Pumped {Pokémon Short Story}

Chapter 1: Hot Air

Celadon City. A rich, rainbow-colored city where people and Pokémon gather. It is the most populous city in Kanto, even outnumbering its skyscraping neighbor Saffron City in the east. The city has two entrances, one from the east via Route 7 and one from the west via Route 16.

Celadon is the main bustling hub to spend money in Kanto, whether it be the Celadon Department Store or the Celadon Game Corner. It is also the home of the Celadon Condominiums, where residents of the city live, and the Celadon Hotel, where visitors can rest.

On a cloudless, sunny day mixed with low humidity, every other Kanto festivity manages to overshadow the upcoming event. It's an event people forget about despite its popularity. It's a Pokémon worldwide event that gathers the elite of the elite (and it's not even referring to the Elite Four) in hopes of taking home that year's glory.

"Whew, I'm beat. Traveling all the way from Hoenn really takes a toll on the legs," a man grumbles. He drags two suitcases behind him, one a brown leather and one a Skarmory silver. He pushes his way to the south end of the city, where the sponsoring Celadon Hotel provides lodging for this year's participants. His green loose fitting shirt and navy pants are torturous combinations in the heat. His mustard paperboy cap covers his blonde hair that has grown to his shoulder. His exhausted expression shows just how far of a journey someone is willing to take to participate in the annual event.

He exhales, dashing the last few feet towards the building he gets free room and board in. His feet slam on the cobblestone pavement as he approaches the hotel.

He sighs in relief. "Finally, the Celadon Hotel."

He pulls open the hotel's glass doors. A blast of cool air whooshes across his body, like a refreshing Icy Wind strike. Entering the lobby, the sounds of bustling employees, guest check-ins, and every other noise in-between Exp-loudly blasts his ears. Everyone rushes by him as he stands in place. The smell of rubber road tires, energy drink solutions, and practice sweat is his pungent version of Aromatherapy.

Now all he has to do is to try to make it to the front desk.

"Excuse meeeeeee!" he roars as he Bi-barrels his way through the chaos of a hotel lobby. Through the flowing maze of patrons, Pokémon, and bicycle parts, he manages to surface in front of a hotel check-in desk.

"Welcome to the Celadon Hotel," the bellhop smiles. He eyes the man's attire.

"Thank you...I have a reservation. I'm a participant in the Cycling Cup."

"Name?"

"Rydel. R. Y. D. E. L. That's me."

The bellhop opens a green guest book. On a page, he slides his index finger down a list of people. He stops about two-thirds of the way down.

"Aha! Rydel. Owner and proprietor of Rydel's Cycles in Hoenn. Glad you could make it," the bellhop smiles. Rydel responds with a thumbs-up and a grin.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. And I bet he's here too," he replies. Rydel looks to his sides quickly, as if he's searching for someone. The bellhop smiles and hands him a plastic card key.

"On your left, room 5. Enjoy your stay," he smiles, bowing slightly. Rydel gives him a quick, silent nod. With that, he bounds towards the rooms on the left. Weaving through traffic, he makes his way to a relatively empty hall. Doors ranging from room number one to room number ten line the far wall. Unlike the lobby and outside, the floor is a cool, fluffy forest green carpet.

He peers to his left, then to his right. A few other what looks to be competitors are outside their doors, servicing their machines. In all the glory, he counts one, two, three people covered in grease doing basic bicycle maintenance. Rydel steps around the first person on his left as he moves to his room.

Door number five looms before of him. Rydel feels an intense aura coming from somewhere nearby, sending chills down his spine. A strong opponent is nearby, and he could probably guess who it is.

A deep voice says one word. "Rydel."

Rydel replies accordingly. "Rickshaw."

Rydel turns to his right and sees his rival. It must be where that presence comes from. The older, shorter man leers Doublades at him. His sweaty, balding head and stocky figure are trademark of the bicycle master hailing from Sinnoh. In a white tank top and cargo shorts, he's the same as ever. Grease spatters dot Rickshaw's hairy arms and legs. It's the proof of a warrior on two wheels.

For the past decade, the two compete for glory at the annual Cycling Cup. This year is no exception.

"I see you haven't Tor-chickened out, Rydel. Not yet, anyway."

"Could say the same to you, Rickshaw."

The two masters of the trade glare down each other. Both take one step backward, then nod simultaneously.

"May the best cyclist be victorious," they say in unison. Rydel then inserts his key into his lock above his doorknob. On the other end of the hall in room seven, Rickshaw does the same.

They both enter their respective rooms in preparation for their one meeting a year. As the doors shut, another competitor in the hall speaks up.

"Who are those guys?" he asks. Another competitor with a number ten on his neon green jersey at the far end of the hall explains.

"Those two guys are Rydel and Rad Rickshaw, both owners and proprietors of cycling shops in their respective regions. They're both as competitive in cycling as they are knowledgeable about it. They're legends of the craft," the competitor explains.

"Ohh...that's so cool!" the first competitor exclaims. With an emblazoned eight on his shirt, one could guess he's number eight of the competition's field.

"This year, it's said to have maybe fourteen or fifteen participants. Those two guys are threats to the cup. Along with...him," the second competitor explains. He motions at a person on the opposite end of the hall. With a number one on his electric blue jersey, he sits quietly as he maintains his bicycle.

"That's Griffin Bellamy from Kanto. He surprised the cycling world taking the cup last year. Since then, he's been known as a fierce competitor and threat to anyone who wants to win. With home field advantage this year, he's one of the favorites to win," number ten says. He then raises an eyebrow.

"You have almost no chance of winning against those three, rookie. They're the cream of the crop," number ten finishes. He then pulls himself up and lifts his bicycle using his left arm with ease.

"Best of luck to you number..." he starts, squinting at the man who spoke up, "eight. You might as well just fight for fourth. It's no exaggeration that those three will take the podium. The real question is in what order."