No. (OPEN/Beta Test) [Industrial]

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

Simple cobbler wheeled simple stand to the market. Like a child's wheelbarrow, the stand could be easily pushed. The wood stood for itself, pulled around without failure; old materials weren't stacked with weight until they dropped. More experienced eyes could point to the white Pinsir dung latticing against the crossbars, only faded out due to the polish. Even smugglers could hold an environmental conscience. Setup, because of this, did not take long. He put up the sign, only labeled as "GENERAL SHOES AND REPAIR," and called it a day. He assigned his samples in the back of the stall, behind the vendor's table. Higher quality, high price. Free repairs for the poor man.

That was how it was supposed to be.

It was not that long ago when Lucas got a permit for this work. His first sales went towards that permit, after all, and his business required the zoning he got. Given his single employee, the spectre of loss hungrily loomed over him. He did not have much defense from thieves, let alone the wild Pokemon that rummaged through his and his fellow craftsmen's wares. Said Wild Pokemon, especially of the phasing-type common among ghosts, made attempts pithy at best.

Ideological conflict drove his decision to work alone. He could have hired another, and truth be told, he definitely considered it. Of all the people he had to work with, along with those he worked around, this barrier was not low to crawl up. but that was already a high barrier to crawl up. 'Employing' a Pokemon would have been preferable, allowing them to watch over the goods in exchange for not beeing wild. This posed its own challenges, not the least of which included the Unovan mafia.. He paid more than enough licensing his own business. They could attack his business if they wanted, but he did not need to pay Plasma for more. Telling some underfunded foreign party about your metrics, particularly when the thugs made themselves more visible, seemed like a recipe rife for disaster. You don't see Antoinette paying for that shit.

As all vendors did, Lucas waited. Better he see who came to the stands, first.

---

(NOTES: This thread will introduce the following:
pokemonanrui.proboards.com/thread/8129/point-exchange?page=3 - EGG, potions (3)
pokemonanrui.proboards.com/thread/19171/gidgette-pawn-shop?page=14 - More stuff


PARTY:

DRIFLOON | Female | Lv. 11 | Constrict/Minimize/Astonish/Gust/Telekinesis | 100%
SKRELP | Female | Lv. 06 | Tackle/Water Gun/Smokescreen/Faint Attack | 90%

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

The patrols footed the street parallel to this one, though one could argue the work needed. Shanty tin bleated in tropical conditions as pallets clattered. Droppings, in unfortunate abundance in a city of strays and vagabonds, muddied an otherwise clean corner. More nonsense for Lucas to push into the storm-drain, day-after-day. As the mixture of factory silt and seafoam air congealed above the, Lucas established his corner. Should trends have continued, these spots would have been taken by the newbie artist to his left, and the bread salesman, should he have had a product in these times, to his right.

Plastic soles squished and crunched against untreated pavement. Wavy hair, split like noodles, shifted around a bulbous head. The olivine robes, grey goatee, and acorn head? Lucas shifted his hair. Couldn't have been anyone but Cleaner Tom. The rumors surrounding the man in green, who begun to spring up about two or three weeks ago, never came to a conclusion. Shipwrecked tribesman here for a new life? Foreign businessman ? Covert Plasma operative? No one knew, and based on the wreath of Sharpedo teeth that braced his neck, no one dared follow him long enough to find out.

As it turned out, his plastic soles were headed right to his store. Of course, finding a decent spot to rest the stall didn't mean he could choose who came. That didn't mean Lucas minded, especially in the presence of strange, formidable forces.

Lucas's pink hands shifted from merchandise to folded arms. This was it. Yeah, there were gangsters and thugs that bought from him, who tried rugged force and threats to get what they wanted. Happened, and sometimes worked, but legends like Tom were a whole different story. Like the elemental, bestial nature of wild Pokemon, these men carried themselves themselves with a mystery that almost seemed closer to madness. Lucas figured 'Tom' knew what he wanted.

Perhaps that mythical thinking got to his head, because instead of a request, Lucas got an earful:

"Awww. No introduction for the old man?" 

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

Shit!

Lucas's strategy, typically spared for a more casual conversation, backfired on him! Perhaps it was high time the man switched off his metaphorical autopilot, because he seemed to nod in return. Behind his upright posture, a flicker of fear shone through his eyelids. One of the legends and he already relegated himself a fool? "Ah, where are my manners? What can I do for you, sir?"

The tooth-wearer and even the passerby were not fooled, however. The sudden shift from implied to explicit conversation, with a lean-forward and a head-tilt from Tom. Metal, old cucumber? The scent on Tom's teeth remained impossible for Lucas to identify. Eventually, the man pulled himself back back, with a chuckle at Lucas's expense. "Pulling your leg, kid. You figured right." The grammatical blob, which Lucas approximated to I understand, became one among many that left Lucas without an action or clue. Usually, people who fucked with him like that got a scolding or worse.

Status might've been the. Once Tom had his fun, he went right back to business: "I'll spare the rest for later. For now, I need someone to patch these." The man squat to remove his sandals, about a size larger than the feet, though that would be the least strange part of this request.

Before he could catch himself sighing for relief, Lucas replied: "Sure. Let's see what we're workin' with." When laid across the wood, they appeared like any other Plasma freebie. Hard plastic, Plasma logo on the webbing, coarse bottom, and shoddy plastic straps that could slice whole toes off. Symptoms of Plasma shoes were all there. Tacky as all get-out, but 'legitimate.' It wasn't until Lucas lifted the shoes himself, or more the shoes folded in his, that the anomalies started oozing out. Instead of a solid, when tapping the sandal tongue, he felt something squish, like water. A careful, glossy hand revealed a substance that shifted and wiggled like a much denser gelatin. These were definitely not the Plasma standard. "Haven't seen anything like...where'd you find these?"

Now, Lucas didn't expect much an answer, because if this guy was a spy there wouldn't be much competition. Tom paused and hummed for a moment. HE shook his white hair for a moment. It didn't sound like there'd be much an answer, and Lucas came close to grabbing his sealant before Tom spoke again "Oi, some guy was handing them out after the bombings for cheap, claiming them 'soft plastic.' Don't know much else" Someone was about as much as Lucas expected. Probably an inventory guy that went AWOL and decided to squeeze his last profit before execution day.

"I think I got it, but we're sealing the soles first. They've split apart from the inside."

"That's fine."

Well, Lucas finished the job, first. After realizing it was carved into the sole, Lucas made quick work of sealing it shut. There were fibers used for the top piece that Lucas sewed. It seemed like time wasted, but for a job that required no other major legwork, he could take it. Better to look busy with clients to draw more, than to have none in the first place.

"A'ight, done. It'll be a couple minutes before this thing dries." Pause, as he handed the wet sandal back to, Lucas had one for the stranger: "One thing before I confirm this, though." The man looked expectantly at Lucas, but with a leer; a guarantee that he knew what Lucas would say next. And when he opened with the first few words, the are you actually, Tom interjected, raising his hand.

"The end of weather, end of the road. Meet me there at twenty, kay?"

Blink. He the real deal? Oh, the storm drain. Duh. "Understood." The tooth-wearer's demeanor may have thrown Lucas off-guard once, but to actually hear an offer like this didn't escape him. This guy, who became an urban legend in his circle, wanted . Lucas imagined that many, drawn to service by money alone, would have rejected this offer. But Lucas, having had a raw deal laid to him, decided this  The value of information did not escape the young Rebel.

Just as knowing when to provide free service. Here was one such case, just as another came to his domain.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

He was a blonde man, with hair that rolled flatly across his head. Greyed coat, green eyes. His unglossed features leaned towards the heavier side, as those that found themselves shopping tended to be, though even this was a difficult guess. For all the strange, notable people, this one would've been hard to pick out from the rest.

"What can I do for you?" The man went right to business, sticking his hand in the furthest part of his coat. He didn't have a ring, which said nothing, since fewer and fewer people decided to invest in marriages. A sniffle followed the retrieval of a fairly beaten-down pair of greyish-brown work boots, with a dark fur lining the interior. The motion alone caught the cobbler's attention, most coats didn't store such items so cleanly. He could admire teh utility, but Lucas had to guess: this man may have had more sinister intentions than at first glance. He proceeded with caution.

"I'd like to become a new man today." Lucas looked back to the boots. The toe-cap had been completely separated from the welt, and the quarters scrapped together with duct tape. These boots were obviously through a lot of wear and tear, but the black interior held extremely well - if rather moist. Not even Mightyena fur held that well under stress, so this must've been a creature he had zero experience working with This prompted  a question on Lucas's end: "How'd they get damaged?"

The man described how his life assembling submarines necessitated a large amount of walking around, which was a lot more sensitive than Lucas would expect of a Plasma member. It was also all he needed to hear, because any more and a more knowledgeable spy could be on both their asses.

"It'll take about an hour for the material to dry after patching and shining, but given the orders I've gotten today, this'll be easy. Five do-"

"Done." Lucas, bewildered, shook the other man's hand. They watched as, which Lucas initially wondered a thief's plot. However, as Lucas worked, the two enjoyed a conversation about the odds and ends of Hyo life, including the shootings that lined the papers. Once all was dried, only then did Lucas realize the man walked barefoot.

"Thank you, sir, and good luck with your search." The transaction would be complete without a hitch, as Lucas returned the dollar bills to a wallet. Recount revealed nary a stolen product out of sight. Not everyone was out to get him, a sentiment hard to agree upon with the Trainer's responsibility beneath his belt.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

The noise of the markets prevailed. Though the number of people at his stall remained small, Lucas remained upright.

Upbeat, apparently, too. As the sound of another wagon rolled through with a clack, something strongly sweet taking place close to the wooden stall, the voice of a familiar woman commented: "You're happier than usual."

No comment. Not to start the day.

Come morningtime, Lucas tried not to snap to comment. The man had a business to hold onto; a business that, with the swelling regional conflict, still carried all number of odd opportunities. Unfortunate businessmen, the city poor, and tried and true Resistance members could all find themselves around. Even on quieter days, without the jolt of a no-knock raid or a desperate police chase, there could be a chance of making profit, if he played his cards right.

But he had to play all of them right. And he could still run into a cheater. Whatever the case may have been, he couldn't count on it. He certainly didn't want to sign off on his own bankruptcy, with the prying eyes of Plasma members ready to snag anything he and his family carried.

But the voice did get a reaction from him, lithe hand wiping over tired eyes. "Guess you can say that." He turned round to hear sugar beaten into a paste. 'Firebird,' as the woman called herself, stood at only four foot five, and made no attempt to stand taller. Even with hair with as bright as a stop sign, With a cough Lucas could recognize as a Hyo'er, her mouth oft hid behind a greased elbow. But in a rare moment, Lucas elaborated: "I can't put my tongue to it. But someone with that kind of walk, that style; it's pretty da-"
"Language!"
"-cool," Lucas groaned. Yeah, he got the woman was trying to help, but he couldn't stand having his words monitored. With as many sailors as have lived here, did it really matter if he swore or not? Whatever. Blue eyes sunk to meet the confectioner's pink. Arms folded, hand putting down a piece of rubber, destined to become part of a broken heel. He came to question the woman: "You're chatty. You still curious about the same thing."

Hacking. A cloud of sugar puffed before her, hand rolling off a gneiss counter. The corner wobbled, slightly. "Sooooo. Swimming lessons," she said. "How were they?" The question brought the shoemaker to a brief silence. Lessons? He didn't remember enrolling anywhere. The comment caused a brow to raise, and hands to start shifting. Only as he reached back for a brush, leg pressing into an Apricorn capsule, did Lucas put together the veiled language. From the one that sent him there.

And he had a lot he could say.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

And there was a lot he could say.

The stalls wouldn't have heard.

"Ain't well." Lucas took a breath. Fellow stall vendor gave a hum, carrying with her hips a strut that could shake the Earth. Before she could inquire futher, Lucas provided imagery: "Swimmin' without a floatie. It's less like a leisure activity, and more like playing Asteroids against discarded needles and boat carcasses."

The woman looked at him incredulously, somewhere in Limbo between smiling and confusion. "Oh, you swam there." She must have gotten the memo. "You know that there's 99% of not toxic ocean you could've swam in, right? Are your meds working?"

Or not.

Lucas was about ready to hold his hands and say, yeah. That was my bad. The snarky comment took Lucas's words and mangled them. Lucas shared nothing further. He paid more than enough for the privilege of living here.

"Just keep practicing."

Sure.

The conversation could have stopped there. Lucas reviewed a return in the time Firebird sold hotcakes like...hotcakes. Maple was an odd smell to contrast against torn tire, but it left the confectioner to make a comment: "Sooooo. I know it's a lot to ask, Lucas." Oh no. When he heard the words a lot from his contact, those were alarm bells. Either this woman was about to make a weird and complicated demand, or she was going to say something dumb.

Unfortunately for Lucas, the latter won:  "I wanna know how you feel about Che-"

Lucas's blue eyes offered Firebird no breathing room. The woman finished her statement, letting the name of the deceased action star fall.

Good sales always required a little acting. When Lucas cleared, there was a certain relief in seeing the order complete. Connections he never thought he'd make; craftsman's skills, finally putting money to a poor family's name. lucas preferred using his anvil chops over his acting chops, but every seller had their methods.

But there were times to abandon an act altogether. With scrunched cheeks and a hand on his makeshift podium, Lucas managed a faintly professional smile, before his intentions became clear:

"Clarissa. No." 

Hands waved in the air. "Hey, Lucas, it's not coo-"

"No."

Swearing.

The temptation to verbally bury Firebird taunted him.

Any attempt to re-ignite the conversation was shredded. One man, driving by with a palm wheelbarrow, could only shake his head at the spectacle. That lone glance may have been one crowd, but it set Lucas off again.

"I - we - am not starting that. Period."

Firebird, this Clarissa, watched the man burn anger. She would take to herself and hold her hands in the air.

Not very long ago, Lucas laid his life on the line for the Resistance. Collecting tags, as far as he was concerned. He collected two highly illegal Pocket Monsters, neither of which were particularly affiliated to him. The Drifloon would have bellowed, with a shit-eating grin as wide as its elastic form would allow. The Skrelp, were it able, would put Lucas in a chokehold and forcefeed him poison missiles.

Lucas looked away from a confused woman. Both of these Monsters attacking him was a preferable outcome to the conversational alternative.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

---

[some days during the Chewy event]

Lucas wasn't sure whose tears fell first: Antoinette's or Malta's. Even as the CRT flickered, the youngest Gunnarsson couldn't keep her bowl-cut out of her tearducts.

His dusty appearance didn't, complete with a small, canvas bag. The room smelled of thyme. Though a pleasant aroma, the situation was anything but.

The young girl, turning a firewoman's striped dress, would just hear Lucas entering the room. Malta didn't even leave her bed. "It's not real, is it? Anty's fake news, isn't it?" The gathered lowered his knee. Though he raised an index finger for silence, it was a call on deaf ears: "You were there; it's not real! He's still out there!"

Lucas wasn't intimately involved in Pokemon cinematography. He saw some of the big flicks, some Bungalow Man and Imperial Shao on cold, school days. He was drawn to the kind of action scene that left the villain a smoldering crater; in some respects, they delivered. . When that program lit up the television, the worst of the. Despite everything, there were people, Pokemon out there that'd make this all okay.

He could spout any number of soundbytes, but none of them fit. None of them would ever fit.

How do you tell your kid sister that their hero - their icon - isnt' coming back?
How do you tell your kid sister that you couldn't stop your job to rescue him?
How do you tell your kid sister you were miles away from that conflict, if that?
How do you tell your kid sister that
How do you tell your kid sister that you don't know?

Lucas turned off the TV. His arms shifted awkwardly, like a yacht-sailor in a raging storm.

At least that ship had a chance of righting course.

Lucas, unable to shake this bizarre uncertainty, spoke: "Forget the TV. Stay strong, Malta. For him."

He didn't even bother checking his shoes. Untied weren't unusual; flagrantly lying out was shocking. "Your laces! Your shoe's untied! Lucas!"

Laying his collection of herbs on the table, Lucas walked out of the small home. His nose wretched as he sat down, straddling a ladder, and cradling his head in his arms. Pink skin and a fast heartbeat made a difficult person to manage. Waddling out of the door, expression ever pertinent, Malta stood above Lucas. Her question wasn't answered.

Breathing.

At last, he found the strength to speak again. As much as the thought left everything crashing down, he could finally say:

"No."

---

ooc: might's well provide some backdrop for that angry flare-up!

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

Breath. This low sound, resembling a leaf-blower put to rest, let Lucas close his thoughts.

Losing your cool at a stand you designed to stay cool? More perceptive townspeople quietly murmured among themselves. Others minded their own business. (As they should have.) The man with the Drampa tattoo gave the other woman a calm look, but Firebird seemed focus on her own stall. In any case, Lucas felt the gut-punch of professional embarrassment. Before he let his brain think, he let his mouth talk:

“...that got personal.”

Huh. Firebird waited to turn. With her expression, smile as wide. “Dude. I get it; seriously, I get it. We’re all hurting. Here,” she started, letting her tongs. Couldn’t ever be too careful with ROT. “On the house.”

Lucas tilted his head. He wasn’t moving his head away; with the sweet aroma appearing closer, Lucas knew the confectioner, confected. This wasn’t an ordinary treat, either, given the contents. Sugar could be grown wherever, as could the other grains. But peanut, that took a lot of water. Maybe common in the days before the ROT, but out of his reach now. Even if he did just bite in, he decided to exercise extreme caution: “The chocolate and the paper, or just the latter?”

“Just eat the chocolate, you goof.” Firebird waved to an uninterested runner. “Better you keep your sugar up." He would crinkle the paper and move the sweet around. It was a rectangular bar, covered in chocolate, but with lumps and nudges of a something inside.

He chewed. His eyes closed, briefly, to let the the crunch set in. The real deal. It’s been a long time since Lucas ate candy like this, and that showed. ”This brings me way back, Firebird. Like it’s 2007.“ Crunch! He almost felt guilty! In a rare show of gratitude, Lucas made sure to say: “Thank you.”

”Mhm!” It was then a gentleman in a trenchcoat, large cane in one hand and top hat in the other, requested of Firebird: “Missus, I’ll have what the blacksmith’s having.” Lucas looked over, holding the product in his hand. That the older man called Lucas a blacksmith didn’t even register;. a new businessman, that was a good trick.

Some time passed. Firebird made a strange offer.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

“If you’re so inclined to win my favor,“ she started, “you can help by seeing if there’s any Cottonmouth Flowers on Marbury Street.”

Lucas was wiping residue off of his anvil when the topic of picking flowers filled the airspace.

“-Huh? No?”

The first thought? No. This wasn’t happening. Yes, Lucas made a dumb decision. It’d be a rocky couple weeks with the person who helped reserve that spot, because there was no guarantee he’d be able to operate.

But picking a flower? That sent all the wrong messages about the two.

The location rose Lucas’s brow, too. Marbury? As far as he knew, that place was mostly black mold and other organics Plasma loaned those old office buildings to. Broken glass, littered trash, and graffiti lining the dying breath of old industries. It wasn’t the safest patch to plant in. Given how open the space was, Marbury’s a haven for smugglers, dealers, scouts and roughnecks. Lucas could enter that territory with empty pockets, and expect to leave without pants.

....there was a catch. If he did go, it wouldn’t be as alone. It’d be just the right time to get his Pokemon some much-needed real-world experience. That Skrelp was condemned by its blind hatred. The Drifloon, though steadily becoming more refined, still needed to keep its eyes open. A flapping magikarp and a one-track Skrelp weren’t the best sparring partners.

His calender lied empty, save a meeting with the Good Doc. He’d met his quota for the day, enough to cover some essentials. No upcoming events would require his services for the day.

Lucas frowned. He knew it was high time to use some hard skills for the Resistance. Still, he couldn’t believe he was talking himself into this. For all Lucas knew, this woman was about to plan something else.

Lucas didn’t even answer his colleague’s request. Not a no; no answer. Firebird, perhaps recognizing the scope and danger of what she was looking for, didn’t prod him for answers.

Alas, Lucas made up his mind.

[Lucas Gunnarsson]

The odd, awkward pause between the two shopkeepers ended when Lucas, tearing part of the paper wrapper, wrote down an address. Backwards. The pen, a blue disposable left to the streets, took some effort to start inking. Of course, when applied to any mirror or intelligent set of eyes, the text read: MXXR MARBURY RD. WAT NEEDED? Lucas didn’t spend any time trying to fancify this message, laying it between two-by-fours.

Firebird, receiving the note, put a hand to her hip. She asked: “Hey, can I borrow a pen?”[/color] Lucas was quite a bit gentler with his pen than his other utilities. He didn’t have unlimited ink, not from a source that wasn’t a complete anthrophobe. The day that Skrelp accepted human company was the day Plasma left Anrui; a day welcome to the new trainer, but not one he would expect.

When Lucas got the message back, he got the message:

“METAL PIPE. COTTONMOUTH TOO <3”

Pipe, of course! Never a time the Resistance didn’t have enough of that stuff. The number of things you could do with a solid piece of round aluminum went beyond the dictionary's wordcount. A foundry would be optimal, if horribly difficult.

Lucas would, for sure, need a better guise. For that, he initially opted to visit a lumberyard to collect wood. Masks of the stuff weren’t uncommon around rioters, after all, and it wasn’t particularly toxic to inhale. Wood wasn’t a bad material for absorbing toxins, which would’ve been key when monsters like Koffing and Gastly lurked the streets. As he remembered the decided to experiment with his own stock. As strange and incomplete as it’d look, Lucas figured that blistered scraps of tire rubber, metal, and some excess cloth would make a perfectly working mask. Perhaps it would resemble the moon, resemble the light slowly rising over the dark.

A new moon.

Idea planted into his head, Lucas prepared this new guise. At last, his face would be protected from the elements.