says apologetically, a moment too late. "Easy to spook."

Guzma squints at the cage. "Saw a bunch of these guys in the woods in Sinnoh, but only coming out of holes or going in. None of'm were up the trees. These guys look like they're gonna shed?"

"Oh, you do have a good eye! Yes, you've seen a bug type molt before?"

"Yeah, wimpods molt if they grow too big before they evolve. And butterfree, but that's an evolution. Wimpods like to hole up alone when they’re shedding, though, dig into the beach if they can. You wouldn’t catch them out in the open like this." Guzma blinks hard, wiping moisture off his cheeks as he recovers from the Sand Attack.

Birch looks delighted. "Ah, can you think why that might be?"

Guzma gives him a dark look. "I'm not here for a quiz, prof."

Hala winces. Guzma has never responded well to being jollied along.

Birch just beams, undaunted. "Nincada molt in the open for the same reason caterpie do. They need room for an energetic transformation. They'll be evolving soon!"

"Huh." Guzma leans in again, slower and more cautiously this time. "You think we'll see any of'm?"

"Yes, yes, that's why I called you in! If we're patient, I think we'll see A5 and B17 and Biscuit and B12 all evolve today."

"Biscuit," Hala has to ask. He rolls his neck like he’s loosening up for a battle, hoping the cracks and pops will block the humming that neither Birch nor Guzma seem bothered by.

"Steals them.  We had to put a padlock on the staff refrigerator."

Guzma chuckles. "I like it. What are they all here for, though?"

"Oh, well, that's fascinating all by itself! Nincada have an unusual evolution; a potential secondary phenomenon. Very rare in the wild. Common when they're well trained. We have no idea why. That's why I'm collecting notes for Rowan-- he needs all the data he can get. These are all from the same clutch of eggs, and I've been observing everything, everything they eat, how much they fight, how active they are, everything that could might have an effect on the secondary evolution. I'll have to note that you startled A7," Birch realizes. He grabs a clipboard hanging beside the enclosure and starts patting around his pockets for a pen.

Hala clears his throat and taps his ear, and Birch grabs at his own ear, finding the pencil behind it. "Right! A... 7... sand attack."

"I didn't mess up its evolution, did I?" Guzma gives the professor a sharp look.

"Oh, no, don't worry. They're fighters right up until they evolve, these little ones have enough energy stored up to take down a fearow.”

"A'ight," Guzma says, mollified, and settles in on his haunches to watch the bugs. "Who's this one? Looks like it's almost ready to go."

"Ah! A5, you're absolutely right. A5 was one of the earliest hatchers-- an impatient pokemon all around," Birch reminisces, and Guzma, to Hala's shock, nods him to go on.

Hala clears his throat.  "Would you mind if I helped myself to some tea, Professor?"

"Oh, absolutely, there's an electric kettle around here somewhere. Tea's above the sink in the breakroom, down the hall," Birch says, distractedly pointing.

"For either of you?"

"No thanks, Teach."

"Thank you, no!"

Feeling a bit of a third wheel, Hala wanders out in the direction indicated, the hum lessening the farther from the nincada enclosure he goes, until he finds a bright, cluttered staff room, but no electric kettle. However, he does find Birch's sleepy looking assistant brewing tea for himself with the help of a gaggle of feathery little fire types.

"A couple of plusle got in and chewed through the electric cord last week. Birch forgot again, huh?" The young man yawns hugely. "...good thing there's new starters hatching every day. At five in the morning."

"Chic-chic-chic," clucks one of them, and proudly spits a gout of flame into the scientist's cup.

Hala chuckles knowingly, rinsing one of the chipped cups in the sink and filling it from the tap. "I understand. I breed starters for the young people of my island myself; they don't know that they're hatching when the rest of the world is trying to sleep."

"What island you -- " Another jaw-cracking yawn. "Thanks, Torchic, that's enough. You guys get Mister, uh---"

"Hala."

"Get Mister Hala's cup now." The young man dumps a half-dozen disposable tea-bags into his cup and swirls them; the water goes instantly dark brown, and Hala's eyes go wide. "I wasn't asleep anyway. One of us has to be observing the nincada 24 hours a day, and I’m on night-shift."

"Oh dear." On second thought, the young man's terrifying brew is understandable.  Hala holds out his cup, and another of the little fire-types scrabbles up the side of it to breathe fire into the water until it steams. "Thank you very much." He bows to the little bundle of feathers; it bows back, comically solemn.

The young assistant is abstractedly drinking his tea, as if he doesn't taste it-- which seems impossible. He shakes his head, looks abruptly at Hala. "What was I saying?"

"You were asking where I was from."

"Right! Where are you from!"

"I'm from Alola."

"...pardon me, I don't think I know it, is that off the coast of Kanto?"

Hala chuckles.  "No. Another time, maybe? You seem busy." He's watching the young man's eyes droop even as he drinks his syrup-thick tea.

The young man mumbles something polite and incoherent, and Hala collects his tea and leaves as quietly as possible. When he shoots a last parting glance into the room, the assistant has his head on the table next to his half-drunk cup of inky caffeine, and the group of torchic has gathered into a softly-peeping mass in the crook of his limp arm.

Ah, the glamour of pokemon research. It does take a special kind of madness, Hala muses fondly.

He returns to the back room of the lab where Guzma and Birch are hovering inside the enclosure, the netting parted just enough for them to each get a shoulder in. The humming is louder than before, he almost expects to see the surface of his tea shuddering with it.

"Is it happening?" he asks.

Birch shushes him automatically and then gives him a startled, apologetic look and a nod. Guzma waves at him impatiently and Hala comes, leaning in carefully over Birch's shoulder to watch.

One of the nincada is twitching. Hala's own crawbrawler had to go through several molts, he recognizes the jerk of something kicking off its own too-small skin. He can see a faint light-- quickly growing brighter, brighter until it glows as hot and bright as the sun at the start of a new day-- outlining the form inside the gray shed as it strains and tears free with one last jerk.  Its form is melting into energy, changing even as it crawls free.

"B12 is going," Guzma says urgently, squinting past his hand to see through the evolution light, his own pair of dark goggles forgotten on his forehead.

"Fascinating! Maybe it can sense A5!"

A5 has already settled into its new shape, a gleaming black and gold bullet with sharp looking wings, and as it takes off into the air the paper-thin husk it left behind falls away, torn to pieces by the force of evolution. Through the bright spots in his vision Hala can see the glow of the next Nincada beginning the change.

"What are we looking for?" Guzma asks urgently.

"An intact husk," Birch murmurs, frowning as the next nincada and the next leave shreds in their wake.  Hala feels himself caught up in anticipation, leaning on Birch, as the fourth nincada starts to kick free.

Something seems different about this one, the glow somehow a little brighter?-- or the skin more transparent? Hala watches, for what, he does not know, as the newly evolved bug bursts free.

Birch gasps and grab's Guzma's forearm. "It's intact! Biscuit, you did it!"

"It's perfect," Guzma murmured, looking at the solid shell clinging to the netting. "Just like a statue."

It is oddly beautiful, if a little morbid; the hole where the pokemon emerged makes it look like a mold ready to be filled; one could pour an exact, lifeless replica of Biscuit. Biscuit itself pays its discarded husk no mind, gleaming in its new form and instantly zipping over Birch's distracted head, heading intently for the kitchen.

"Watch," Birch says, shooting a quick grin at them both, drawing Hala's attention back.

"Wait, what--" Guzma reaches out carefully, shadowing the husk from the harsh overhead lights, and Hala sees the residual glow in it, the dregs of the wild energy still clinging to the skin. That light weeps out and pools above the punched-out hole, solidifies into a gleaming crest just above the head.

The husk twitches, and looks around, rattling softly.

"What the f--" Guzma starts.

"That. Is the secondary evolution," Birch says. "Oh, I'm so pleased you got to see it! An untrained shedinja, right here. Just look at it!”

The husk-- the shedinja-- slowly unhooks its claws from the netting and hovers. The torn open skin has settled into motionless wings on its back; it doesn't seem to realize or care that it is hollow.

Birch holds out a hand and it lands, letting him inspect it before he transfers it into Guzma's cupped palms.

"Holy shit." Guzma looks bewildered, and more delighted than Hala has ever seen him.  "Holy shit, you're your own little thing, aren't you? Biscuit-wrapper."

It hums at him.

"They’re fascinating, aren’t they? Strangest ability, too. I hope at least one of the others does this, so we can see the factors in common," Birch says, remembering the clipboard-- this time Hala simply takes the pencil from behind his ear and hands it to him. "Thank you!"

"Wonder if it's because Biscuit stole human food."

"That would be fascinating. That could be an adaptation to… food scarcity, some missing nutrient... "

"Because I know what people say to do, and not to do, but I never met a trainer that didn't let their partners try their food. So, maybe you see if one of these other guys wants to eat something weird and then see if it -- does the thing," Guzma offers, stumbling into awkwardness at the end.

"I didn't think of that! I’d been concerned about contaminating the study, but of course there’s a variety of food in nature, Biscuit would have had alternate sources of sugar in the wild… "

Guzma recovers from his verbal stumble with a withering glare-- one he takes care to direct only at Birch and not the strange ghostly pokemon cupped in his protective hands.  "What do you mean you didn’t think of it? Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

The insult slides off Birch ineffectively. "Oh, research isn't about being smart, not after a point. It's about knowing the right questions to ask. You ask excellent questions. Have you considered going into research?"

Guzma physically recoils. "Don't be stupid."

Birch blinks at him as if surprised. "Well. If you say so. But come back any time. I'll be observing the new Ninjask for a while before releasing them-- looking for any behavioral changes. I wonder! Maybe Rowan's seen a dietary link too. And then, would it be causal or symptomatic? If a craving for sugars means it's predisposed to have a secondary evolution or if the availability of sugar itself--and it was last to evolve of the batch, which could also point to resource availability, you wouldn’t want too many secondary evolutions--"

There's a loud crash from down the hallway, a chorus of alarmed CHIC-CHIC-CHIC-CHIC, and a sleepy cry of alarm.

"Damn it! Biscuit!" Birch's assistant howls.

"Oh dear," says Birch. "I'd better--"

"We can see ourselves out," Hala offers, and Birch nods, looking relieved.

"It was wonderful talking to you, Guzmania! Don't hesitate to drop by if you're ever in Littleroot again!"

He bustles out of the lab without seeing Guzma’s horrified cringe.  Hala pats his shoulder; it's not the worst name to be saddled with, but in his place Hala would much prefer 'Guzma' himself.

"Oak must have told him," Guzma says, eyes narrowing. "I am gonna wreck that guy's face when we get home."

The shedinja hums in his hands, and his rage mellows almost instantly.

"Hey, bud. I got to go, okay? Don't get into trouble, all right, you look kinda fragile." He opens his hands, and the shedinja hovers away, lazily inspecting the lab. Guzma watches its flight wistfully.

"...We'll come back, if you like, before we leave. You can say goodbye, see how the others are doing."

"Nah, whatever, I don't care. This Birch guy's obviously an idiot."

"If you say so," Hala murmurs, and doesn’t believe it. Guzma cares desperately, is desperate to appear as if he doesn’t. ...what unexpected thing could his angry young pupil become, if he could only move past the limits of what he thinks he is?  

The chorus from the kitchen gets louder, briefly drowning out the nincada hum. A gleaming silver and gold shape zips out, something brightly coloured clutched in its little legs, and Birch and his assistant and approximately three dozen torchic all seem to try to follow it out the kitchen door at the same time.

The nincada hum in their enclosure, the little shedninja hovering among them while the delicate tatters of molt from the other evolutions harden beneath it.

“Teach.” It’s short, not quite sullen. Guzma shifts restlessly behind him, as ready to shed their visit as the nincada were their skin. “You coming?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, and turns to rest his hand on Guzma’s back before following him to the exit. Better to leave Birch and his team to it, and they do.