Two days after leaving Cinnabar, Ethan Carter disembarked from a ferry into the bustle of Vermilion City. The salty wind of the harbor mixed with the smoke of vendors hawking skewers of Magikarp and fried Mantine fins. Most trainers would bolt straight toward their next badge match. Ethan, of course, detoured. A steaming bowl of noodles was calling his name.
The little diner he slipped into was half-empty, the air thick with soy broth and gossip. Ethan had barely slurped his first mouthful when the trio at the next table lowered their voices just enough to make sure everyone within earshot could hear.
"Who is this Ethan Carter the higher-ups are fussing about?"
"I heard the Johto Dragon Gym Leader, Clair, came here looking for him herself."
"Has to be about love, right? Women remember the ones who hurt them most."
Ethan's chopsticks froze midair. Clair? Hurt by love? He'd only tossed a single taunt Lance's way in Mahogany. Was the Dragon Clan really this thin-skinned? He pictured Clair storming through the League office, demanding portraits of the villain who'd insulted her cousin's pride.
The thought made him smirk. If Clair did find him and tried to duel, what then? She'd glare, unleash her dragons, and he'd… probably beat them bloody. And if, in some absurd twist, she mistook that ruthless streak for charm and fell headlong like some lovesick heroine? Well. Ethan wasn't against letting fate hand him another advantage.
Still, discretion had its uses. He finished his noodles quickly, bought a second portion boxed up for Snorlax, and ducked out into the street. No sense in giving Vermilion's rumor mill more fuel.
By dawn the next morning, Ethan's Charizard cut across the skies toward Cerulean City. They landed before the Gym under the stares of awestruck challengers. Charizard shook his wings smugly until Ethan tapped his neck.
"Good work," Ethan murmured, returning the dragon to its ball. "Rest. I'll handle the boring part."
The boring part was already in progress: a long queue snaking out from the Cerulean Gym entrance. A Gym assistant barked at would-be challengers to stay in line, and Ethan slipped in third from the front. Not a bad position—until trouble arrived.
Raised voices flared from the back. A hulking trainer shoved forward, dragging a scrawny boy by the collar. The kid's Squirtle popped from its ball, tail lashing indignantly.
"Squirtle!" it squeaked, ready to defend its trainer.
The man only laughed and released a Machamp that towered over the turtle. Muscles bulged, four fists flexing in a grotesque display. Squirtle's bravado wilted instantly. The boy was shoved aside, his place stolen.
The rest of the line reacted with shrugs or cruel smirks. Cerulean's challengers knew the unspoken rule: strength dictated order. Ethan only shook his head and stayed put. He didn't play hero for free. The world punished kindness without leverage, and Ethan had no intention of being the fool who defended the weak only to lose his own spot.
Unless, of course, the trouble came to him.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. Ethan turned slowly, eyes narrowing. The same brute loomed over him, Machamp flexing behind.
"You. Move back," the man sneered. "My brother's taking this slot."
From the way he said "brother," Ethan pictured another mountain of meat waiting to join. The bully's mistake was assuming Ethan looked like easy prey.
"You sure?" Ethan asked softly.
Machamp stomped closer, veins bulging, fists like boulders. The brute smirked. "What, you gonna cry to your Pokémon about it?"
Ethan sighed theatrically. "Annihilape," he said, releasing his ball.
The stadium doors weren't the only things that creaked when the Ghost/Fighting beast emerged. The spectral aura of fury clung to him, burning like embers around his fists. He cracked his knuckles, eye sockets glowing with simmering wrath.
"Hit him," Ethan said flatly, pointing at Machamp. "He's mean to me."
The bully laughed, actually doubled over. "That's it? You're whining to your—"
He never finished.
Annihilape roared and blitzed forward, faster than Machamp's four arms could even react. One punch cratered Machamp's chest; the next hoisted the titan by the ankle. The ghost monkey swung him like a ragdoll, smashing him against the flagstones in a brutal rhythm. The line of challengers fell silent, their faces pale as Machamp's body hit the ground again and again, each impact echoing like a war drum.
When the beast finally dropped his victim in a heap, Ethan stepped closer, smile razor-thin.
"Brother," he said lightly, "still want me to go to the back?"
The man's bravado bled out of him faster than his Machamp's consciousness. His lips trembled, and his eyes darted between Ethan, the smirking Annihilape, and the silent crowd that suddenly wanted no part of this exchange.
Ethan waited, hands tucked in his pockets, perfectly patient. The brute could either answer or choke on his own fear.
In the end, no words came. Only a stiff shake of the head.
"Thought so," Ethan murmured, recalling his Annihilape.
The Gym line shuffled forward as if nothing had happened, but every trainer who dared glance at Ethan looked away just as quickly. He returned to silence, content.
He hadn't lifted a finger, hadn't wasted energy. Just a casual command, a demonstration of strength. That was the lesson this world respected, and Ethan knew better than to lecture it otherwise.
As for the boy with the Squirtle? Ethan didn't even spare him a look. If the kid learned anything today, it would be this: survival required teeth.
And Ethan Carter had sharper teeth than most.