Bringing personal emotions into your work is a serious no-no, especially in a service-oriented profession.
It was clear that Betty was trying hard to restrain herself. Since she hadn't taken out her frustration on the Pokémon babies and had only vented on Luther, he chose to back down.
But when she started taking it out on Mai, too, Luther found it unreasonable. It was obvious the root of the conflict between her and Mai lay in the distinction between "professional" and "amateur."
Luther thought it was one of those issues where it's hard to say who's truly right or wrong. Being a breeder is a profession that demands immense energy and passion, while also placing a high value on skill and experience.
There are always going to be people from formal academic backgrounds who look down on hobbyists without diplomas or official certifications. This happens in every industry.
But what really matters is whether that so-called "amateur" has genuine experience.
If we had to judge, Betty's behavior could be seen as stemming from concern for the Pokémon babies, worried they might suffer due to improper care. Her intentions, at least, were good.
But after working with Mai for so long, how could she still not understand Mai's competence? If Mai didn't have what it takes, how did she even get hired?
Just as Luther was about to say something, Mai poked her head into the room, scooped up the baby Corsola, and paused. Her eyes darted back and forth between Luther and Betty, clearly sensing the tension in the air.
Mai knew exactly what Luther's current posture meant. Whenever he was upset, he avoided eye contact, afraid that someone's expression might trigger his temper. And once he got angry, he could become cold and biting.
Luther kept his head down, quietly feeding orange slices to Marill and Ralts. He heard Mai's soothing voice as she comforted Corsola and took a deep breath to steady himself.
"Could you give me a tour of your Day Care?"
Luther wanted to get away from Betty. Based on her personality, she'd eventually force him to take a side in the whole "professional vs. amateur" debate.
And Luther thought that whole argument was just plain stupid.
Leaving the break room and passing through the egg incubation zone, Mai took out a small ring of keys and unlocked the room she was responsible for.
It was a space about ten square meters wide. A thin red carpet covered the floor, scattered with small toys, some building blocks, and even a tiny seesaw.
The first impressions a Pokémon gets after hatching, their initial contact with the world, are very important. Rather than a cold, sterile environment surrounded by strangers, Mai believed a quiet room with soft tones gave these children a hazy, comforting sense of safety in this new world.
There were only two Pokémon eggs left in the room now. One Corsola had already hatched.
The broken eggshell from that Corsola still sat in a corner of the room.
"Some Trainers like to collect things. They think keeping the eggshell of a hatched Pokémon is a meaningful memento. So after we clean the shells, we leave them here and ask when the Trainer comes to pick up their Pokémon if they'd like to take it home."
Mai explained while picking up the brown-red eggshell and placing it in Luther's hand.
The Corsola shell was about half a finger thick. Luther didn't dare test its hardness, Mai had mentioned that Corsola's Trainer might still come for it.
Because of the hot weather, the non-incubation areas of the Day Care were kept air-conditioned, while the incubation rooms maintained a warm temperature with heaters.
No wonder Mai was sweating so much earlier. Working in a stifling room in this heat, inspecting eggs and recording data, must have been exhausting.
In the center of the room, a warm yellow-patterned Pokémon egg and a dark gray-patterned one were wrapped in blankets. Mai brought in a basin of water from outside and quickly shut the door again.
Luther stood at the doorway, basking in the rush of cool air, and let out a happy "ahh" along with the Pokémon.
Mai soaked a towel in the water and began carefully wiping down the Pokémon eggs.
"What are you doing?" Luther asked, a bit puzzled.
"Oh," Mai replied, "the room temperature is already set to what's ideal for Pokémon egg incubation. But since we have to keep the heater running, the air gets too dry, so from time to time, we need to add some moisture."
It sounded… pretty tedious.
Once she finished wiping the eggs, Mai carried the water basin outside and left it by the door, ready to bring back in later when needed.
Luther noticed that the Slowpoke was slowly circling the two Pokémon eggs. It waddled awkwardly with every step, even hopping and stomping at the end of each lap. The motion wasn't loud, but it was odd and almost comical, completely different from Slowpoke's usual behavior.
"Slowpoke's walking like that makes me want to punch him…" Luther muttered.
The silly movement reminded him of a well-known meme. "Last time I walked like that, I got hit seven times in one night."
Mai wiped the sweat off her forehead, pulled an orange out of her bag, peeled it, and fed it to Slowpoke. Watching it absentmindedly open and close its mouth, she smiled and said, "Honestly, I'm not sure this actually works."
"I've always thought that Pokémon babies left in Day Care, or those being incubated without a companion Pokémon nearby, must feel incredibly lonely."
Luther was taken aback.
"Don't laugh," Mai added when she saw the look on his face. "Just imagine, when you first gain consciousness, you're surrounded by complete darkness, there's no sound, and when you try to break free from whatever's holding you, you realize everything around you is rock solid. Every attempt you make feels futile."
"This kind of struggle can go on for a long time, but their strength is so small, so small that even we can't detect it. And many of the attempts they make to break out are missed, simply because no one's around to notice."
"There's a statistic in the academic world: about 80% of Pokémon eggs hatch successfully, while 20% are dead eggs. They never even get the chance to see the world; they end their lives quietly within their shell."
The topic took a surprisingly heavy turn. But thinking about it, it made sense. Hatch rates couldn't possibly be 100%, and considering how vast the Pokémon world is, that 20% failure rate was actually terrifying.
"Someone needs to be there for them," Mai continued. "Even though researchers say Pokémon inside eggs can barely hear anything yet, and their abilities are still undeveloped… what if, just what if…"
"What if one of them can hear? Then maybe they'd find a bit of courage. Maybe they'd know someone's out there, keeping them company. And maybe, just maybe, they'll make it through the hardest part and finally hear the outside world, finally open their eyes and see it."
Can loneliness kill a Pokémon? Luther went silent for a moment. Then he carefully handed his own Pokémon egg to Chansey and began clapping. He felt that was the only gesture worthy of acknowledging Mai's efforts.
Everyone has their own way of raising Pokémon, each method with its own strengths and weaknesses. Beyond standard data, everything else comes from personal experience. And through enough practice, those methods become entire schools of thought, even new areas of study.
Luther didn't know if breeders in the professional world would mock Mai's approach, but he certainly didn't. To him, this wasn't laughable. It was an expression of reverence for life, of genuine love. Anyone who could laugh at that probably didn't deserve to be a breeder at all.
Seeing Luther clapping so enthusiastically, Mai blushed bright red. Using the excuse of getting drinks for him and the Pokémon, she gathered up her papers and slipped out of the room.
Luther crouched beside the two Pokémon eggs and held his own up for comparison.
He reached out to touch the dark gray-shelled Pokémon egg and noticed its markings had the feel of traditional ink-wash painting, very elegant and captivating. He couldn't help but be drawn in.
Crack…
Luther froze.
Right where his hand had touched…
The egg cracked.
(End of chapter)
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