Pewter was quiet.
Not peaceful quiet—more like the heavy, slumped silence of a town that had seen too many trainers march in loud and overconfident, only to crawl back out bruised and broke, muttering something about "Onix not being that big on the show."
Brutus shuffled down the gravel path from the mission outpost toward the city proper, clutching a League-issued map that had clearly been printed during a civil war. His backpack bounced with every step—less from the weight, and more from Yolkie's rhythmic tantrums. Clove trailed beside him, scanning every alley, every rustle, like he expected a Golem to drop from the sky at any moment.
"You think I should've asked Pinto for more details?" Brutus muttered.
Clove snorted.
"'Right, yeah. My bad. Trust the guy who thinks life advice should come in egg metaphors.'"
They passed a statue of Brock—a carved likeness of the rockstar Gym Leader mid-arm flex, surrounded by slogans like "STRENGTH IS IN RESOLVE" and "BROCK HARDER." Brutus paused, stared at it.
"…I think he's winking at me."
Clove hissed.
"Okay, okay, moving on."
---
A few wrong turns later—one of which led into a very defensive Jigglypuff's alley apartment—Brutus ended up in Pewter's public park. Well, "park" was generous. It was three trees, a cracked fountain, and a bench held together with League tape and insults.
Brutus dropped onto it with a groan.
Yolkie rolled off his shoulder and into the grass, giggling and immediately eating a dandelion.
"I need to train," Brutus muttered, massaging his calves. "I need structure. A plan. Maybe a second pair of shoes that don't squeal like dying Rattata every time I walk uphill."
Clove chirped in agreement.
Just then, someone behind him coughed.
Not the polite, attention-seeking kind. The kind of cough that said, "You've been talking to yourself for ten minutes and now I'm involved."
Brutus turned.
The man leaning against the tree looked like a boulder that'd given up on rolling downhill. Broad, gray-stubbled, sun-scorched skin. Shirt open to the chest like a retired wrestler. His eyes were hard. Not cruel—just... dry. Like a man who didn't smile unless someone earned it.
"You the rookie who tangled with a Fearow on an egg job?"
Brutus blinked. "Uh. That depends on whether you're here to sue me or hire me."
A long pause.
Then the man chuckled. Just once. Like a rockslide shifting a single pebble.
"Name's Flint."
Brutus nearly choked on his spit.
"Wait—you're Flint? Like... Brock's dad? The ex-League Gym Leader who vanished after that whole—"
"Yep."
Brutus opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Clove. Clove looked like he wanted to hide behind a bush.
Flint stared at him, waiting.
"Sorry," Brutus said. "I just expected... I dunno. You to be more... mysterious? Like, hooded cloak, cryptic riddles, dramatic lightning bolt when you show up?"
Flint pointed to the sky.
Cloudless.
"Can't afford theatrics," he said. "Not these days."
There was a long silence. Then Brutus blurted, "You want an autograph or something?"
Flint blinked once. Then laughed. A real laugh this time. Low and rough and honest.
"You're not what I expected."
Brutus looked down at his shirt—still stained from Yolkie's lunch—and sighed. "Nobody ever is."
---
They walked together through the park, Clove padding between them like a wary bouncer. Yolkie insisted on riding on Flint's shoulder for reasons unknown. The man didn't even flinch.
"So," Brutus said, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "you, uh... do this often? Harass unlicensed trainers in public green spaces?"
Flint scratched his beard. "Only when I hear something interesting."
Brutus gave him a look.
"You threw yourself over a crate of League-grade eggs. Fought off a Fearow. Didn't run. Didn't freeze."
"I screamed like a kettle."
"But you didn't freeze," Flint said firmly. "That matters."
They passed the fountain, now home to a family of wild Paras.
Flint turned to him. "You want to get strong?"
Brutus froze.
"That's a loaded question."
"I'm not talking about muscles. Not just those."
Brutus rubbed his gut. "Buddy, I've got enough stored energy to power a city block. I want to get strong so I don't die the next time a bird with knives for arms tries to gut me."
Flint nodded.
"Good reason."
Brutus frowned. "That's it? No speech? No, 'I see something in you, young one'?"
"You want a speech?"
"…Kinda."
Flint sighed.
"Alright. You're sloppy. Soft. You've got a baby Cleffa with ADHD and a Nidoran that looks like it's considering unionizing. But you've got guts. And you've got no idea what you're doing—which means you're willing to learn. That's rare."
Brutus blinked.
"Wow. That was almost heartwarming."
"Don't get used to it."
---
They ended up outside a squat training dojo just beyond the park—half dojo, half barn, with punching bags hanging from tree branches and a Machoke bench-pressing a boulder like it owed him money.
Flint crossed his arms.
"Here's the deal. I don't train kids anymore. I don't take on hopefuls. I don't do the 'wise mentor' bit."
"Cool," Brutus said. "Because I don't do 'motivated prodigy with a gift for battle.'"
Flint smirked. "But I do teach people who are desperate. Who know what pain feels like. Who know that this world doesn't hand you victories. You bleed for every inch."
Brutus was silent.
Then: "I can mop floors."
Flint raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, until you decide I'm worth teaching," Brutus added quickly. "I can mop. Fetch lunch. Clean up after whatever Machoke just did to that tire pile."
A long pause.
Then Flint opened the dojo door.
"You start tomorrow. Dawn. Don't be late."
Brutus grinned.
Clove sighed.
Yolkie farted again.
---
Later that night, under the flicker of the streetlights, Brutus sat on the edge of a fountain, scribbling in a battered notepad he'd picked up at a local shop.
He wrote:
Training starts tomorrow.
Avoid death by bird again.
Maybe get a belt.
He scratched out the last one. Wrote: Definitely get a belt.
Just as he packed it up, something stirred behind him. Heavy footsteps. Crunching gravel. A shadow.
Brutus turned—and saw a figure stepping out of the darkness.
A boy. Maybe his age. Tired eyes, short black hair, wearing a cap pulled low.
His jacket was red.
And on his shoulder sat a Pikachu.
The boy looked at him. Nodded once.
Then turned—and vanished into the night.
Brutus blinked.
"…Was that—?"
Clove growled low.
Yolkie made a noise like a confused car horn.
Brutus stood slowly, heart racing.
"…Okay. That's definitely going in the notebook."
---
END OF CHAPTER 9