Political thriller set in the Pokemon universe (HA!).

[Mehmani]

A long while ago, for whatever reason, I resolved to write a moderately humorous political thriller set the Pokemon universe that allegorically represented an extant world conflict. I'm confident that the preceding sentence has not crossed the mind of any other person in modern history. Of that fact I am not sure whether to swell with pride, laughter or contempt. That is for you (at your own risk) to decide. I started this a couple of years ago and spent around three months adding to it every now and then. If you enjoy the first few parts, I'll certainly consider adding more. It's not as if I have much to do. 

 

At the time of writing I was at least lucid enough to recognise that my idiotic vanity project would require a modicum of foreknowledge. For that purpose I have provided a potted history of the universe in which our story unfolds. Good luck.

 

[spoiler=Information.]

The intention of this story is to create a Pokémon universe that has some semblance of consistency and accuracy (or at least as accurate as a story about semi-anthropomorphic fighting animals can be). The cities are significantly larger than they are in the games. They have multiple districts and often public transport systems. They are like human cities, as opposed to the village-like settlements you have in the games. Pokémon are vicious and potentially very dangerous. Ownership of certain Pokémon - such as most Poison-types - is prohibited. While there are firearms and weapons, Pokémon are used more frequently. Training is an arduous affair. Most people will not be able to fully evolve a couple of Pokémon in their lifetimes, let alone train an entire team like professional trainers. However, Pokémon ownership is universal and considered the norm. In fact, spurning Pokémon is considered odd, the same way refusing to own a fridge would be. Starting young is very common in trainers, with most youngsters undertaking their journeys from ten to twelve years. The education system is built with this in mind (compulsory education finishes at eleven). Most people do not pursue training as a career – many end it before the age of twenty to study something else if they aren't the best of the best. 

 

The various regions are in fact large countries or contain multiple countries (as an example, the island to the north-east of Sinnoh is a separate country, hence different Pokémon being encountered there). The various countries have different languages and dialects, and therefore characters will not understand other characters if they are from different regions. There are laws prohibiting the breeding of foreign Pokémon in different countries to prevent the extinction of indigenous species. Don't expect the characters to have particularly powerful Pokémon – this is supposed to have a sense of realism (although, it is bloody Pokémon). There are different leagues in different countries (some countries [the smaller ones] do not have leagues, like Paari, the island north-east of Sinnoh). The PWT (Pokémon World Tournament) will be familiar to those who have played Black & White – it is the way the World Champion is decided. 

 

I believe that the way people read a story in their heads is very important – I want you to hear the characters the way I imagine them. To do this, I will describe the languages of the various countries to you. Kantans speak Kantan and have clipped, almost military-like accents. They are the equivalent of Britain, you could say – formerly a huge empire, now they are reduced to the role of merely a large player on the international scene. They speak quickly but precisely and their voices are clear. They have the best reputation when it comes to education, with Kanto’s universities and institutes being the best in the world in most departments. The island of Kanto and Johto is contained in the mid-Atlantic Ocean. Johtonians speak Joht (‘yurt’) and have smooth, flowing voices in the style of a Romance language, speaking very fast. Think of French and Italian. They have a reputation for being relaxed and open-minded, bridging the gap between modernity and tradition. With a deep respect for tradition, Johto too is a former empire, although they didn’t leave much behind when they abandoned their colonies. They are similar to Japan in their deep respect for tradition, but equally close to the French, Spanish and particularly Portuguese empires in the sense that they attempted to hold onto their colonies in the 1970s. There is international resentment towards the Johtonians due to their support for Fascist Spain and Germany throughout the 1930s. They even maintained trade with Boer South Africa. Hoennians speak High Hoenn, a guttural but pleasant-sounding language with loud vowels, like Arabic crossed with Caribbean patois. Due to the oceanic nature of Hoenn, it is a country widely used for trading. Think of the Caribbean – warm weather and friendly people who are good at linguistics – Hoennians learn the other main languages to a good standard, generally. However, Hoenn is still in the control of former Kantan colonists (now naturalized Hoennians), who exercise a racist rule over the place, with the locals and their culture being brutally repressed. Think of Rhodesia, or the way the Afrikaners treated the Zulu and Shangaan in South Africa. The Sinnish speak Shiin, a difficult to understand language with open vowels sounds and odd conjugation. They speak with a drawl like Deep Southerners, although in certain parts of the country the accent differs from being soft and quite high to rich and cutting. They are seen as stupid in common knowledge and the butt of jokes. Due to their feud and ongoing war with the island to the north-east, Paarion, the Sinnish are a smart and cynical people. Ethnic Paari are looked down upon in Sinnoh, generating conflict with the dominant Sinnish ethnic group. The Paari also have large settlements in the Canalave Archipelago (Iron Island, Fullmoon Island etc.) and the area north of the Pokémon League (Route 228). They speak their own language, although most of them speak Sinnish anyway. The Paari are backed by Hoenn and have prominent paramilitary groups, but the Sinnish hold world support due to their constant presence as a dominant power. They initially conquered the Paari a few hundred years ago after invading from Kanto, where they were a marginalized ethnic group. They adopted Sinnoh as their own and became a powerful world force. The Sevii Islanders speak a variety of native languages as well as Creole Kantan. Unovans are similar to Kantans – their country was originally a dependency of Kanto but they gained independence a while ago. They all speak Kantan and are the dominant economic force of the world. They back the Sinnish and unofficially support them, leading to strained relations with Hoenn. More detailed descriptions of ethnic groups and any particular dialects will come within the story. 

 

Pokémon, as we know from the Pokédex entries and other sources of information, tend to be smart, with some being fiercely intelligent. Expect Psychic-type Pokémon in particular to be able to speak and even coexist with humans. Final forms of Ghosts tend to be smart also, but this doesn't mean that all other Pokémon can't speak. Expect some to. 

 

And finally, perhaps most importantly – other countries exist. It would simply be impossible for any ecosystem to work with only the Pokémon that currently exist, and let's not forget the fact that other countries are constantly mentioned in the games and the anime.  

 

Thank you for taking the time to read this. You probably deserve better than what's coming up.

[/spoiler]

 

Prologue

 

“Very little is actually known about the Shadow Triad. This is probably due to the fact that they can turn invisible, battle as well as most Gym Leaders and seemingly teleport at will.”

 

Criminals I Have Known – Pashta Liebowicz [publisher's note - the author is operating under an assumed name for fear of gang reprisals, death by fire, death by horse (more painful than it sounds) and fearsome ex-wives skilled in knife-throwing.]

 

“Let’s get this damn thing over with, man. I’m f***in’ shiverin’ now...itsa creepy place, yeah?” Jerry said, a slight sneer coating his words as he spoke. That was just part of his character, along with his quietly malevolent eyes and his twitchiness, not to mention his hair-trigger temper and the rage that came with it. Maybe, next to everyone thought, it had something to do with his lack of smarts and small stature. There’s an old adage about small people being vicious, and Jerry fitted to a T. 

 

Behind Jerry stood two other men, one clearly older than the other, who had a youthful, collected aura about him. The older man, who seemed a little more edgy than the younger man, spoke: “Jerry, order your Aerodactyl to tear that padlock apart. We’re waiting.”

 

Jerry turned and spat at the man with his eyes. “He gotsa a name, dammit. Call him by his name. I call your sissified maansters by’ere damn names; you call mine by’eirs, yeah, Blackie?”

 

‘Blackie’, shuddering at the invocation of his apparent nickname, snapped in response: “Tell Walt to open the damn door, you violent old f***.”

 

Jerry was seemingly satisfied and turned to the Aerodactyl perched behind them. “Waalt, fella, Bite that door, y’ear me clear?”

 

Walt glanced around with a faintly irritated, although predominantly disinterested look on his face. He was fond of snarling at people for the sole purpose of scaring them, so he was hardly popular within the group. He shuffled over to the door without opening his wings, walking awkwardly on the tips of them, which seemed to irritate him further and caught the lock between his razor-sharp teeth, grinding it until it split clean in half. He looked around for some recognition and finding none, his oddly expressive face remained the same. Jerry pulled out a ball and returned him before ushering the group through the door.

 

The room they entered was small and dark. Jerry, unlike the other two, charged in and started rootling around immediately. “Where’s this damn stone then? Whatsit look laake?” Jerry shouted. However, the dark room suddenly lit up, the light fixtures burning the group’s adjusting eyes. The door they had entered through slammed shut. 

 

“Hey, what the f*** is this?” Jerry shouted, his anger turning to fear as a brown-skinned man with a cold, vicious face pressed a gun to his back. 

 

“This is unfortunate,” said the young, quiet man standing next to Blackie as another man, this time with a balaclava over his face, pressed a pistol into his spine.

 

“I'm sorry,” the older man, spoke with a pang of pain in his voice. There was no man standing behind him.

 

Jerry opened his mouth to speak, but the man behind him hit him in the guts before he could. 

 

“Let him speak,” Blackie intoned, eyeing Jerry’s guard.

 

Jerry opened his mouth to speak but the younger man cut him off. “What the hell are you doing, Franklin? Really, what is this for? I...I don’t understand. Why? Please Franklin, why?” The younger man had terror in his voice and his eyes were wide with anger. His collectedness had deserted him.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry it had to end this way,” Franklin replied, swallowing deeply. He turned away from his two friends, unable to bear looking at them. 

 

“I tell you whaat, Blackie, old burrdy, now, I ain’t going down w'out a fight!” Jerry reached into his pocket, but he was cut down by gunfire. Franklin heard two bodies hit the floor with a muffled thud and the unmistakable sound of a man looting a body. That quiet combination of snickering and triumph was easy to recall.

 

“Package for ‘Blackie’. I’m not taking these,” the man with the balaclava grinned at his own joke and handed Franklin a battered plastic bag with his friends’ Pokémon in it, still trapped in their balls.

 

Franklin grabbed the bag and punched the man in the face. As he staggered back, the other guard lifted his gun.

 

“If you raise that gun another inch I’ll tear you to pieces.” Franklin snarled. “I had a deal with the RSA, your lot. You get the famous thieves and I leave in peace. No more bloodshed. I want that much to be true. I want your names, please.”

 

“Tomas sebin-Benjamin. He’s Roudonn sebin-Roudonn,” the young guard point to the bloodied guard in the balaclava who glanced up with muted anger at Franklin.

 

“Tomas. Roudonn. I never want to hear a word from you, or the RSA again. Never. Or you will burn...all of you. I’ll see to it. It’s not like you're going to be around much longer anyway.” 

 

He stormed off into the night, hiding the sadness in his eyes with a thick scowl.

 

One

 

“According to the leader of the Furtstuckah [the loose coalition of Paari paramilitary groups based across Paari settlements], the 60% child poverty rate in Paarion played a major role in the recent attacks on the Sunyshore lighthouse and Jubilife TV. Albert Burter said this morning in a video sent to the Sinnoh Telegraph: ‘As long as the aggressive policies of the Sinnoh ruling class, who are in league with the ugly capitalists who have oppressed our people and their true God, stand before the noble Paari who remain in our Gürfim [motherland], we will remain steadfast as our brothers who died before us in the struggle for our own country. Our children starve; their mothers weep and their fathers die. Our companions [Pokémon] will fight for us, and we will stand by them as they do us. Consider your sins, Mr. Bizkara.’”

 

Sinnoh Telegraph, this morning

 

--

 

Paarimilitary attack hits JTV and Sunyshore lighthouse, 67 dead; hundreds injured

 

Sinnoh Monitor, this morning

 

Iman Bizkara was a busy man, although you probably wouldn’t have been able to guess it from the way he was lying back in his leather chair with the clear expression of nothing at all on his face. He was perhaps a little inebriated, but that was to be expected of everyone in his field. Iman Bizkara was President of Sinnoh, head honcho of the Sinnoh Liberal Party (he always thought it a clear misnomer, at least while he was in power) and according to the nation’s most popular broadsheet “a man with the attitude of a raptor and the tongue of a chameleon.” Not that one would think so by glancing at him. He was possessed by the spirit of nothing at all. 

 

“That speech was good,” the Kadabra sitting on the chaise lounge put simply.

 

“Of course it was, you wrote it,” the exchange prompted a wry smile from Iman. Kadabra were good at levelling conversation and were fantastic strategists, which manifested itself in constant fishing for complements. They were very direct and rather secretive, their telepathic abilities meaning they could speak to anyone in a crowded room with only them and their chosen recipient hearing. In Kadabra society, they didn’t have names – their telepathy meant you needn’t call for anyone; they just had to project their voices to their targets alone. Those Psychic-types that had integrated into human society (most of them had by now, there were a couple of communes for the radical ones who never forgave mankind for the Great Leaving, as it is known) had chosen their own names, which gave fallible humans an insight into them for once. This particular Kadabra, the party spin doctor, as it happens, had chosen the name ‘Milton’.

 

“I’ve got an interview lined up, Iman,” Milton said, casually rolling a cigarette between his deft yellow fingers. “The weekend supplement of the Monitor, y’know, high class stuff. Focusing on policy, mainly.”

 

“You don’t need to go through policy with me, Milton. I’m pretty confident on that...”

 

“...Since the way you skewered Berria at the last TV debate, I know. You said-”

 

Bizkara raised a hand. “You don’t need to show off by repeating the exchange, Milt. I already know it off by heart.” He grinned to himself before pouring another brandy and ginger, for that was his preferred drink mid-morning. Gin and lime after lunch and whiskey before bed. It was a stressful job, I can tell you. 

 

“Footsteps, Iman, down the hall. Heavy-set, brisk, probably Andrej coming here to inform us about an-”

 

A giant of a man in full green Sinnoh Military Force gear burst through the door, a look of urgency painted on his face, his large nose wrinkled in worry. 

 

“Sir, there’s been another bomb attack. They went for the Hotel Grand Lake complex in Valor. It’s looking like the worst death toll we've had in peacetime.”

 

Iman Bizkara put his drink down, but then quietly reconsidered and downed it. He didn’t look particularly saddened, that was to be saved for the TV cameras. The look was one of quiet disappointment, but there seemed to be something genuinely sombre in there, somewhere. It would take a detective to find it. He glanced at Milton, who had stopped looking at the military man and was now pressing his fingers together, deep in thought.

 

“I-” Iman spoke, but was cut off.

 

“We must show that we are in control. This is an act of war. Order an airstrike on Fullmoon Island. We have solid intelligence on the training camps there. Go on national television in the next twenty minutes and give a speech like this morning’s. I’ll get to work on it immediately.” Milton said without batting an eyelid. He put down his cigarette and reached for a cigar.

 

“With all due respect, Mr. Milton, sir-” the soldier said.

 

“Milton is my first name, you fool. I am to be addressed as Mr. Kadabra, Special Adviser to the President.”

 

“I’m not calling you Mr. Kadabra! You don’t even have a damn name! You aren’t the damn president-”

 

Iman raised a hand and spoke firmly but softly. “Just do as he says, General Dzegash. It’s not wise to be rude to a Kadabra. We don’t want a war with them, too. He knows what he’s talking about a lot better than any of us do, Andy.”

 

Milton’s expression remained one of muted anger. He inhaled deeply and continued. “Say what you will, General Andrej.” 

 

General Andrej Dzegash Jr looked just as irritated as the boiling Milton but spoke, albeit with a certain sourness. “I am merely suggesting, Mr. Kadabra, that such an action would damage international relations a great deal and would just give the Furtstuckah another excuse to blow something else up.”

 

Milton sighed dramatically. It was tongue-in-cheek, not that the General, who didn’t seem fond of being patronized, would recognize that. “Then, idiot, we just say in Iman’s speech that any future attack will be reciprocated with a drone strike on an area harbouring Paari terrorists. That way we can use the ‘we warned you’ excuse if we are forced to respond to a future attack.”

 

Andrej grunted in recognition and nodded firmly. “That seems fair. Prep the president, Mr. Kadabra.”

He left the room without a murmur.

 

“So, Milton, I’m already thinking about the whole ‘I’m a concerned normal guy’ approach I did this morning,” said Iman. “What other stuff should I do?”

 

Milton smiled, which, to a human, looked rather sinister, probably due to all the sharp little teeth. 

 

“You're a smart guy, Iman. You’ve got the charisma, it’s just the stats. Anyone can say stats...”

 

“...but no one knows stats like a Kadabra...” continued Iman.

 

“...so it helps to have one teach you.” Milton finished, tapping the ash from the end of his cigar into the ash tray on the coffee table, without glancing away from Iman. He smiled again, pressed his fingertips together and was about to speak, before he was cut off by Iman.

 

“Milton, you do understand your counter-strike approach will really piss off the international community,” Iman huffed.

 

Milton shrugged. “Who gives a s***? The only nation that would put an embargo on us is Hoenn, and they don’t buy any of our goods anyway.” 

 

“Yeah, but the PR is just awful. Come on. It’ll cut tourism too. The Paari get enough sympathy from bleeding hearts as it is, and most of Sinnoh’s tourists are those organic lefty types.”

 

“Talking of organic lefty types, you are going to have to run your speech by Inger,” said Milton, a rather clear note of disdain in his voice. “You’re in a coalition, you sometimes forget.”

 

“We wear the trousers,” Iman replied flatly, although his defensiveness indicated that was a spot you shouldn’t touch when it comes to Iman Bizkara. 

 

“Don’t worry about Miss Harbowitz, Iman. It’s so short notice she won’t have time to change anything. Say the damn speech is already written, which it is.” 

 

Iman smiled. “It isn’t. Get to it. She’ll flip her s*** even more if she finds out we're lying to her.”

 

“You're right about that,” Milton grinned, opening a laptop and typing with ferocious speed, stopping briefly to take another drag or bite his nails.

 

As Iman Bizkara walked down the hall, he thought to himself about Inger Harbowitz, Vice-President of the Most Received Democratic Union of Sinnoh and Its Associated Territories (a terrifically clunky name, as Iman was fond of saying). Or rather, he thought about how irritating she was. Forming a government with someone who holds precisely the opposite views to you sounds like a big problem on paper, but it’s far worse than that. Milton put it nicely: “When someone takes a fall in PR terms, they will always get more radical.” Inger Harbowitz was living proof of that statement. She knew she would lose votes by ‘sleeping with the enemy,’ so she took it upon herself to force a new project down his throat every damn week. 80% tax on the top earners, free bicycles for urban citizens, a free and recognized Paari state...that was the worst one, and, as if the gods were conspiring to irritate him specifically, the issue she decided to force the most. Other politicians never would, given the death of Bizkara’s father in a bomb attack in Sunyshore City during his teens, or the fact his brother lost his legs in a car bomb on that same day. Iman himself escaped with an unpleasant limp that he tried and failed to hide. Anyone with a limb missing or damaged in Sunyshore was automatically assumed to have been in a bomb attack. At least in politics it served a purpose – I have known pain, it said, so don’t you tell me about the pain of the poor bloody Paari. As I mentioned earlier, most politicians would never dare talk about pity for the Paari around Bizkara. It’s simply not done, it’s not polite. You don’t talk about Dresden to a Jew. But Miss Harbowitz...well, as Iman once said to Milton, over a drink, no doubt, she'd probably tell the President of Israel how uncomfortable SS uniforms must have been. 

 

“Inger,” called Iman, smiling flatly as he rapped on the door. No response, she must be ignoring me or playing a game, he thought. For someone so sincere, she was quite petty.

 

“Inger!” Iman repeated the call, this time more of a demand.

 

The door opened, and Inger was straight in Iman’s face, like a sea monster at the porthole of a submarine in a B-movie. She was definitely pretty, although stress and constant anger seemed to have driven it out of her face like a plague victim in a medieval village, at least to Iman’s tastes, and they were pretty wide-reaching. Comfortably in middle-age, although she was a fierce as one much younger, her face snarled as she spoke.

 

“You’ve come to gloat about something, haven’t you? You’ve got that...gloating...face.” she sneered, although her voice sounded too defeatist for it to be a joke. It was more like blank realism.

 

“No, I’ve got some ideas to run by you, for the response to the damn bomb this morning. Bomb, singular? I should say bombs.”

 

Inger grinned a little. “So, I’m supposed to mark your homework, then?”

 

Iman thought about sighing and huffing, but he thought acting blasé would elicit a more humorous response from her. “Yes, that’s right.” He smiled, calmly shrugging. Her smile faded to a frown and it was she who sighed.

 

“Well, what is it?”

 

Iman looked at the floor and glanced up with his eyes. “We’re going to hit Fullmoon in an hour. And you’re not marking this, it’s already been done. You said I was here to gloat? Well, it seems I am.”

 

“Wait...what? No...No! Hey, hey! You can’t walk away from me! I’m the Vice-”

 

“President, yes,” finished Iman, adjusting his cufflinks as he slumped away. “If only we could tell the Monitor a few of your lines, they do love that ‘when politicians attack’ angle. You could have your own column, maybe.”

 

“You can quote me on this, Iman: I hope your legs get blown off in the next attack,” she snarled.

 

“My dear, if I was riding one of your free urban bicycles, I wouldn't mind that a bit.”

[Mehmani]

[B][SIZE="5"]Two[/SIZE][/B]

 

[I]“The Democratic Republic of Hoenn, the Federal Republic of Kanto, the Second Republic of Johto, the Great and Bountiful Empire of Orre, the Republics of Fiore, Almia and Oblivia, the Independent Federal Republic of Unova, the Federated States of the Sevii Archipelago and the Most Received Democratic Union of Sinnoh and Its Associated Territories are considered to be ‘trainer states’ under international law, as the ratio of Pokémon to conventionally classified animals in the aforementioned countries exceeds 3:10. Pokémon, of course, are widespread, but in these particular countries there are so many Pokémon that society is run in rather a different way.”

 

United Nations Manual for Trainer State Diplomacy – Bruce Partington[/I]

 

“And then she said she wanted the sandfaced bastards to blow my legs off next.”

 

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Milton grinned, quietly ignoring the President’s rather worrying use of a deeply offensive term for the Paari. Oh well, Milton thought. I suppose he’s a little...looser after his lunchtime brandy and ginger. One would think so after four of them.

 

“Not as quickly as the Presidential Office budget when it comes to your...luxuries,” Iman returned, thumbing confidently through the pages of notes Milton had left on his desk, printed and ready for his forthcoming speech. Unfortunately, this had happened already today, so Iman Bizkara did not have his usual quiet excitement about him. He was not the kind that one would even think got excited at anything.

 

Milton supped a cup of berry tea, a speciality of the great plantations of Eastern Sinnoh, of course, not merely supermarket berry tea, but the finest berry tea one could find.

 

“I have expensive tastes, and given how I have worked and risen from the confines of my...nature...” Milton ground his words in his mouth before speaking, like an impatient teacher having a mistake pointed out by a smart-arsed student. “I feel that, as the Cromwell to your Henry VIII, I have earned the right to a good cup of berry tea.”

 

Iman snorted. “I’m not nearly as interesting as Henry, unfortunately. Although, with Inger snapping at my heels, I do fantasize about having the power to execute my courtiers at will.”

 

This prompted an obedient titter from Milton, who was himself thumbing through the many bills submitted by Liberal congressmen for next week’s vote.

 

“I’m a fan of the tax breaks for small businesses with high profit margins bill that Sammy wrote. If only his grasp of Constitutional law was more thorough.”

 

“He’s fonder of grasping his secretary, I’m afraid,” Iman giggled, occasionally mumbling one of Milton’s notes to himself.

 

“How do you know this stuff?” smiled Milton. “You’re the party leader, and in my experience, they’re often out of the loop when it comes to constituency gossip.”

 

Iman pursed his lips and exhaled sharply. “I was always friends with everyone. I suppose that’s the only reason I’m President. I made friends and could give a good speech. You know me, I’m not a number-cruncher or a policy-thinker, just a regular guy, I suppose.”

 

Milton grinned. “Without the context of Sammy sebin-Yann getting off with his secretary, that sounds like something you made up for meet-and-greets with the plebs.”

 

“Oh, Milton, don’t call them that. We’re so elitist already.”

 

“I will, if you promise to not use the s-word.”

 

Iman’s expression changed sharply, almost cartoonish, from contentedness to an irritated pout.

 

“You know what I’m talking about, Iman. Cut it out. You never know when it could slip out. On TV, in an interview, at a funds dinner when you’re pandering to a crowd of racist Libs...I mean, you know what I mean. Your career will shrivel like a Cascoon being pissed on.”

 

Iman smiled quietly at an old memory. “Hehehe. Me and the boys used to do that on our drunken forest crawls.”

 

“Remind me never to go on a drunken forest 'crawl' with you, Iman. I can see how they would go from ‘walk’ to ‘crawl’ quickly given your drinking.”

 

“Well, it’s not like the next state visit involves some snot-nosed students, cheap booze and a ready supply of temptingly immobile insects that sizzle like oil when urinated on.”

 

“Now, Iman, we need to get the damn speech licked,” Milton interrupted the flow of the exchange. “Time is tight. We have seven minutes until the cameras are up.”

 

Iman smiled. “I’ll bring Bella out. She helps me concentrate when I’m reading.”

 

Milton face twitched a little, but he folded. “If you must,” he relented.

 

Iman reached behind to the desk and gently pressed the button on a black ball next to the pile of letters. A feline figure, roughly the size of a small child emerged at Iman’s feet, between the green sofa to the right of his desk and the coffee table separating him from Milton, who was perched on a black chaise longue, idly thumbing through paper after paper. The Persian glanced upwards at Iman and hopped onto his lap, its beady, dark eyes scanning the room. It was a little portly, but its fur was of show quality, shining in the light of the chandelier hanging above. It was uniformly clean, its long whiskers, emotive features and bright red jewel defining its wide face. Its ears were pointy, more like a domestic cat’s as they flicked forwards and backwards between the shuffling of Milton’s documents and the rumbling of Iman’s slow breathing. Iman stroked Bella with one hand while running his finger across the notes Milton had prepared, occasionally mumbling to himself. The Persian’s eyes were no longer wide and it relaxed more as Iman scratched behind its ears.

 

“You look just like your portrait now,” Milton smiled, looking up quickly before returning to his papers.

 

“Every Sinnish President has a Pokémon in their portraits. I’m just unfortunate that mine made me look like a movie villain,” Iman smiled warmly as he tickled Bella’s chin.

 

Milton looked up at the clock and set his papers down. “Right, it’s 9:56. Let’s go and prepare for the cameras in the PR hall.”

 

The press room of the Esteemed Office of the President of the Democratic Union of- oh, you know the rest, was a fairly ornate old thing. The walls were made up of thick mahogany panels, dotted with petite baroque carvings and the occasional portrait of a former President, smiling diligently in the case of Shimon Harkez or frowning like a jilted lover in the case of Euskera Batua, Sinnoh’s last dictator.

 

“I always hated that portrait of Batty. He looks like he knew that his little revolution would fall apart from the start with that face. And his damned Lucario, looking like an avenging angel. What a smarmy old bastard he was,” Iman grumbled as he walked towards the podium and set Bella down by his feet. Iman always had his favourite Pokémon by his side when he was on TV. The focus group that Milton paid for said that it made him look...noble. He liked that.

 

Milton offered a satirical grin. “You’re just jealous because he could declare martial law.”

 

“It would make things easier, wouldn’t it,” Iman mumbled to Milton as he walked up the podium. It was flanked by General Andrej Dzegash, Jr, who obviously enjoyed wearing his uniform. He looks like an African dictator, Iman thought. Well, anyone would with that many medals.

 

“Dzegash looks like a prize fool in his bloody uniform,” Milton sent Iman a message telepathically.

 

“I was just thinking that. Couldn’t we get Gina to stand next to me when I’m on telly? What do focus groups say about foxy Attorney Generals standing next to the President?” whispered Iman.

 

“It’s a speech about a bomb and a war, not a car advert. And stop smiling, Iman, I know these are our people but you're supposed to look sombre. You got your leg blown apart, remember?”

 

“Jesus, if there’s one type of person I hate the most; it’s those who exploit their flaws for pity or personal gain. Who wants a President who moans all the time? Not the man on the street. His wife does enough moaning for him, I can tell you.”

 

Milton shuddered at the thought of Iman’s wife. Was there a more old-world Imperial Sinnish woman on the planet? She hated the Paari (fair enough), hated Kadabra (that’s bad) and hated the poor (not my problem). Although, as Iman had confided in him, he had married her because her father was General Andrej Dzegash, Sr, and if he could make his halfwit son head of the Defence Force, what could he do for his quick-tongued son-in-law?

 

“I suppose that’s fair enough, Iman. But still, put your game face on. It’s super-bad-nasty boom-boom time, don't you forget.”

 

Iman grinned, but steeled himself as he made his way to the podium on the elevated wooden stage before him, nodding and mumbling platitudes at the various officials he passed. Milton strode quietly behind him, like a child at a funeral, his eyes fixed ahead like those of a marble statue. His mouth rippled into a frown as he thought to himself that he must look like a child following papa about to deliver a eulogy for grandma while he would read a generic poem about death of some sort. Kadabra had no time for poetry.

 

“Imanollur Robertu Bizkara, I haven't had the pleasure,” an artificially warm smile and a dry, manicured hand materialized in front of Iman, who was far enough in the zone that he jumped a little before shaking it. He didn't recognize the woman at all, although she looked European, maybe Russian. Her accented was so-so Sinnish with a quiet, throaty Slavic note. It made him shiver, like someone had served him red wine in an unwashed glass, but it was easy to get used to after a short conversation, he found, mainly because she was exactly his type.

 

“I could say the same for myself,” he smiled, glancing quickly over his shoulder and checking his cufflinks. “So, madam, what paper are you inking the parchments for?” Iman Bizkara knew a journalist when he saw one.

 

“Oh,” she smiled, batting her lashes and pointing to her press pass. “The Sinnoh Monitor, nothing fancy, I’m sorry.”

 

Iman smiled. “I'm sure it'll be a better paper as long as you're there.”

 

Milton stepped in. “So, madam, are you here to print another punbelievable headline about the deaths of innocent Sinnish or to get Mr. Bizkara to drop another one of those trademark smiles, or perhaps his pants, too? Now, that would be quite the coup for the Monitor, I’m sure.”

 

Her face fell almost immediately, but Milton was on to something here. She was too pretty to be a journalist, and even the Monitor wouldn't send an intern to cover this...wasn't that Bobby Bixente over there anyway, talking to Anders Villabessa from the Telegraph? Was the Monitor trying to get Iman to drop his guard? Although, more to the point, there was something not right about her press pass-

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the Most Received Democratic Union of Sinnoh and Its Associated Territories, Imanollur Bizkara,” the Director of Communications intoned, with a little less vim than normal, as Milton had instructed.

 

Iman Bizkara heard some screams, and that was where it went blank.

[Mehmani]

You can bump, right?