anchor [1/1]
the team is gone, and she finds herself drifting. [shelly, archie, tabitha, noland]
pokemon; gen; pg13; 1800 words
He looks different through the bulletproof glass. Older and cheerless, as malleable as soft clay. The angles of his face are no longer sharp and jagged - he is blunt around the edges now, as if worn away by the tide. His beard has grown out all unkempt and snarled, giving him the appearance of a man who has abandoned himself.
“Sir,” she murmurs; presses her palm against the glass. “Sir, what should we do? What should I do?”
Her eyes plead with him, but he merely shakes his head. “Team Aqua is gone, Shelly. Try to forget, and go on with your life.”
“… What? No, I… I can’t,” she nearly sobs. Despite the familiar face of her Leader staring back at her, she’s never felt so lost and alone. “I can’t just forget about the team, sir! What about our mission? What… what about our dream?”
“The dream is dead,” he says solemnly. He lowers his eyes and stares at his clenched fists, shackled by silver handcuffs. “In the end, our good intentions were misled into a petty feud between myself and the enemy. It was never meant to be, Shelly, our perfect world of endless waves. It’s time to move on.”
He rises from his seat and motions for the guard to take him away.
“No,” she breathes, and pounds against the glass, desperation prickling her eyes. “No! You can’t do this to me, Archie! Give me an order, please! Tell me what to do!”
But he’s already gone. He doesn’t even glance back as the guard leads him away.
Shelly sinks back into her chair and rubs the tears from her eyes angrily. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to slip her orders through a crack in the wall, or feed her some kind of code, or give her subtle directions for uniting with the famed Isshu Branch (probably a myth, in retrospect). He was supposed to be the Leader, even with everything falling to shambles around them.
But the man on the other side of the glass had been a stranger, with sunken cheeks and empty eyes and not a trace left of the charismatic Leader she’d loved for so long. Underneath the betrayal that is piercing her heart she feels the stirrings of something else. Resolve. Tenacity. Iron-willed determination.
Archie may have forsaken Team Aqua, but Shelly will remain loyal forever.
--
Tabitha does not look thrilled to see her. Anything but, actually.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls. “And how the fuck did you find me?” He looks like he just stepped out of the shower - his hair is tousled and he’s clad in nothing but tattered sweatpants.
“You can drop the tough guy act,” Shelly says, brushing past him brusquely. “It’s not impressing anyone. And to answer one of your questions… I got a call from Courtney the other day. She sold you out quite readily.”
“That obnoxious bitch,” Tabitha hisses. “I told her to keep it secret.”
“I’d have to say that you’re the stupid one for trusting her, hon. She hates you just as much as I do, if not more.” Shelly glances around his apartment, wrinkling her nose at the piles of unlaundered clothes and random shit left lying on every available surface. Books too, stacks of them, underneath the tables and on top of the television and on the floor, just waiting to be tripped over.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody hates Tabitha.” He waves a hand, as if brushing away this inconsequential detail. “Get to the goddamn point, Shelly. Having you inside my living space is creeping me out.”
“… Have you heard from Maxie lately?”
His dark eyes flick towards her suspiciously. “What’s it to you?” he asks, stepping into the drab little kitchen. He grabs a bottle of amber liquid and pours himself a stiff drink. (It’s noon, but Shelly’s not about to criticize.)
“I’m just curious, is all. If this was some kind of Aqua plot I wouldn’t be dropping by for a social visit.”
Tabitha snorts into his drink. “Well of course it’s not a fucking Aqua plot. Aqua’s gone, Shelly, along with Magma. Everyone’s scattered. Some people even fled Hoenn. All our secret bases are in ruins, and our information network is totally dead. Nothing but static on every channel. Trust me, I’ve… I’ve tried. To contact people, that is.”
He’s avoiding her eyes, realizing too late that he’s said too much (caring is weakness, in the world they live in). But Shelly’s hardly paying him any mind. Instead, her mind is reeling from the magnitude of what she’s just heard, and she lowers herself on to the couch unsteadily.
“So Maxie’s given up too?” she whispers. “Magma’s finished?”
Tabitha drains the rest of his drink quickly, wincing as it burns his throat.
“Seems that way. The team’s gone for good, and it ain’t coming back.”
--
Shelly’s father was a fisherman. He slaved away aboard his ramshackle boat day after day to make ends meet, catching just enough to keep the lights on and put food on the table. He left each morning before the sunrise and returned home as the last rays of light were dimming to dusk, and he was always tired, so tired you could almost hear his bones creaking. But he always had a smile for Shelly. He always picked her up in his arms and told her in hushed tones the myths and legends of his ancestors.
Holidays were sparse, and winters were bitter cold, but they were happy all the same. And though the life was hard on him, Shelly’s father loved the sea and the sustenance it gave him so readily. It was a harsh mistress, but beneficent as well, like a temperamental mother doting on their darling child.
One summer the money began to run out.
“The sea level’s dropping around these parts,” Shelly’s father said worriedly, wringing his hands. “The fish aren’t biting anymore. They’ve all gone away, to cleaner, deeper waters.”
One summer they sold her father’s ramshackle boat, and he took a new job as a factory worker. He would return home covered in grease, decorating his clothes and smudged against his face, and though his joints no longer creaked his eyes were distant and deadened to the world.
Twenty years later and Shelly’s still bitter. Her father loved the sea, no matter how cruel it was to him. It was his home, his refuge, his life, and Papa-on-the-sea was a different man from Papa-on-the-land, more alive in so many ways.
Her father loved the sea.
(Perhaps she saw a bit of him in Archie.)
--
She arrives in Fortree City with nothing but the clothes on her back and a measly 300 in her pocket. Why she’s there, she doesn’t know. There’s just something about the place that speaks to her with comforting words and promises of endless opportunity. Some optimistic part of her thinks she’ll make a new start in this place. Get a respectable job and pay her taxes and forget all about the days long gone, when she was above the law. Settle down and forget all about the ocean spray against her face, the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Nah, Shelly thinks, and snags the wallet of some hapless tourist. She’s been living like this far too long to turn back now.
--
She ends up feeling drawn to the outskirts of town, where the Weather Institute lies nestled between the tall trees. Nostalgia, she supposes, or the need to remember a time when she had a clear-cut purpose.
Getting inside isn’t difficult. Security is surprisingly lax for a facility with a history of criminal takeover. She stands on the observation deck and gazes down at the scientists milling about below, whit lab coats billowing behind them as they shout orders and take readings and scribble down data. The device they’re building is impressive in scope, a complex assemblage of buttons and switches and metallic parts.
“Hey, hey,” a voice says from somewhere to her left. “Who are you?”
She turns and finds herself face to face with a (somehow familiar) man - red cap pulled low over his brown hair, sleeveless trenchcoat brushing his ankles, a face of harsh lines and soft, quizzical smiles.
“I’m… I’m Shelly,” she says. For the first time in her life, her mind is unable to produce a suitable alias.
“Shelly, huh? What are you doing here? This is a restricted area, you know.” He doesn’t seem angry, merely bemused, and she supposes they must find strangers wandering their halls on a weekly basis.
“I was just curious,” she hears herself say. “I was here once before, and I wanted to see how far they’d come with their research since then.”
At this, his eyes brighten. “Interested in environmental science, are you? In that case… If you were here before, you know all about the Castform Project, I’m sure? Well, this,” here he gestures towards the impressive machine, “is the next phase of the Project. It’s a device meant to emulate the powers of Castform for human means.”
“A machine that can control the weather?” she murmurs, inhaling sharply.
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “Soon we’ll be able to deliver rain to areas plagued by drought, or stop a flood in progress, or even burn away the snow left behind by a blizzard. In some places, too, the sea level is steadily dropping, while in others the sea encroaches a little more every year. Soon enough, we’ll be able to reverse this, and return our world to equilibrium.”
Shelly stares at the beautiful machine before her, breath catching in her throat. Suddenly she turns to him, grips his arm and looks him straight in the eye.
“I want to help,” she pleads. “I know something about the sea, about the weather patterns and the winds. I know I can be of use to you.”
The man looks taken aback for a moment, then smiles wryly. “Well, we have plenty of environmental scientists already. People with PhDs and experience in the field. But… We’re still a bit short-staffed, to be honest. And I like your spirit, Shelly.” He extends a hand and she clasps it firmly, like she’s tying a knot between them, a thread that cannot be cut or broken.
“Name’s Noland. Welcome to the team, I suppose.”
For the first time in a long time, Shelly smiles.
--
(Team Aqua is gone for good, but the dream - her dream - will live on forever.)
pokemon; gen; pg13; 1800 words
He looks different through the bulletproof glass. Older and cheerless, as malleable as soft clay. The angles of his face are no longer sharp and jagged - he is blunt around the edges now, as if worn away by the tide. His beard has grown out all unkempt and snarled, giving him the appearance of a man who has abandoned himself.
“Sir,” she murmurs; presses her palm against the glass. “Sir, what should we do? What should I do?”
Her eyes plead with him, but he merely shakes his head. “Team Aqua is gone, Shelly. Try to forget, and go on with your life.”
“… What? No, I… I can’t,” she nearly sobs. Despite the familiar face of her Leader staring back at her, she’s never felt so lost and alone. “I can’t just forget about the team, sir! What about our mission? What… what about our dream?”
“The dream is dead,” he says solemnly. He lowers his eyes and stares at his clenched fists, shackled by silver handcuffs. “In the end, our good intentions were misled into a petty feud between myself and the enemy. It was never meant to be, Shelly, our perfect world of endless waves. It’s time to move on.”
He rises from his seat and motions for the guard to take him away.
“No,” she breathes, and pounds against the glass, desperation prickling her eyes. “No! You can’t do this to me, Archie! Give me an order, please! Tell me what to do!”
But he’s already gone. He doesn’t even glance back as the guard leads him away.
Shelly sinks back into her chair and rubs the tears from her eyes angrily. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to slip her orders through a crack in the wall, or feed her some kind of code, or give her subtle directions for uniting with the famed Isshu Branch (probably a myth, in retrospect). He was supposed to be the Leader, even with everything falling to shambles around them.
But the man on the other side of the glass had been a stranger, with sunken cheeks and empty eyes and not a trace left of the charismatic Leader she’d loved for so long. Underneath the betrayal that is piercing her heart she feels the stirrings of something else. Resolve. Tenacity. Iron-willed determination.
Archie may have forsaken Team Aqua, but Shelly will remain loyal forever.
--
Tabitha does not look thrilled to see her. Anything but, actually.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls. “And how the fuck did you find me?” He looks like he just stepped out of the shower - his hair is tousled and he’s clad in nothing but tattered sweatpants.
“You can drop the tough guy act,” Shelly says, brushing past him brusquely. “It’s not impressing anyone. And to answer one of your questions… I got a call from Courtney the other day. She sold you out quite readily.”
“That obnoxious bitch,” Tabitha hisses. “I told her to keep it secret.”
“I’d have to say that you’re the stupid one for trusting her, hon. She hates you just as much as I do, if not more.” Shelly glances around his apartment, wrinkling her nose at the piles of unlaundered clothes and random shit left lying on every available surface. Books too, stacks of them, underneath the tables and on top of the television and on the floor, just waiting to be tripped over.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody hates Tabitha.” He waves a hand, as if brushing away this inconsequential detail. “Get to the goddamn point, Shelly. Having you inside my living space is creeping me out.”
“… Have you heard from Maxie lately?”
His dark eyes flick towards her suspiciously. “What’s it to you?” he asks, stepping into the drab little kitchen. He grabs a bottle of amber liquid and pours himself a stiff drink. (It’s noon, but Shelly’s not about to criticize.)
“I’m just curious, is all. If this was some kind of Aqua plot I wouldn’t be dropping by for a social visit.”
Tabitha snorts into his drink. “Well of course it’s not a fucking Aqua plot. Aqua’s gone, Shelly, along with Magma. Everyone’s scattered. Some people even fled Hoenn. All our secret bases are in ruins, and our information network is totally dead. Nothing but static on every channel. Trust me, I’ve… I’ve tried. To contact people, that is.”
He’s avoiding her eyes, realizing too late that he’s said too much (caring is weakness, in the world they live in). But Shelly’s hardly paying him any mind. Instead, her mind is reeling from the magnitude of what she’s just heard, and she lowers herself on to the couch unsteadily.
“So Maxie’s given up too?” she whispers. “Magma’s finished?”
Tabitha drains the rest of his drink quickly, wincing as it burns his throat.
“Seems that way. The team’s gone for good, and it ain’t coming back.”
--
Shelly’s father was a fisherman. He slaved away aboard his ramshackle boat day after day to make ends meet, catching just enough to keep the lights on and put food on the table. He left each morning before the sunrise and returned home as the last rays of light were dimming to dusk, and he was always tired, so tired you could almost hear his bones creaking. But he always had a smile for Shelly. He always picked her up in his arms and told her in hushed tones the myths and legends of his ancestors.
Holidays were sparse, and winters were bitter cold, but they were happy all the same. And though the life was hard on him, Shelly’s father loved the sea and the sustenance it gave him so readily. It was a harsh mistress, but beneficent as well, like a temperamental mother doting on their darling child.
One summer the money began to run out.
“The sea level’s dropping around these parts,” Shelly’s father said worriedly, wringing his hands. “The fish aren’t biting anymore. They’ve all gone away, to cleaner, deeper waters.”
One summer they sold her father’s ramshackle boat, and he took a new job as a factory worker. He would return home covered in grease, decorating his clothes and smudged against his face, and though his joints no longer creaked his eyes were distant and deadened to the world.
Twenty years later and Shelly’s still bitter. Her father loved the sea, no matter how cruel it was to him. It was his home, his refuge, his life, and Papa-on-the-sea was a different man from Papa-on-the-land, more alive in so many ways.
Her father loved the sea.
(Perhaps she saw a bit of him in Archie.)
--
She arrives in Fortree City with nothing but the clothes on her back and a measly 300 in her pocket. Why she’s there, she doesn’t know. There’s just something about the place that speaks to her with comforting words and promises of endless opportunity. Some optimistic part of her thinks she’ll make a new start in this place. Get a respectable job and pay her taxes and forget all about the days long gone, when she was above the law. Settle down and forget all about the ocean spray against her face, the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Nah, Shelly thinks, and snags the wallet of some hapless tourist. She’s been living like this far too long to turn back now.
--
She ends up feeling drawn to the outskirts of town, where the Weather Institute lies nestled between the tall trees. Nostalgia, she supposes, or the need to remember a time when she had a clear-cut purpose.
Getting inside isn’t difficult. Security is surprisingly lax for a facility with a history of criminal takeover. She stands on the observation deck and gazes down at the scientists milling about below, whit lab coats billowing behind them as they shout orders and take readings and scribble down data. The device they’re building is impressive in scope, a complex assemblage of buttons and switches and metallic parts.
“Hey, hey,” a voice says from somewhere to her left. “Who are you?”
She turns and finds herself face to face with a (somehow familiar) man - red cap pulled low over his brown hair, sleeveless trenchcoat brushing his ankles, a face of harsh lines and soft, quizzical smiles.
“I’m… I’m Shelly,” she says. For the first time in her life, her mind is unable to produce a suitable alias.
“Shelly, huh? What are you doing here? This is a restricted area, you know.” He doesn’t seem angry, merely bemused, and she supposes they must find strangers wandering their halls on a weekly basis.
“I was just curious,” she hears herself say. “I was here once before, and I wanted to see how far they’d come with their research since then.”
At this, his eyes brighten. “Interested in environmental science, are you? In that case… If you were here before, you know all about the Castform Project, I’m sure? Well, this,” here he gestures towards the impressive machine, “is the next phase of the Project. It’s a device meant to emulate the powers of Castform for human means.”
“A machine that can control the weather?” she murmurs, inhaling sharply.
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “Soon we’ll be able to deliver rain to areas plagued by drought, or stop a flood in progress, or even burn away the snow left behind by a blizzard. In some places, too, the sea level is steadily dropping, while in others the sea encroaches a little more every year. Soon enough, we’ll be able to reverse this, and return our world to equilibrium.”
Shelly stares at the beautiful machine before her, breath catching in her throat. Suddenly she turns to him, grips his arm and looks him straight in the eye.
“I want to help,” she pleads. “I know something about the sea, about the weather patterns and the winds. I know I can be of use to you.”
The man looks taken aback for a moment, then smiles wryly. “Well, we have plenty of environmental scientists already. People with PhDs and experience in the field. But… We’re still a bit short-staffed, to be honest. And I like your spirit, Shelly.” He extends a hand and she clasps it firmly, like she’s tying a knot between them, a thread that cannot be cut or broken.
“Name’s Noland. Welcome to the team, I suppose.”
For the first time in a long time, Shelly smiles.
--
(Team Aqua is gone for good, but the dream - her dream - will live on forever.)