BANG!
A small Buizel was sent flying through the air as Marshtomp's Water Gun blasted it head-on.
"No! Turbo, again—Water Gun!" Wake roared, full of determination... and apparently zero awareness.
"Buize~!" Buizel chirped, its tiny body shaky but determined. Water began to gather in its mouth, though it was clearly struggling to focus.
"Gurgle... gurgle... splash."
The attack fizzled out weakly, a tiny splash of water falling to the ground. Buizel blinked, looking almost surprised by its own failure.
"What happened?! Turbo, I just gave you the Water Gun TM yesterday!!!" Wake exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in complete disbelief.
He ran a hand through his hair, clearly spiraling. "I thought we talked about this! You have the moves! You've got the TM, you've got the water... and you've got... what exactly? A tiny splash?!"
Buizel blinked, still sitting there as if it wasn't the one being scolded, and Wake could only slump, defeated by his own Pokémon.
Allen raised a hand, signaling Marshtomp to stand down. He let out a quiet sigh and rubbed the back of his neck.
Wake didn't seem to notice. He was still shouting orders as if Buizel was some seasoned fighter. But Allen could see the problem.
Pokémon had two ways of learning new moves: naturally often through the process of evolution or learning through guidance also known as mentorship. However, mentorship often drained one's wallet, as each Pokémon possesses unique talents and personality.
The longer your Pokémon spent learning, the more money you'd need to invest. Now, with the advancement of technology, TMs or Technical Machines were introduced, simplifying the process and allowing trainers to personally train their Pokémon.
Technical Machines (TMs) are the result of combined knowledge between humans and Pokémon. They provide a more efficient solution for trainers seeking to enhance their Pokémon's strength in a shorter and safer manner.
In essence, TMs contain encoded data representing specific moves. When a TM is used on a Pokémon, the data is transmitted into their neural network or brain, where it undergoes a process of neural integration.
Allen nodded thoughtfully, recalling what he'd learned back at Rustboro Trainer School.
"Wake, let me ask you something—what moves does your Buizel know right now?"
Wake looked puzzled but answered right away. "Uh... Tackle? Growl?"
Then he let out a heavy sigh. "I spent 100 Pokédollars on a Water Gun TM, but... it looks like Turbo still can't use it."
Allen's brows furrowed. "Hold on. Where exactly did you buy this TM?"
Because as far as he knew, the minimum price for any official TM at a Poké Mart was 2,500 Pokédollars. Now hearing 100 Pokédollars coming out of Wake's mouth?
'Oh no. Don't tell me he got scammed.'
With numerous TMs available to help broaden a Pokémon's move pool, it's important to remember the value of patience—especially when it comes to elemental attacks, where the Pokémon is essentially learning to conjure something out of thin air.
During this integration process, the Pokémon's brain analyzes and compares the new data with its existing neural pathways and genetic predispositions. After this analysis, the brain begins to reorganize and modify its neural connections in response to the external stimulus—in this case, the data from the TM.
Through synaptic modifications, this restructuring allows the Pokémon's brain to understand and begin adapting to the new move encoded within the TM. However, "understand and adapt" doesn't mean the Pokémon will be able to execute the move perfectly right away—since the data is transmitted into their subconscious, it takes time and practice to fully master it.
In Buizel's case, it simply needs more time—and more importantly, an official TM issued by the Pokémon Association!
"Haven't you brought your Buizel to a Pokémon Center to check its moves?"
Wake looked up and said innocently, "Turbo just hatched yesterday. My father said I need to train it on my own for a while."
"..."
Everyone in the park felt their mouths twitch.
'No wonder his Buizel can't even spit properly… and he wants to battle that Marshtomp? Does he even know Marshtomp is the evolved form of Mudkip?'
Allen turned decisively, ignoring the pitiful look on Wake's face.
"Hey—where are you going?!" Wake called out.
"Going home!" Allen shouted back, already hurrying to pack their things.
But just as he grabbed his bag, he paused. Looking up at the sky, he sighed, then turned back toward Wake.
"Wake... I suggest you head home now," he said, his tone dropping. "Or your father…"
Just the thought of Wake's dad sent a chill down Allen's spine. 'Now that guy… that was a real wrestler.'
Wake blinked, startled, then glanced around. Only now did he realize the park had emptied out more than he'd noticed. The sun had nearly set, and the last few kids were starting to pack up, glancing at the sky. Parents were calling, bikes rolling out. It was getting late—too late.
"Oh man," he muttered, panic rising as he started scrambling to gather his stuff.
And just like that, their chaotic skate park episode came to an end.
Cynthia and Caitlin were sweating profusely, and only then did it dawn on them that they should head home for dinner after the sun had set.
The three of them decided to stop by a small ice cream shop on the street. Bathed in the warm glow of the sunset, they shared ice cream and chatted about the funny and interesting things that had happened that day.
As Cynthia struggled to carry her shoes, Allen, noticing, reached out without a second thought.
"Let me help you with those."
"It's okay, I can manage," she replied.
"Why be polite?"
As he took it, their fingers brushed briefly, and Cynthia immediately pulled her hand back, causing her shoes to tumble to the ground.
Caitlin, who had been watching from the side, couldn't help but tease.
"Clearly, Cynthia used to love holding hands the most, but now she's shy?" she said, a mischievous grin on her face.
Cynthia didn't respond right away, instead turning her head away slightly, her cheeks flushed. She cleared her throat and changed the subject.
"I have homework… I should get home and do it. Caitlin, can I come over to your place to study today?" she asked, hesitating for a moment before glancing at Allen. "Will you join us?"
Allen waved his hand dismissively. "I don't need to. I've got to head to the factory. You guys can do your homework, though."
The factory he was referring to was a textile factory that produced clothing made from Cascoon silk. Four years had passed, and Aunt Drasna had already set up a trust fund so that when he turned 16, he'd be able to take over the factory.
"Alright, then we go fi—" Caitlin began, but suddenly she paled.
Her usually calm face looked drained, almost sickly. Alarmed, Allen and Cynthia stepped closer.
"Hey!"
"Caitlin! Are you okay?"
They asked, their voices filled with concern.
Caitlin nodded and waved her hands dismissively. "Nothing, I'm just really tired. I need to go to the bathroom first," she said before they could reply, already turning to leave.
Cynthia sighed in relief. After all, she was also a little tired herself, so she didn't think much of it. But Allen frowned, his eyes following Caitlin until she disappeared from sight.
"Hey, Allen..." Cynthia suddenly called out, nudging him gently with her elbow.
This snapped Allen from his thoughts, and he looked at her.
"What is it?"
"Can you stretch out your hand for a moment?"
"What's wrong?"
"Like this, spread out your fingers."
Allen didn't think much of it and did what she asked, a bit curious.
But then Cynthia stretched out her other hand and gently pressed her palm against his.
"I… I just want to see how big the difference is between our palms."
Allen's heart skipped a beat. Cynthia's hand still felt soft and delicate, especially compared to his own. The subtle warmth of her hand against his sent a small shiver through him, and he couldn't help but notice the sweet, fruity scent of her body wash, which seemed to linger in the air.
"Hmm… boys' hands are indeed much bigger," Cynthia said, her voice soft, almost thoughtful.
"Cynthia..."
"Hmm?"
"Are you trying to avoid being too close to me in public? We're usually so casual at home…"
Just like in the past, they were pinching each other's faces and laughing. It wasn't like they had anything to hide.
"What are you talking about? I'm not embarrassed…"
Cynthia's cheeks flushed a little as she glanced away, still holding his hand. "My hands were sweaty at that time, so I didn't want to touch you. How could it be embarrassing? We've grown up together since we were kids, what's there to be embarrassed about?"
Allen chuckled softly, a warm feeling bubbling up inside him. "That's true."
The Cynthia he knew now was different from the one in the anime—the strong, independent Cynthia.
There might even be a side story to explore that, but as the current Cynthia that he knew, she had always carried the weight of being the popular girl, from kindergarten all the way to Jubilife Trainer School.
Mumbling to herself, she let go of Allen's hand, leaned down, and with a lazy, slightly resentful tone, said, "And if we're talking about having a good relationship, Caitlin is much closer to you than she is to me now."
"Why would you say that? Clearly, you two have a good relationship. I've never seen you two argue. You always scold me together."
"But…"
Allen stopped Cynthia in time before he stood up. "Do you smell smoke?"
"..."
He then turned his head toward Cynthia with a serious expression.
"I think I smell smoke."