Pewter City bustled as it always did, the stone-paved streets alive with the clatter of carts, the creak of wagon wheels, and the low hum of conversation. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery, mingling with the sharper tang of stone dust from the mason's yard. Children darted between market stalls, their laughter bright against the steady rhythm of hammers from the smithy.
But today, every conversation, no matter how it began, seemed to come back to the same thing.
The Gym Leader was in a match — not one of the public challenges posted on the notice board, but a closed-door battle. And not just with anyone. With him. The boy Officer Jenny had accused after the hospital explosion.
In the bakery, customers leaned over the counter, voices dropping to conspiratorial whispers as they traded half-heard details. In the market, merchants passed rumours along with their goods, weighing coins in one hand and gossip in the other. Some swore the boy was innocent, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Others were certain he'd planted the explosives himself and that this match was nothing but a ploy. Even haggling was half-hearted; prices were agreed upon too quickly, buyers distracted, sellers straining their ears toward the gym.
From a few streets away, a faint, dull vibration seemed to hum through the cobblestones — the kind of tremor that might come from a heavy body striking the gym floor. Conversation faltered. A child's marble slipped from his hand and rattled across the stones, but no one bent to pick it up. Heads turned as one toward the squat, stone-walled building. Its doors were shut, its windows barred, and its thick walls kept their secrets.
A mason near the yard muttered, "Stone doesn't groan like that unless it's giving way," and wiped his dusty hands on his apron, frowning toward the gym. A shopkeeper pulled her child back by the arm, shushing his protests, while a pair of miners exchanged uneasy glances — they knew the sound of rock shifting under strain. Murmurs spread outward like ripples, quiet voices overlapping, the words "too strong… dangerous… what if it breaks loose?" passing from mouth to mouth.
A few lingered nearby, pretending to browse shopfronts while their eyes stayed fixed on the gym's entrance. Others kept walking, but their ears stayed tuned for the next subtle sign from within — a low rumble, a shift in the air, anything that might hint at how the battle was going. The city itself felt tilted, leaning toward the gym.
Whatever was happening in there was for the challenger, the leader, and the referee alone. But outside, the whole of Pewter seemed to balance on the edge of its breath, waiting for the moment when the doors would open and the truth — whatever it was—would spill out.
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Officer Jenny prowled the streets around the gym, her boots clicking against the stone with a measured, deliberate rhythm. She moved more steadily than she had in the days immediately after the hospital incident — the limp still there, but less pronounced, her posture stiff with purpose.
Her eyes swept the passers-by, scanning faces, corners, and alley mouths with the same restless focus as a Growlithe on a scent. She wasn't here for the battle. She was here for them. The kids. The ones who'd been in the Pokémon Centre recovering, now discharged and somewhere in the city.
The thought of finally getting her hands on them — to "question" them — kept her mouth shut. She'd told her Black Thorn superiors the girl was mute now, barely able to rasp a word, and that the boy knew nothing about it. That was the official line. The truth was simpler: she didn't trust either of them. And if the syndicate wanted them "taken care of," this chaos might be the perfect cover.
Merchants paused mid-sentence as she passed, their gossip about the gym match faltering for a heartbeat before resuming in hushed tones. A few children ducked out of sight, unsure if her attention might turn their way. Jenny didn't slow. She circled the gym's perimeter like a predator testing the fence, waiting for her moment.
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Jenny was halfway along the gym's side wall when it came — a deep, muffled whump that pressed against her ribs more than it reached her ears. The cobblestones under her boots gave a faint shiver, and a thin trickle of dust slipped from the edge of the roofline.
She froze, eyes narrowing at the heavy stonework. The building's exterior was unchanged, its barred windows and thick doors holding firm, but she knew the sound of a structure taking a hit. Something inside had given way.
A low, indistinct roar followed, echoing from deep within the gym's belly, then the groan of something massive shifting. Jenny's hand hovered near her belt, not quite reaching for a Poké Ball, but ready.
Across the street, the merchants who had been mid-transaction now stood rigid, coins clenched in their fists. One shouted toward the gym, voice sharp with alarm. Others nearby turned, eyes wide, and within moments the murmurs swelled into a wave of voices.
"Another blast—"
"Get the Leader out!"
"Open the doors!"
The crowd split between panic and defiance — some clutching their children and retreating down side streets, others pushing closer, driven by anger, fear, or morbid fascination. A young courier bolted down the street, shouting for the city guard, while a baker shoved her apprentices inside and slammed the shutters. An elderly man shook his head, muttering that the hospital hadn't even been rebuilt yet.
A pair of men broke from the crowd, striding toward the entrance. One grabbed the iron handle and yanked hard; the other pounded on the door with the flat of his hand. The heavy slab didn't move — not because it was locked, but because it was built to withstand a siege.
Jenny stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise. "Stand back!" The command was sharp, but the crowd's fear made them slow to obey. She planted herself between them and the gym doors, outwardly the picture of authority — inwardly calculating how to use their panic to get inside.
The air was thick with tension, the kind that could tip into chaos with one wrong move. Inside, the battle raged on, unseen but impossible to ignore.
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The next impact was sharper, more violent — a cracking report that split the air.
With a splintering crack, a jagged section of the gym's roof burst outward. A boulder the size of a cartwheel hurtled into the open air, trailing splinters of shattered beam and shards of tile. It smashed into the cobblestones beyond the crowd, spraying grit and stone chips against nearby shopfronts.
Gasps turned to shouts. A woman cried out as she dragged her son away from the debris. A miner cursed, shielding his face from flying grit. Others stumbled back, arms raised, shielding their eyes. Someone screamed that the building was collapsing; others yelled for Brock, for help, for someone to stop the fight. The crowd heaved like a single living thing, some surging forward, others tearing backwards, each motion jostling the next.
Jenny's head snapped up, eyes narrowing against the drifting dust. The crowd surged toward the doors — and this time, she moved with them. Her shoulder hit the iron handle first, shoving past a merchant's grasp. The door resisted for a few seconds, hinges groaning, before swinging inward with a dull scrape. The earlier blast had destroyed the lock; only the door's sheer weight had kept it shut.
A wave of hot, dust-laden air rolled out, carrying the muffled roar of a Pokémon and the acrid tang of scorched stone. Jenny stepped into the threshold, one hand on her belt, eyes scanning the dim interior.
Behind her, the crowd pressed forward, their fear and anger threatening to spill inside. Jenny threw a glance over her shoulder, barking, "Stay back!" Her tone was sharp enough to make the front line hesitate — but her mind was already working ahead, plotting the fastest route through the dust to find the kids before anyone else did.
Inside, the battle raged on. And for Jenny, it wasn't just about the fight anymore. It was about tying up loose ends.
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For a heartbeat, the ruined gym held its breath. Steam curled from scorched stone, the bluish-green flames guttered low, and water dripped in slow, steady beats from the shattered pipes above. The air was thick enough to taste — wet ash, scorched silk, and the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to the back of the throat.
Then came the sound — boots on stone, voices echoing down the corridor — and the battered doors swung wide.
Daylight spilt into the gloom, slicing through the haze of dust and smoke. The first townsfolk stepped inside, their chatter dying mid-word as their eyes adjusted. One by one, they froze.
The battlefield was unrecognisable. Chunks of ceiling lay in jagged heaps, twisted beams jutted like broken ribs, and puddles mirrored the ghostly firelight. The ragged hole in the roof poured a shaft of gold across the devastation, dust motes drifting lazily in its glow.
Two shapes lay still in the centre — one small and golden, the other vast and grey, coils slack against the ruined floor.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as the smaller figure stirred. Slowly, shakily, Pikachu pushed himself upright, steam curling faintly from his singed fur. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, but his eyes were bright, molten gold in the sunlight.
Gasps broke the silence.
"He's still standing…" someone whispered, voice trembling.
"After all that?" another breathed, half in awe, half in disbelief.
The awe spread like fire catching dry brush, but with it came doubt. A miner crossed himself. A shopkeeper clutched her child closer. One of the guards muttered something about the hospital blast, and the words spread like a spark through dry grass. Suspicion coiled in the murmurs, hardening the edges of awe into unease.
Jenny didn't join in. Her gaze slid past the Pokémon to the boy standing just beyond — dusty, blood-marked, and unbowed. The crowd saw a survivor. She saw a liability.
Her mind ticked over the details she'd already fed to Black Thorn: the girl's voice barely more than a rasp, the boy supposedly ignorant of it. That was the official story. The truth was simpler — she didn't trust either of them. And now, with the city's eyes fixed on the wreckage, she could move without drawing too much attention.
Around her, the townsfolk pressed closer, their awe curdling into suspicion. Fingers pointed. Voices rose. The story was already taking shape in their minds — a boy accused after the hospital blast, now standing over the wreckage of the gym.
Jenny's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. The chaos had cracked the door open. All she had to do now was step through.
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Ash's mouth opened — the beginnings of a cheer, a breath drawn to call Pikachu's name — but the sound never left his throat.
Jenny was already moving.
She cut through the haze in three decisive strides, her boots crunching over grit and shards of stone. Her hand shot out, fingers locking around his arm just above the elbow. The grip was iron, unyielding, her other palm braced against his shoulder as she wrenched him half-around. The suddenness of it stole his balance; his boots scraped against the scorched floor, the motion jarring through his knees.
"There's your proof!" she barked, her voice slicing through the murmurs like a blade. She yanked his arm high so all could see. "You saw the destruction. The danger. He brought this down on your city — just like the hospital!"
The crowd, already teetering between awe and suspicion, tipped.
They surged forward like a breaking tide. Hands clawed at his jacket, tearing threads loose. A shove from behind sent him stumbling, only for another pair of fists to slam him back upright. A miner drove a forearm across his chest, pinning him for a heartbeat before shoving him into Jenny's grip again. Spittle flew with the shouts; the smell of sweat, fear, and anger pressed in from every side.
Accusations blurred into snarls:
"Destroyer!"
"Murderer!"
"Lock him up!"
"Bury him in the rubble he made!"
Ash twisted, trying to pull free, but Jenny's grip was unrelenting, fingers grinding into the muscle of his arm. Each attempt only dragged him deeper into the crush of bodies, where blows waited for him — knuckles rapping his ribs, an elbow digging into his back, a kick clipping his shin.
Pikachu's growl rose sharp and furious, sparks flashing as he tried to leap to Ash's defence. But his legs betrayed him — they buckled beneath the effort, the growl cracking into a pained gasp. He staggered, caught himself on one paw, then collapsed fully, chest shuddering with each breath.
The crowd recoiled for only a heartbeat — then their awe curdled into something harsher.
"Even the beast's broken."
"Good. Finish it before it gets back up."
"Pikachu!" Ash's voice cracked, desperate, as he fought against Jenny's hold.
Jenny dug in harder, her nails biting through cloth, using his instinct to protect Pikachu to keep him off balance. Around them, the chant began — ragged at first, then hardening, pounding in time with fists on stone and boots on wood: "Jenny was right! Jenny was right!"
Some spat at Ash as the words rolled. Others reached again, hands grabbing, nails scratching. A rock — small, sharp-edged — skipped off the floor near his boot. The next one struck his shoulder.
Jenny didn't flinch. She didn't look at the crowd at all. Her eyes stayed on Ash, cold and measuring, her voice pitched low so only he could hear. "You and I are going to have a little talk. And your friend, too."
The mob pressed closer, their rage a living thing that clawed and shoved at his body, their voices drowning out reason. The ruined gym, the fallen Onix, the shaft of sunlight cutting through the drifting dust — all of it was swallowed under the roar of a city choosing its scapegoat.
Jenny's pulse was steady. Her mind was already three steps ahead, charting the quickest way to drag him through this chaos — and how to use every hand that struck him as cover to keep him pinned.
And in the heart of the violence, she had exactly what she wanted: the perfect storm to take him, with the mob itself doing half her work.
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Brock had been frozen since the first shouts, his mind struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. The gym — his gym — was still smouldering, the air thick with dust and steam, and yet here were half the streets of Pewter pouring through the doors, not to help, but to swarm Ash.
For a moment, he just stood there, chest tight, eyes darting between the mob and the boy he'd just battled. Then the shock burned away, replaced by a hot, rising anger.
"Enough!" His voice cracked like a whip as he stepped forward, shoving through the press of bodies. "Back off! He's not—"
A hand caught his arm before he could reach them. Then another. Faces turned toward him — familiar ones, neighbours, merchants, miners — but their expressions were hard, set in the same grim certainty.
"Brock, are you hurt?" a woman asked, her voice pitched with concern, but her eyes already sliding past him to Ash.
"We saw what happened," a miner said, gripping his shoulder. "You don't need to get involved. We'll bring him to justice."
"Let us handle it," another man added, as if Brock were the one in danger here.
He tried to shake them off, but more hands closed in, not rough, but insistent — holding him in place, steering him back. Their words came in a steady stream, meant to reassure, but each one felt like a wall being built between him and Ash.
"You've done enough, Brock."
"You need to rest."
"We'll make sure he answers for this."
Brock's jaw clenched. Over their shoulders, he could see Jenny's grip on Ash, the boy straining toward Pikachu's collapsed form. The chant — "Jenny was right!" — rolled over the scene like a drumbeat, drowning out his protests.
And in that moment, Brock realised the truth: the crowd wasn't here to listen. They'd already decided who the villain was.
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Brock's protests were still hanging in the air when Jenny moved.
She shifted her grip on Ash, sliding one hand from his arm to the back of his collar, twisting the fabric just enough to keep him off balance. The other stayed locked around his wrist, a pivot point she could use to steer him like a stubborn Pokémon on a short lead.
"Out of the way," she snapped, her voice cutting clean through the chant. It wasn't a request.
And the crowd obeyed.
They parted for her without hesitation, the same people who had been clawing at Ash moments ago now stepping aside — but it wasn't mercy. The narrow lane they formed was a gauntlet. As Jenny pushed him forward, hands darted in from either side: a shove to his shoulder, a cuff to the back of his head, a spit‑flecked curse hissed in his ear.
A small, sharp‑edged rock came from somewhere in the press. It struck his temple with a dull crack, hot pain blooming across his skull. He staggered, feeling the warm trickle of blood slide down his cheek, but Jenny's grip wrenched him upright before he could even raise a hand to it.
Some clapped her on the shoulder as she passed, murmuring encouragement like blessings.
"Get him out of here, Jenny."
"Make sure he pays."
"Don't let him slip away like last time."
Ash's boots dragged through grit and shallow puddles that splashed cold against his ankles. He twisted once, trying to look back toward Pikachu — still lying on the scorched floor, sides heaving — but Jenny yanked him straight again, her grip like a vice.
Brock caught the movement, his jaw tightening. "Jenny, stop! He's not—"
A miner stepped into his path, palm out, blocking him with the easy authority of someone who believed they were doing the right thing. "We've got this, Brock. You've done enough."
Another voice rose from the crowd: "You need to see to your gym. Let her handle him."
Brock's hands curled into fists, but the wall of bodies between him and Ash was solid, unyielding.
Jenny didn't break stride. Every step toward the exit was another step away from the one person in the room who might have been able to pull the mob off him. The chant followed them, echoing off the scorched walls — "Jenny was right! Jenny was right!" — until it was impossible to tell where the crowd's will ended and hers began.
Brock was about to physically lash out.
And with the city itself clearing her path — and marking him in blood before she even reached the door — she knew nothing would stop her from getting him where she wanted.
Nobody saw the Poké Ball.
It arced silently above the heads of the crowd, a small, spinning glint in the fractured light. For the briefest moment, it caught the golden shaft of sunlight pouring through the torn roof, flashing like a signal. Then it vanished into the haze, its click and burst of light swallowed by the roar of voices.
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The chant broke apart into something uglier. Hands no longer just shoved Ash — they clawed at his sleeves, yanked at his collar, ripped at the hem of his jacket. Someone cuffed him across the side of the head, the crack sharp enough to make his vision blur white. A stone — fist-sized, jagged — struck his shoulder and skittered across the floor. He stumbled in Jenny's grip, coughing, only for another shove to drive the breath from his chest. His ribs flared with pain; he tasted copper where his teeth cut his tongue.
Jenny held him upright, not shielding but presenting him, her arm clamped like an iron manacle around his. Every blow, every spit-flecked accusation only made her stance seem truer, her warning vindicated. She didn't even have to speak; the mob roared her words for her.
"Monster!""Destroyer!""Lock him up!"
Ash twisted toward Pikachu, but the little Pokémon barely stirred, his body trembling against the cracked floor. Sparks sputtered once, feeble and fading. He let out a thin cry that dissolved into a wheeze.
The sight drew no mercy from the crowd. If anything, it sharpened their anger. Fingers dug into Ash's arm, nails raking skin. A boot caught his shin, and another shove drove his knees halfway down. They didn't see a trainer protecting his partner — they saw a criminal shielding proof of his own guilt.
Jenny leaned down, her lips near his ear, voice cutting beneath the roar. "Let them break you. I only need you alive enough to answer."
Then — the world split.
A roar, deep and seismic, cracked through the ruined gym. Dust leapt from the stones, and the press of bodies froze as if struck by the same blow. The sound wasn't just heard; it rattled ribs, pressed into marrow.
Fear slid through the room like a cold draft, prickling skin, tightening throats. It wasn't just the volume — it was the feeling that came with it, a pressure in the chest, a warning older than language.
Everybody turned their heads to look at the source.
It stood there like a living fortress — a massive, grey, bipedal beast whose very silhouette radiated power. Its hide was the colour of weathered stone, broken by jagged ridges and cruel, angular lines. Narrow, blood‑red eyes burned beneath a crown of spikes and plates, their gaze sweeping the room with slow, deliberate menace. Two fangs jutted from its upper jaw, catching the light like polished ivory, while a cream‑coloured horn at the tip of its snout gleamed with a lethal edge.
The head was a weapon in itself — a forward‑curving spike like a battering ram, flanked by two triangular, ear‑like points, each backed by a wide, wavy crest that gave it the look of a war helm. Spiky ridges bristled along its cheeks, framing a mouth set in a grim, unblinking snarl.
Its chest was shielded by a rocky plate that overlapped a segmented, cream‑coloured abdomen, the grooves between each strip like scars carved by battle. Down its spine ran a jagged row of spikes, each one sharp enough to tear flesh, leading to a long, muscular tail ringed with black stripes — a whip that could shatter stone.
It didn't move quickly. It didn't have to. Every slow step forward was deliberate, the heavy thud of its feet echoing in the stunned silence, each one a promise of violence.
And in that moment, no one in the room doubted that if it chose to, it could bring the rest of the gym down around them without breaking a sweat.
Brock and the Pokémon locked eyes for a brief moment. Recognition hit him like a hammer — and with it, the weight of what that roar had just done. The mob's momentum was broken. Fear had cracked their unity. This was his moment.
Through the drifting haze, he stepped forward, one hand braced against the scarred flank of his partner. His chest heaved, his eyes dark with fury, and when he spoke, his voice cracked like a whip.
"Enough!"
The word ripped through the gym louder than the mob's chant, louder than the hiss of steam and crackle of fire. It was the voice of their Gym Leader — the one they had trusted since he was barely more than a boy — and it carried the weight of stone and steel.
The press of bodies faltered. Fists hung suspended mid‑air. The chant broke into stuttering fragments, then silence, though the air still quivered with the force of it.
Brock's glare swept the crowd. "You will not touch him. Not here. Not in my gym." His fury wasn't aimed at Ash — it was aimed at them. "You think this destruction proves guilt? You think fear makes you judge and jury?"
The words landed like boulders, scattering the last of their certainty.
Someone called out, voice sharp with suspicion. "Then what happened, Brock? Why's the gym in ruins?"
Another voice, bitter: "We heard the blast. We saw the smoke. You expect us to believe it wasn't him?"
Brock's boots crunched over stone as he advanced, his voice carrying over the stunned hush. "You want the truth? You'll have it. This battle was mine to judge. I saw every move, every strike. And I'll say it plain: that boy fought fair. His Pokémon fought fair. The damage you see? That's the price of strength meeting strength. Nothing more."
He let the words hang, then drove them home. "That sound you heard — the one you thought was an attack on your city — was a move. My Pokémon's move. A technique that hits like an explosion. The blast, the shockwave, the collapse… that was me. My call. My responsibility."
A ripple of unease moved through the crowd. Some shifted their weight, glancing at each other. A few lowered their hands.
"The gym fell because the fight was fierce," Brock continued, his tone hard but steady. "Because I pushed it to the limit. He didn't bring this place down — he stood through it. And if you call that criminal, then you may as well call every one of us who's ever fought for Pewter the same."
Silence followed, taut and brittle. The miners who'd been gripping Ash's jacket let go, muttering under their breath. Mothers pulled their children back. A merchant spat into the dust, but his eyes no longer burned with the same certainty.
The awe had curdled into suspicion, and suspicion had taken root. Even as they withdrew, whispers clung to Ash like grit in the air:
"He's cursed."
"Shouldn't be here."
"Jenny was right…"
Jenny released her grip only when the crush of bodies had peeled back enough for Brock to wedge himself between her and Ash. Her fingers slipped away slowly, deliberately, as if to remind him she could take hold again whenever she wished.
On the surface, her face was all authority, the mask of a dutiful officer heeding her Gym Leader's command. But her jaw was tight, her eyes cold. Brock had cracked her moment clean down the middle, and she knew it.
Still, as she leaned close, her lips brushed near Ash's ear, her words too soft for anyone else to hear.
"This isn't over," she murmured, the faintest curl of satisfaction in her voice. "I'll be waiting when the crowd's gone. And when I come for you next, there won't be anyone to shout 'enough.'"
When she drew back, her expression was as composed as ever — a pillar of order in the wreckage. To anyone else, she looked the picture of restraint. Only Ash knew the promise that lingered in her eyes.
The gym was quiet now, save for the Pokémon's low, rumbling growl and Pikachu's ragged breaths. And in that quiet, the violence that had nearly swallowed Ash still lingered, raw and unfinished.
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AN: Well...that escalated quickly. I cannot write a normal fanfic chapter for once, now can I?