With the door creaking shut behind him, Flint stepped out of the restaurant. The morning light had sharpened, spilling long shadows across the worn street. The air was already warm, the kind of warmth that hinted at harsher afternoons to come as summer crept closer. For now, it was still bearable — almost gentle, if you ignored the sting of grit riding the breeze.
He moved with the slow, deliberate tread of a man who owed nothing to the day's urgency. Outwardly, there was no rush in him. Inwardly, his senses stayed tuned to every change in the street's rhythm.
He kept to the edges as the streets near the Gym began to stir. Vendors tugged canvas awnings into place, knots worn smooth from repetition. Wooden crates thudded on cobblestones; the smell of cut fruit and fresh bread drifted over the low hum of bargaining. Children darted between stalls, their laughter skipping ahead of them like stones over water.
And then he saw them.
They stood at a fruit stand bright with mismatched baskets. Forrest was steady at the front, the quiet pillar of the group, counting coins into the vendor's waiting palm. Beside him, the youngest stretched on tiptoe to peek into a basket of apples, eyes wide at the sight of their glossy skins. Salvadore leaned toward Yolanda, speaking in low bursts; whatever he said set her lips twitching toward a smile she tried to hold back.
Tommy, ever dramatic, held an apple aloft in his open palm as though presenting a treasure to the whole street. Cindy, quick as a dart, swiped it away with a laugh, her cheeky grin flashing as she hopped back out of reach. Suzie kept to the rear, her pace deliberate, gaze flicking over her shoulder in restless sweeps that never lingered.
Timmy and Billy wove recklessly through passersby, turning gaps between bodies into an obstacle course, bumping into Forrest once before darting forward again. Tilly clutched a small cloth sack tight to her chest, glancing up at Forrest now and then with a searching look — half reassurance, half silent question.
From the cover of a tilted wall's narrow shadow, Flint watched them leave the stand. They filed into the gentle slope of a quiet alley — one he had walked a thousand times in another life — and came to the modest two‑storey house at its end. The faded beige walls carried the streaks of ten winters and ten wet seasons; the patchwork roof told of repairs done as cheaply and quickly as possible. The porch tilted slightly at one corner; the backyard fence sagged into a lean, and boards gapped just enough to tempt a curious eye.
The front door groaned open, and in they tumbled in a rush of small voices and shuffling feet. Flint's path bent away, slipping into a narrow alley beside the property until the side of the house came into view.
He stopped at the fence. Through the slats, he saw the backyard — little more than a worn patch of grass ringed by overgrowth. Timmy and Billy were already loose in it, chasing each other in wild loops, the slap of their feet sharp against the packed earth. Tommy tried, without much conviction, to corral them; his gestures big, his voice lost under their laughter.
Yolanda knelt beside Tilly, smoothing the girl's hair while Tilly giggled, her knees bouncing with contained energy. Salvadore leaned his shoulder against the fence post, biting into his apple with a slow, thoughtful calm. Cindy and Suzie sat on the back step, heads close, their serious whispers at odds with the play around them.
The back door opened with its high, familiar whine. Forrest stepped out, took in the scene with a long glance, then crouched to murmur something to Yolanda. Whatever it was made her smile faintly. He straightened, hesitated as if to say more, then slipped back inside. No sign of Brock. That wasn't surprising. The Gym would have him at this hour — reliable as clockwork, same as every morning.
Flint stayed a moment longer, hidden by shadow, letting the shapes and sounds in the yard press into memory. The laughter thinned, then was gone, swallowed into the drone of the waking city. Only then did he turn away, boots crunching lightly over gravel as he stepped back into the slow current of the street.
--------------------------------------------------
Flint lingered at the alley's mouth, watching the backyard through the weather‑warped slats until the last bright shout faded. The city's noise filled the gap — a vendor's call, the grind of a cartwheel over a cracked seam. With a soft pivot of his boot, he stepped out, gravel snapping under his heel, and merged with the flow.
Ahead, a figure cut through the crowd with a determined stride — too quick to be wandering, too clipped to be at ease. Pikachu rode his shoulder like a sentinel, tail tip twitching; Eevee loped at his heel, eyes jumpy with the street's motion. Even at a distance, Flint could read the stiffness in the boy's posture — a contained heat, not yet cooled.
Ash.
Flint closed until they were parallel for a few steps. "Your shoulders are tensed," he said mildly, as if remarking on the weather. "Maybe you're in a hurry. Maybe you want people to think you are."
Ash flicked him a glance, caught between guarded and impatient. "It's nothing."
Flint shrugged like he believed it. "If you're headed into a Gym battle, loosen it up. Helps your balance." Just practical advice from one trainer to another, nothing more.
Ash adjusted the strap on his bag without thinking. He gave a curt nod and pressed on, the high stone frontage of the Pewter Gym looming ahead. Flint slowed, letting him take the steps alone. "Brock'll be in," he said simply, and stayed outside.
---------------------------------------------------
Inside, the Gym was cool, the air dense with chalk, oiled stone, and old dust. Light from above picked out the pitted surfaces of the rock battlefield like scars. Brock stood at the far end, conferring with the referee over a clipboard. Both looked up as Ash's boots clicked toward the trainer's box.
"I'd like a battle," Ash said. The words came out steady, but the tautness in his voice told its own story.
'You're still burning from it,' Roshi murmured in his head.
'I said I'm fine.'
'No. You've said nothing, which isn't the same.'
Ash's fingers curled once, then flattened on the railing. "Now," he added aloud, more to drown the thought than to address Brock.
'This isn't focus, kid. It's running. From her, from yourself.'
Silence stretched in the cool air. Ash's eyes shifted to the scored rock, the long shadow of the scoreboard, the quiet set of Brock's mouth. The knot in his chest felt heavier than Pikachu's weight on his shoulder. He drew a breath, let it out slowly, and with it, the sudden need to throw himself into the fight.
"…Let's set an appointment instead."
Both Brock and the referee blinked, taken off guard.
"You… don't want to battle now?" the referee asked.
Ash shook his head. "You've got lives outside this room. Families. Things that matter. If we set a time, you can work around it. I won't be another thing you have to handle."
The two men exchanged a look — the kind that lands and then keeps falling, somewhere behind the eyes. The referee's grip eased on the clipboard. Brock's shoulders settled a fraction, as if the idea had unhooked something he hadn't noticed was tight. Why had they never offered that before?
Roshi's presence receded with a faint, wordless exhale. 'Good' was all it felt like — not approval, exactly; more the easing of a hand taken off a wound.
By the time the men began to find words again, Ash had already turned for the door, Pikachu's ears flicking as the light shifted.
---------------------------------------------------
Outside, the noon sun had grown harsher, shadows tightening under the eaves. Flint leaned against the wall, half in shade, a small notebook balanced in one hand. A stub of pencil tapped out a slow rhythm against the paper.
"How was it?" he asked without looking up.
"I made an appointment."
Flint's brow lifted a degree. He flicked the pencil once, then closed the notebook with a soft slap and slid it into his jacket.
"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Ash said, shifting his weight. Pikachu's tail made a small question mark; Eevee's ears pricked.
"Hm?"
"Do you know of a decent place to train?"