Vedanturf Town, Hoenn Region
Wattson, Mauville Gym Leader.
Wattson stood on the upper balcony of the Verdanturf Arena, gazing down at the stage where the final battle was about to begin. His hands were clasped behind his back, his coat flapping gently in the breeze from the arena's cooling vents.
To the crowd below, he was still the jolly Gym Leader of Mauville, the man with the booming laugh and a spark in his beard. But behind that jovial expression, his thoughts were quietly humming, sharp and fast as any volt current.
"Your smile's slipping, Wattson," said a voice behind him, calm, cool, unmistakable.
He turned. "Ah, Anabel. Caught me in a rare moment of actual thinking, eh?"
The Frontier Brain approached with her usual unhurried grace, hands folded neatly. Her lavender eyes scanned the arena, then flicked to Wattson's face. "It's not like you to host a grassroots tournament in a place like Verdanturf. You always preferred Mauville, louder, flashier."
He chuckled. "That's exactly why I picked this place. Quiet enough that people talk. Flashy enough to draw attention. We needed eyes on this region again."
Anabel leaned on the railing beside him. "Because of Devon?"
He didn't answer immediately. The Devon Corporation headquarters had barely made the news, hushed reports, strategic downplaying. But he'd seen the footage. The explosion had blown a hole in the side of the building the size of a cargo truck. If it hadn't been for a passing trainer, some kid from Petalburg, he thought, things would've gotten ugly.
"That was just the start," Wattson said quietly. "Maxie and Archie are stirring. They're not recruiting, they're arming. And they've both gone quiet enough that I don't like it. When two maniacs with opposing worldviews both disappear at the same time?"
"It's never good," Anabel finished.
He nodded. "We need more trainers. Not just League-licensed badge-collectors. People with judgment, heart, and maybe a little guts."
Anabel tilted her head toward the stadium. "Like your finalists?"
He gave a small smile. "Wally's a strange one. Sickly kid. But he's got that thing in his eyes, like he's listening to the world breathe. Sparky's different. She doesn't wait to listen, she makes the world raise its voice."
"Are you thinking of scouting them?"
Wattson shrugged. "Thinking of seeing who survives first."
The two stood in silence for a while, listening to the distant roar of the crowd, the crackle of the PA system preparing for the final match.
Eventually, Anabel asked, "You mentioned you ran into Whitney?"
Wattson chuckled. "That girl hasn't changed a bit. Still energetic as a Tauros in the Safari Zone. She was in Hoenn to talk with Norman, turns out there's talk of rotating Gym Leaders between regions again. She misses battling full-time."
"I thought Norman was Johto's old Normal-type Gym Leader."
"He was," Wattson said. "Before he came home. Whitney's thinking of taking the spot again if the League opens it back up. She and Norman were always a bit of an odd pair. A bruiser and a chess player."
Anabel raised an eyebrow. "And you?"
"I'm a magnet. I pull oddballs together."
They both laughed quietly at that. But beneath it, Wattson's mind was still humming. Mauville's grids had been seeing unexplained spikes. Sea routes had gone off radar for minutes at a time. A signal tower near Slateport had been knocked offline and chalked up to 'technical errors.'
Everything felt like a storm rolling in, and Wattson had spent his life reading clouds shaped like static.
A cheer went up from the crowd below. The arena lights shifted. The final match was about to begin.
Wattson leaned forward slightly, his jovial grin returning, but his eyes sharp.
"Time to see what kind of sparks these two really throw."
...
Vedanturf Town, Hoenn Region
Battle Arena
Sparky, Electric Enthusiast
She bounced on the balls of her feet, the soles of her sneakers barely touching the dusty tournament floor. Her heart was thudding in her chest, not from nerves, no way, but from excitement. From pure, unfiltered static in her bones.
The crowd around the arena blurred into background noise. There was only the field. The white lines. The sun dipping just low enough to cast long shadows. And Wally, across from her, standing calm and straight like he was in a painting. His Ralts hovered just behind his ankles, peeking out.
Sparky grinned.
Finally.
She'd wanted a match that mattered, and now, here it was.
"Final match of the Verdanturf Blitz Tournament!" the announcer cried, voice rising above the cheering. "Sparky of Mauville vs. Wally of Verdanturf! One-on-one! No substitutions! Begin when ready!"
She didn't wait. She stepped forward, already pulling her Poké Ball from her belt.
"Let's light it up, Pikachu!"
A burst of light, and then her partner landed on the grass with a familiar crackle. Electricity hummed at its cheeks like it was holding back a laugh. Pikachu's tail flicked once, then steadied into battle stance.
Across the field, Wally gave a small nod. "Ralts."
The little Psychic-type stepped forward, head tilting ever so slightly. It didn't look intimidating, Ralts never did. But Sparky knew better than to underestimate anything that moved with that kind of quiet.
They both waited for the signal. And then,
"Begin!"
She moved first.
"Quick Attack!"
Pikachu became a blur, dust flying up from its feet, a golden line carving through the field. It zipped toward Ralts in a heartbeat.
"Double Team," Wally said softly.
Pikachu passed through an illusion.
Then another.
Then another.
"Now, Confusion!"
The real Ralts was behind, hands lifted in eerie stillness. A blast of psychic energy knocked Pikachu sideways, rolling it across the grass. Not hard, but sharp. Targeted.
Sparky's eyes narrowed. "Feint that pattern. Circle wide."
Pikachu didn't charge this time. It darted left, then veered into a spiral around the illusory Ralts, feinting, baiting. Sparks flicked from its tail, scattering like seeds.
"Confusion," Wally said.
A blue glow flared, and Pikachu froze mid-swing, psychic force locking his limbs.
Sparky clenched her fists. "Shake it off! Slam!"
The grip wavered. Pikachu roared and broke free, lunging forward,
But the real Ralts flickered behind him again, dodging with eerie grace.
"Too slippery," she muttered. "Fine. Let's force it."
"Quick Attack, now!"
Pikachu vanished in a blink, striking low, catching Ralts off-balance. The little psychic tumbled back, rolling through grass and dust.
Wally stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "Disarming Voice."
Ralts inhaled, then released a ringing, melodic cry.
The sound shimmered through the field, striking Pikachu not with force, but something deeper. His ears flicked, his momentum stalled.
"Again!" Wally called.
Another bell-like pulse, Ralts's voice weaving a strange pressure around them.
Sparky scowled. "Don't let it build, Thunderbolt!"
Lightning cracked again, and this time, Ralts couldn't dodge.
The blast hit square-on, flinging the psychic-type back into the dirt.
Sparky's heart leapt. "One more'll do it!"
Wally knelt, voice steady even now. "Ralts. Focus."
The little Pokémon shook, slowly rising. Singed. Breathing heavy. But standing.
Sparky hesitated.
"…Iron Tail."
Pikachu darted in.
Wally's eyes flicked to the scuffed-up terrain behind them.
"Teleport," he murmured. "Up."
Ralts vanished, not back, not sideways. Up.
High overhead, almost above the arena lights.
Sparky's eyes widened.
"Confusion, aim straight down."
It wasn't an attack.
It was a pin.
Blue light speared downward. Pikachu froze again mid-dash, muscles trembling as psychic force bore down.
"Disarming Voice," Wally whispered.
Ralts's song rang out, not pretty now, but shrill, desperate, laced with resolve.
Pikachu cried out, stumbling back.
"Come on, buddy!" Sparky yelled.
"Thunderbolt!"
The air screamed.
The bolt hit, Ralts was gone.
Teleported again.
Behind Pikachu. One final time.
"Confusion."
It wasn't a blast.
It was a hold.
Pikachu tried to turn. Muscles twitched. But he was out of sync now. Hurt. Dizzied. Gripping the ground with his claws.
Then,
He slumped.
The referee raised their hand.
"Pikachu is unable to battle. Victory goes to, Wally of Verdanturf!"
The crowd erupted.
But Sparky didn't hear them.
She stared at her fallen partner, then over at Wally, kneeling beside Ralts, hand resting gently on its head. His shoulders were shaking slightly.
Not from nerves.
Relief.
Sparky crossed the field, knelt beside Pikachu and gently scooped him up.
"Tried to roast 'em," she murmured. "They just kept dancing."
Wally looked up. "You almost got us. That second Thunderbolt…"
He trailed off. Still catching his breath.
Sparky gave him a crooked smile. "You're the real deal, huh?"
Wally blinked. "I don't know about that."
"Don't play humble now," she snorted playfully. "You win this one."
Behind them, the crowd cheered. Wattson's voice boomed from the stage again. But all Sparky heard was the soft wind rustling through the grass and her own voice, quiet but sincere:
"That was a hell of a fight."
Wally nodded, his expression as calm as always, but his hand trembled just slightly as he rested it on Ralts's head.
It wasn't a fluke.
He had won.
And she, for once, didn't mind being the runner-up.
...
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