The Skeleton Thief [YA Pokémon Fanfic]

Part 2 - Tauros Mode

This property used to be called the Oak Ranch. 

It was overgrown and weedy and rustic, with burnt-out vehicles in one corner of a field and a mix of Pokémon, some studied for the professor's research and some stored there by trainers who had started their journeys in Pallet Town.

Ever since Silph Co. took over, it's changed. 

It's not owned by anyone local and it's not even called a ranch anymore – just Silph Corporation – Pallet Town Facility. There's an electronic gate at the front that only opens on registration day once a year; beyond that, you need an appointment to get in, and you need to be important to get an appointment. The hedges are manicured; there are no weeds anymore; the burnt-out cars have long since been carted away; and Pokémon move in packs of only their own species – no intermingling, no play.

The place still looks beautiful but it doesn't feel beautiful.

Today, I couldn't care less how the place looks. What matters is the gates are wide open, and I can march up the gravel driveway for the first time in five years. I am off the blacklist; I'm a free man; and I am going to use that freedom.

It's a sunny day, just a few clouds scudding into gentle light blue. The sun's warm enough on my forearms that I can get away with wearing just a black "Just Lift It" Machoke T-shirt and faded blue jeans. I've sprayed half a can of deodorant over my dirty jeans but I can still smell the Growlithe and mud on them. I did hose my wheat-coloured work boots clean, at least. And I've turned my Pallet Town Freight and Logistics cap backwards – the classic trainer look. I'm ready.

There's a bit of a crowd when I reach the courtyard at the side of the lab. People are lining up at a trestle table draped in Silph Co. and Pokémon League logos while a blonde woman checks them in on her laptop. Behind them, there's a dais set up with a lectern and microphone, overlooking a sea of white plastic chairs, some of which have started to fill up.

I take my place in line. Behind me is a guy a few years younger than me who's got a prissy stage mum whispering in his ear. 'Stand up straight, Kenji. Posture is a big part of a first impression. Remember not to say anything negative. Smile even if you don't get a Charmander. Cameras will be on you.'

Ooof. Sucks to be Kenji.

In front of me is a little ginger-haired girl without an accompanying parent. She must have only become eligible to register this year: she can't be older than ten. She has pigtails and her backpack is emblazoned with a Ponyta riding a rainbow. Jesus.

When she gets called up to the desk, the blonde woman says, 'Oh, and your big brother is here to support you.' She smiles up at me. 'How sweet of you to give a helping hand to ...' She glances at the name tag she's just printed for the little girl. '... Ava.'

Ava's eyes bulge as she sticks her name tag to her top. 'Gross. He's not my big brother. And he smells like dog hair and sweat.'

'Oh, my mistake!' The blonde woman clicks her tongue and beams at me with a too-nice smile. 'I mixed you up with the wrong family. You're here to support ...'

She looks past me at Kenji, the little dweeb with hunched shoulders and his overbearing stage mother.

'I'm not here to support anyone,' I say, looking her firmly in the eye. I can feel the heat of the gaze of everyone lined up behind me. 'My name's Jake Clifton. I'm here to register as a trainer, like everyone else.'

'But ...' the blonde woman says, looking me up and down. 'You're ...' She lowers her voice. 'You're a bit too old to register, aren't you?'

The heat of everyone's judgmental looks has transferred to my cheeks; they're burning up. 'I checked the terms and conditions. There's no upper age limit. I sent through my application before the deadline.' I glance at her enamel Silph Co. name badge. 'Oh. You're Regina McDonald. I emailed you about this yesterday.'