The Skeleton Thief [YA Pokémon Fanfic]

Part 1 - Blacklisted

My last day on the blacklist doesn't go how it's supposed to.

I'd spent the last few months all amped up to do one thing today: I was finally going to quit my day job at the Pallet Town Kennels & Dog Wash.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not ungrateful to be employed, given how hard it is to find any work in this tyre fire of a town. 

But my boss is an A-grade douche – the shouty, abusive kind.

And the work isn't exactly gratifying. There are only so many afternoons you can spend shovelling Growlithe crap out of the kennels and hosing them clean before your soul leaves your body entirely, and I'm pretty sure I passed that point like a year ago.

And also, there was always something more I wanted from life.

But right as I get out of the shower this morning, a new email notification pops up on my phone.

From the lab.

I swipe the screen with water still dripping from my fingers.

Dear Mr Clifton,

Thank you for registering your attendance as a public audience member to tomorrow's Registration Ceremony. We look forward to welcoming you to our Pallet Town facility.

Thank you for your support of the next generation of young trainers.

Regards,

Regina McDonald

What the actual what.

Before I can reply, there's a hammering at the bathroom door.

'Get out, bud. Nature's calling and I got about five seconds to answer.'

'Dad, just hang on, I'm –'

'Don't make me answer on the floor!'

Goddammit. I wrap my towel around my waist, grab my water-splattered phone and vacate the bathroom just in time for my father's bulky shape to barrel past me.

Nature calling for him doesn't mean quite the usual: he drank himself into more of a stupor than usual last night, and now he's got to throw his guts up. A standard weekday morning at the Clifton residence.

I wander to the kitchen, pour him a glass of water and bring it back to the outside of the bathroom door. 'Water's there for ya when ya need it.'

Dad spits from behind the door. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. 'Thanks, Jake. You're too good to me, kid.'

I know I am, but the compliment glances off me like a deflected Hyper Beam off a Light Screen. I'm tapping out a frantic response to the email from this Regina character.

Dear Regina,

Thanks, but there seems to be a misunderstanding. I'm not coming to be in the audience – I'm attending as a registrant. Did you get my application?

Cheers,

Jake Clifton

Suddenly, nothing about today feels as certain as it once did.

I pull on my dirty jeans and Pallet Town Kennels & Dog Wash-branded polo shirt while swearing at random intervals. I've dreamed of this day for so long: the day I tell my boss I don't need this stinking job anyway, because I'm leaving town to make something of myself.

Maybe I do still need this stinking job.

I make sure Dad's recovering on the couch before I jump on my bike and ride south of town, along the route that leads into the low hills on the way to the Seafoam Islands.