Wayker
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Chapter 21: He, on the other hand, was better at lying
🕑 Added 2025-04-20 17:57:33 +0000 UTCNow, was yesterday’s break day necessary?
Yes, she would honestly say it was.
It was the first full day in what felt like forever where she could relax, train her Pokémon, and just breathe without constantly checking the time or worrying about what came next.
More than that, even she had woken up exhausted, her feet aching and her muscles stiff.
Myst?
Myst had been dead.
Well, not actually dead, obviously, but it felt like a close thing.
For the first half of the day, he’d barely moved from where he’d collapsed into his own miniature tent, and even after he had gotten up, he had looked like someone had unplugged him from life itself.
Still, by the afternoon, he had more or less bounced back to his usual self, being fit enough that Cynthia had almost forgotten how tired he looked at the start of the day.
Some of that probably came down to that the training session had been not only productive, with her helping him with custom moves and him helping her figure out how to perfect Fire Fang, but also just a lot of fun.
Still, she wasn’t going to lie, someday she was going to push Myst down into a cart and drag him to a proper doctor, just to figure out how the hell he seemed to be able to ignore all physical limits.
Not that she didn’t have a guess.
Aura.
It had to be Aura.
She was pretty sure.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The alternative was that he was just… breaking, slowly, and pretending he wasn’t.
Which, okay, also sounded like something Myst would do, but still, if that was the case it wasn’t sustainable.
So, she was putting her money on Aura, and that he had a lot more than the average person. Some people were just born like that, giving them better recovery time and an easier time building muscles.
Because without it?
She swore Myst should’ve dropped dead at least ten times by now.
Now, you might ask, what did any of this have to do with her current situation?
The answer was pretty simple.
It was, one hundred percent, a way to distract herself from the bone biting cold that had enveloped her body.
Cynthia snapped back to reality as her front tire slipped sideways on the wet pavement. Her balance tilted sharply before she righted herself with a jolt. Water streamed across the road in little rivers, making the path treacherous under her tires. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous.
Yeah.
She really wished they’d taken that break day today instead, like they’d originally planned.
Cycling Road was supposed to take four days to cross if you biked about eight hours a day. That was the idea behind its layout, anyway. There were eight official rest stops scattered along the way, but they weren’t spaced evenly.
The first half only had three, while the second half had five.
So originally, they were going to bike to Rest Stop One, rest there for a night and then bike straight to Rest Stop Three, roughly halfway. When there they would take a full day to rest, reassess, and figure out how they wanted to tackle the back half.
But instead?
Well, Myst decided that he wanted to zone out for a day, and so they ended biking straight to Rest Stop Two, in just the first day.
And now?
Now, they were paying for it.
Even though the distance between Rest Stop Two and Three was only three hours, that didn’t help much when after an hour a storm decided to materialize from thin air.
Honestly, if somebody told her somewhere every Politoed on the route had decided to organize their yearly rain festival, she would believe them.
Cynthia gritted her teeth and kept pedalling, rain stinging her face like needles. She was soaked, freezing, and this road, this beautifully constructed, wonderfully scenic nightmare of a road, just kept winding down and down with no end in sight.
Truly, this is what she got for not following the plan.
“Cynthia!” Myst’s voice cut through the rain, barely audible over the downpour.
She glanced sideways, saw his mouth move, but between the wind and the slashing rain, she couldn’t hear a word he was saying.
She bit her lip, and risked edging closer, squinting through the storm like it would help her hear better.
It obviously didn’t.
It also didn’t need to.
Because doing it she saw better instead, and, more importantly, she saw what Myst had probably just noticed.
The mountainside was leveling out.
And in the near distance, barely visible through the curtain of rain, the road split.
Her heart burst with relief.
….
The storm had hit about an hour after they left.
Which meant that, technically, it would’ve been faster to turn back to Rest Stop Two.
Not that they’d considered that.
They were close. Rest Stop Three wasn’t like the others. It was the only one that resembled a proper building. The rest were caves, makeshift shelters, carved-out ledges.
But Three?
An inn. A real, honest-to-God inn.
A sturdy, dry, warm inn.
Cynthia dismounted the second the slope evened out and she was close enough to see the bike rack. Her boots splashed into a puddle as she half-ran, half-dragged her bike to it. Another bike stood there already, slicked with rain.
The second she arrived, she fumbled with the handlebars, trying to slot the bike into place.
It didn’t budge.
Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Her fingers, numb, clumsy and unresponsive, refused to cooperate.
Why couldn’t the stupid thing just fit.
She glared at the rack.
Not only was she drenched, she could feel water slipping down her back, soaking into her shirt, pooling around her socks. Her grip slipped again. The handlebar clanged against the frame like it was fighting her.
Cynthia grit her teeth.
This was stupid, nobody was going to steal a rental bike in this storm anyway. She might as well just throw it under the rack or something inste—
Myst grabbed it from her hands.
Then, without a word, he lifted the front slightly and slid it into place with practiced ease.
Cynthia stared at the rack, blinking.
Apparently, the design required you to lift the front wheel a few centimeters off the ground to make it catch. She could see it now, the way the slot angled downward just enough to throw her off.
Of all the stupid ways to design a—
Before she could finish the thought, Myst grabbed her wrist.
No warning. No explanation.
Just pulled.
She stumbled after him as he darted toward the building, wrenched the door open, and practically shoved her inside.
The door slammed behind them with a final thunk.
Cynthia stood frozen, shivering. Water streamed from her hair in droplets. Her soaked clothes clung like a second skin. Every shift of her weight made her sneakers squelch audibly.
She blinked once.
Then twice.
The warmth inside hit her like a physical force, a wall of blessed heat against her rain-numbed body.
It was almost enough to make her forget the way every person in the room turned to look at them.
Almost.
Twelve, maybe more. All trainers, by the look of them. Each one snapped their head toward her and Myst in near-perfect unison, eyes locked on the newcomers in an almost unnatural way.
Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Myst, unfazed, raised his voice. “Hey, where’s the fireplace? And is there a room we can use? Maybe a blanket we could borrow?”
Nobody answered.
They just kept staring.
Cynthia might’ve flushed under the weight of their gazes if she weren’t already miserably cold. Instead, she hugged her arms tighter around herself, like she could squeeze warmth out of her own spine through sheer willpower.
Myst frowned, about to speak again, when finally, one of the trainers blinked, as if just now realizing that yes, people stupid enough to cycle through the storm actually did exist.
“Sorry!” the boy said, jumping to his feet. “Didn’t think anyone else would be arriving in this weather.”
He jogged toward them, moving with a noticeable urgency. As he got closer, Cynthia’s eyes were drawn to the large white bandage wrapped around his head. A blotch of blood had soaked through part of it, stark against the pale fabric.
He caught her glance and offered a crooked smile. “Oh, yeah. Took a bad fall down the stairs. Watch out for the third step, there’s a hole in it.”
He waved it off like it was nothing, then gave her a once-over. His expression softened.
“But never mind that. You look like you seriously need to get changed.”
Cynthia nodded, fast and jerky, her head bobbing like it was answering on its own.
She didn’t trust her voice just yet.
….
Cynthia had always believed in packing light when it came to clothing.
Essentials only. One shift of real clothing, enough underwear to rotate every other day, and the rest of the space? Reserved for medicine, food, and whatever gear was necessary to survive the actual camping part of the journey.
The important parts, really.
It was a system that worked.
Never mind the exasperated look her grandmother had given her the first time she saw Cynthia pack, so far everything had been going great.
Now though, curled in front of a crackling fireplace with a scratchy inn blanket wrapped tight around her trembling frame as she shivered violently, she came to a new and sobering conclusion:
A rain jacket was absolutely going on the essentials list from now on.
That, or she was getting a Pokémon that could use Sunny Day.
The sofa creaked faintly under her weight as she shifted, the old thing somehow managing to feel both overstuffed and strangely firm in certain places. Myst sat beside her, comfortably hogging one of the oversized armrests like it was a throne, dry, already changed, and most importantly, radiating the kind of warmth that made her hate everything.
“I haaaate you,” she declared, shooting him a withering glare as her voice reduced to a shaky clatter of syllables.
Myst glanced over, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he held his hands out toward the fire.
“Well, I did tell you to get a rain jacket,” he commented casually.
Cynthia glared harder. “You didn’t use one, and you look completely fine!”
Myst shrugged. “Yeah, well. I got used to it. Didn’t exactly have many options for staying warm in the forest. Eventually, I just sort of… stopped caring.”
She pouted, mostly because he was being reasonable.
So, in response to this reason, she burrowed herself deeper into the blanket, like she could hide from it.
Myst sighed. “You want me to see if I can get you a hot cocoa or something? I think your clattering’s making everyone uncomfortable.”
Cynthia hesitated, then peeked up from under the blanket.
And realized that she didn’t hear anybody talking.
People were here, sure. Scattered around the room, picking at their food or sipping drinks. But the silence was strange. Not companionable. Not tired.
Just... empty.
Of course, it kind of made sense. Most of them probably arrived in the same miserable state she had. She wouldn’t want to talk to strangers right now either.
Still.
She caught the eyes of one man across the room. He stared at her, face blank, gaze steady, then slowly turned back to his drink, sipping it again.
Cynthia ducked back into the safety of the blanket.
“…Yes please.” She mumbled.
Myst grinned and started to rise, only to freeze as a hand suddenly extended down from above, holding out a steaming mug of—
Cynthia stared.
Dark, rich goodness. A single marshmallow floated on top.
Hot cacao.
“Got you both a cup,” the boy said, tone casual. “Looks like you needed it.”
She took it without hesitation, the cup’s scorching heat sinking into her fingers like heaven. One sip, and warmth blossomed in her chest like a fire lit from within.
Then she looked up, and realized it was the boy who had greeted them earlier.
The bandage on his head was still prominent, but now that the chill had begun to fade from her body, she noticed something else too: he was older than she’d first assumed. Not her age or even Myst’s.
Out of his teens, at the very least.
So, if he was a trainer, he was probably either running a very late first circuit… or he was out here on some kind of mission.
“Thanks,” Myst said, taking a sip of his cocoa and flashing a relaxed smile.
The boy, or maybe man was a better word, shook his head with an easy grin.
“No problem… Name’s Kael,” he said, sticking out a hand.
Myst took it gingerly, giving it a slow shake.
“Myst. And this is—” he motioned toward her, “Cynthia.”
Cynthia nodded absently, too busy savouring another sip of the sweet, heavenly warmth of her cocoa to give her own greeting.
Kael blinked, his expression shifting slightly. “Cynthia? Like... Cynthia Shirona?” he asked, his gaze flickering toward her.
Myst tensed, just slightly, but before he could say anything, Kael barreled on.
“Damn. I think I saw your battle against Byron, that was crazy. Hard to believe you’re only on your first Circuit trip. If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed you were an eight-badge trainer doing a rematch just to train up a new team member or something.”
Myst relaxed, and Cynthia paused mid-sip.
“You pay a lot of attention to the Gym Circuit?” she asked, glancing at Kael over the rim of her cup.
Kael nodded easily. “Yeah. Made it to five badges before crashing out my season. Been thinking about saving up and giving it another shot.” He let out a breathy laugh. “Difference in pay between a five-badge and a six- or seven-badge trainer is huge, you know. And if I get lucky, I can maybe even get accepted as a ranger.”
He scratched the back of his head, a sheepish look crossing his face. “Though at the rate I’m going, saving enough’s gonna take ten years. I swear my team eats through half my budget every month.”
Cynthia nodded slowly.
That was the harsh reality of trying to make a living as a Pokémon trainer. Even getting started usually required earning four or five badges, just to qualify for jobs that barely let you scrape by. Six badges was the minimum for becoming a ranger, but even then, you wouldn’t be paid well.
The real jump came at seven. That was the second major watershed, and beating it meant you would usually make it to the conference.
After that?
Everything came down to your placements.
Top 100? Nobody remembered your name.
Top 10? People started making calls.
Win?
Well, you were pretty much set for life. Even if you didn’t end up in on the Elite Four or as the Champion, conference winners were respected.
And that was just the people who did it after multiple attempts.
Winning in your first season?
People still talked about the last time that happened.
Twenty years ago.
“How does that work, actually?” Myst asked. “Rerunning the circuit, I mean.”
Kael reeled back slightly, like the words had physically struck him. Then his face hardened, brow furrowing into a tight frown.
“What kind of question is tha—”
“Sorry,” Cynthia cut in quickly, her cheeks flaring with heat. “Myst is an idiot. He didn’t mean anything by it, he just has a really sheltered background.”
She glared daggers at Myst, even though she knew it wasn’t really his fault.
Still.
Kael had offered them warmth and cocoa.
He was being extremely nice.
And now here they were, Cynthia Shirona and her weird, blunt traveling companion, accidentally making it sound like they were mocking him for not completing the circuit in one go.
Like that was expected.
Like that was normal.
But it wasn’t, not unless you came from a place with money, legacy, or clan support.
Kael took a slow breath.
“No, it’s fine…” he said after a moment. “I guess since you don’t know, I’ll just explain it.”
His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of something, almost like frustration.
“Most people don’t really have much information about Pokémon starting out. So we have to figure out a lot of things as we go. Stuff that probably seems obvious, like what type a Pokémon is, or how to best use their strengths, we learn that through trial and error.”
He clenched a first.
“I mean, it’s gotten a lot better. But if you go back, say, fifty years, families that weren’t rich or part of a clan didn’t even have a way to buy basic books on Pokémon. Never mind getting a starter that wasn’t a Bidoof or a Kricketot.”
Myst tilted his head slightly. “So it’s hard to finish the circuit in one go because the difficulty curve’s just... too steep?”
Kael shook his head. “It’s mostly about time and information. Some of the things you probably take for granted? I have to spend weeks, even months, figuring them out. That’s why the Champion’s new policies were such a big deal, they give new trainers a real chance to build a strategy before the game really starts. Really, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t even be here.”
He patted his belt where his Poké Balls were clipped.
“I kept trying to make my Ambipom use its speed to keep distance, whittle opponents down with Swift. It worked great when we were young. Took me forever to realize he’s way better just rushing in and overwhelming people.”
He sighed, leaning back slightly.
“Sure, everyone knows type matchups nowadays. That stuff’s everywhere. But figuring out what moves a specific Pokémon is actually good at learning?” He shook his head. “No one wants to share that kind of information.”
Then his gaze flicked toward Cynthia again, almost thoughtful.
“Honestly? I wish I had one of those Pokédex-thingies they talk about on the news. Would be crazy useful to just check if there’s any point trying to get Ambipom to learn Fire Punch, or hell, just see what moves the opponents Pokémon normally learns.”
Cynthia felt her heart pinch as she suddenly became acutely aware of the Pokédex resting in her bag, mostly unused.
It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it, but it just wasn’t… that useful.
Not in the way others might’ve found it useful, anyway.
Compared to most trainers, even those from big clans, being the granddaughter of the region’s former Head Professor meant she’d always had access to information. Books. Guidance. Notes that didn’t exist in any public database. Entire shelves of research that would be passed down like heirlooms in other families.
The average trainer? They probably have one or two book on Pokémon, if even that.
Yeah…
Cynthia felt a blush creep up her neck as she stared down into her cocoa.
She’d always known she was privileged, but hearing it from somebody else?
She hadn’t realized how wide the gap really was.
Myst, who by all accounts should’ve been even worse off than Kael, somehow always kept pace with her. Hell, half the time he seemed to know more.
And that had made her forget.
Forget that neither of them were the baseline.
As Kael finished speaking, a silence settled over the group. It wasn’t awkward exactly, but as it stretched Cynthia felt a subtle prickle of discomfort. The kind that wrapped around her ribs and made her want to say something.
Anything.
So she glanced at Myst, trying to signal him to say something. For once though, just when she actually needed him, he had turned his head away, instead staring at the other guests.
With a little warmth returning to her fingers, she forced a grin and glanced toward the fireplace.
“Is it alright if I release my Gabite? I think she’d appreciate the heat.”
Kael blinked, surprised, but then nodded easily.
“I mean, sure, if she doesn’t tear anything up, I don’t mind. And, well, even if she does, it’s not like this place is mine. If it was, I’d have staffed it better.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Cynthia gave a small smile, reaching for Queenie’s Poké Ball. She tapped the expansion button, then released her partner with a flick of her wrist.
Queenie emerged in a flash of red light, her head turning slowly as she took in the room, silent, scanning, alert.
Then her gaze locked onto the fire.
“You can lay down, Queenie,” Cynthia said gently, laughing under her breath as the Gabite hesitated.
Ever since that one time her grandmother had scolded her for blocking the fireplace, Queenie had been weirdly hesitant about it.
Truly, if there was one being Queenie feared, it was Carolina Shirona.
Still, after a few slow, deliberate glances over her shoulder at the other guests, Queenie finally curled up in front of the fire.
Cynthia turned to Myst, about to ask if he wanted to let out Rei or Ralts, but stopped when she noticed he wasn’t looking at her.
He was still watching the other trainers.
She opened her mouth, about to tell him off for staring, but before she could, Kael’s voice cut in.
“You nickname your Pokémon?” he asked, sounding almost like he couldn’t believe it.
Cynthia flushed, snapping her attention back to him. “What about it?” she bit back.
Kael’s expression twisted into a half-smirk, the kind that didn’t know if it wanted to be amused or dismissive.
“Isn’t that a little... childish?”
She flinched, and felt her hands clench around her cocoa.
Here we go again.
“I don’t see the issue. It’s not like I nickname every Pokémon I have. And Queenie’s been with me a long time.”
Keal tilted his head.
“So just drop the nickname, then? When Ambipom was an Aipom, I used to call him ‘Hands.’ I don’t do that anymore. Seriously, how can people take you seriously if you’re still calling your Pokémon kid names?”
She bit her lip.
He wasn’t wrong.
A lot of people thought nicknaming Pokémon was childish. Technically, it wasn’t even necessary. Pokémon didn’t understand names the same way humans did. Their species names, like Gabite, were part of how they communicated. Intonation, timing, expression... When Queenie said Gabite, it could mean a dozen different things.
Sometimes, it even meant her name.
So giving a Pokémon a nickname was more for the trainer’s sake. And a lot of people, especially the serious types, saw it as silly.
It was just that…
She never did.
Ever since she’d gotten him, the urge to give Riolu a proper nickname had been there. And lately, Roselia had joined in too.
She liked nicknames. Thoughtful ones. Names that made her team feel closer, not just another Riolu or Roselia in the world, but hers.
Her companions.
Her friends.
She’d always felt that way, and not just with Pokémon.
It was the same instinct that had led her to start calling Myst… well, Myst.
So even knowing people found it childish, names still floated through her head sometimes. Little ideas she hadn’t spoken aloud.
Dojo. Snaps. Paws. Petal.
It wasn’t like she had decided on anything yet, but the thoughts lingered.
It just wouldn’t look good, would it?
She was supposed to be a serious trainer.
Someone people looked up to.
Someone they respected.
Really, she should’ve dropped “Queenie” a long time ago. It was exactly the kind of name people would laugh at behind her back.
But she couldn’t.
Because Queenie had been Queenie from the start. The name wasn’t just a name anymore.
It was a memory. A choice.
A bond.
The first moment she’d said it, half out of frustration, half out of fondness, that had been the moment they’d become partners.
Cynthia opened her mouth, not quite sure if she wanted to agree with Kael or bite back harder.
She didn’t get the chance.
Myst, finally, snapped his head around, a condescending smile already creeping across his face.
“Okay, first of all? That’s stupid as hell. I call my Buneary Rei, and the only reason my Ralts doesn’t have a name yet is because I haven’t picked one.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Seriously, what’s the problem with nicknaming your friends? How is me calling Cynthia Princess any different from her calling her Gabite Queenie?”
Kael frowned. “How is that the same? Your Pokémon need to respe—”
Myst cut him off, tone dropping a degree.
“Second of all, when did you get here and, more importantly, when exactly did you fall down the stairs?”
Kael blinked, looked like he was about to push back.
Then stopped.
Probably because Myst wasn’t smiling anymore.
Kael grimaced, the edge of his defensiveness curling inward.
“Whatever,” he muttered, then let out a sigh. “I arrived…” He furrowed his brow. “Yesterday? I think? I kind of ended up traveling with most of these guys. Just by chance. We were supposed to leave today, but then the storm hit, and… we stayed.”
He scratched absently at the edge of his bandage.
“As for the fall... maybe twenty minutes before you got here? I don’t know. It’s fuzzy. I was pretty loopy until you walked in the door.”
Myst turned again, scanning the room behind them.
The other trainers were still right where they’d been. Picking at their food. Sipping at their drinks.
Nothing looked different.
But for the first time, Cynthia noticed how quiet it was when they weren’t speaking.
Nobody said anything.
No idle chatter.
The only sounds were the gentle hiss of rain against the windows… and the soft, steady crackle of the fire.
That was it.
No forks scraping.
No shifting chairs.
No footsteps.
No music.
No murmured conversations.
Just static background noise—
—and the noise of their own breathing.
Myst leaned his head back slightly, stared at the ceiling for a long, thin second, and let out a single, quiet, mournful:
“Fuck.”
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Author Note:
I thought this chapter would end up really bad, because it's completely different from my other chapters so far, but I quite like it actually.
Comments
Bladesunder
New team member?
Cyborgwing
Hmmm... Spooky Ghosts? Peak.
