Charlemagne’s sleep was a fitful one. He spent most of the night swimming after Yvette or brutalizing the regenerating bodies of the tamer and his sorceress. They usually taunted the futility of his actions and about how even his blessed strength tearing them in half did nothing to change what had happened or what was going to happen.
His tears could not change anything.
He was startled out of his sleep by an ear shatteringly loud bang. His eyes were wrenched open by instinct and the sun’s light peaked through the trees’ canopy and stuck its white hot fingers into his eyes. He saw the source of the noise, a large elephant gun in the hands of a man his age perhaps a bit younger. Janice slumped over.
“Are you al-“ the guy with the gun began to ask. He didn’t get to finish. Charlemagne was on his feet in a flash and tore the oversized gun out of the much smaller man’s hands slamming it down upon his clavicle, breaking it. The battered man screamed out as his collar bone buckled under the force.
He fell, and Charlemagne delivered several vicious curb stomps to his stomach and chest, his huge mass and extreme strength brutalizing the victim. He stopped and backed off two of his strides. He turned towards Janice and grabbed her by the shoulders. The gaping hole in her chest was plainly visible. “Why didn’t you wake me?!” he screamed in her face, “This entire mess could have been avoided!”Her lifeless eyes stared back and him uncomprehendingly. “Stupid,” he muttered.
Unable to express himself in any meaningful way, Charlemagne screamed at the cruel sky with all his might. He roared until his vocal chords tore themselves apart and tears streamed down his face. The deluge of emotion exhausted him once more. Why did so much have to be sacrificed for no reason? He truly had lost everything in his life.
“Listen here, prick,” he growled out to get his attention, “In the past twenty-four hours I have lost everything, my home, my family, and now you just killed my pet who saved my life just a few hours ago. I am very, very upset right now.”
The young man on the ground spat out a wad of mucous mixed with blood. “I… didn’t… know,” he gasped out.
“I know,” Charlemagne hissed, “That’s why you’re still alive.” The smaller man looked up at Charlemagne in confusion. “You need to think before you act kid!” He knew that the man was probably Charlemagne’s own age, but their size difference and the fact that Charlemagne held the gun gave him the dominant position at the moment.
Charlemagne gave the kid a good long stare, letting his rage seep out and strike fear in the smaller man. “I know, she was nude at the time and mistakable for a feral, BUT I was right under her and nothing was happening,” he lectured, “Also, taking a shot with that cannon could have easily killed me who- I assume- you were trying to save.
“You know what happened to her?” he asked rhetorically as he gestured towards Janice with his head, “She ignored my instructions to wake me so I could keep watch. Not only did she put herself in your line of fire by not waking me- to help me sleep- but her exhaustion is the only reason that her superior senses didn’t detect you coming so she could signal that she was domestic. Do you see what good intentions do if you don’t think?!”
Charlemagne was done ranting at the cowering figure at his feet. He grabbed his pack and opened it. Water spilled out. Searching for his clothes, he tossed out a crab that had snuck in there somehow and pulled out a waterlogged set of clothes. He threw them on quickly. They were cold and uncomfortable, but the sun was warm and he’d be dry eventually. The red and white ball of the Sorceress fell out. Charlemagne stared at it for mere seconds before being blinded with rage. The thing was in his hand and sailing over the horizon in mere seconds, plopping into the water and sinking. He poured the rest of the water out of his pack and slung it over his shoulder.
He approached the smaller man who was still curled up in the fetal position. He grabbed him by his shoulder and forced him to his feet. “Listen here,” Charlemagne commanded, “You’re going to take me to the nearest town or village and then we’re never going to see each other again. Do you understand?”
The smaller man nodded feebly and led Charlemagne off in some direction only he knew. It was a good couple of hours before they reached what appeared to be a f center with a couple odd shops. Several dirt trails extended off in random, unorganized directions.
“Jorge!” called out a voice. The man leading Charlemagne into town looked up. The source of the voice was a man with a graying beard and a balding head. He was sitting in a wagon. To Charlemagne’s surprise, it was being pulled by an actual pair of oxen. He didn’t think there were any left.
The old man looked at Charlemagne suspiciously when he noticed him behind ‘Jorge’. “Howdy stranger, what brings you here?”
“Shipwrecked,” Charlemagne said. No point in hiding that. “Then I had the pleasure of Jorge here taking a shot at me with this little cannon here while I was trying to catch my breath and not die of hypothermia from getting tossed around in the storm last night.”
“I see,” the man in the wagon said. “And where are you from, stranger?”
“Indigo,” Charlemagne replied, “Where am I?” Indigo had tamers just popping up out of every rock and hunting pokégirls unlike here in Tropic where pokégirls were restricted to the military and the rich. It was common knowledge here, but most people couldn’t afford to get out of the country and with frequent storms and water pokégirls, trying to emigrate illegally was considered too risky by most.
The goal was to eliminate the thought that he was from an upper class family. Most people hate those placed above them in a hierarchy for whatever reason they came up with. He didn’t need to be run off with pitchforks.
“What makes you think you’re not in Indigo, sonny?” the old man asked, clearly seeing the hole in his response. He should have said he was from such and such town and then followed up with feigned confusion but Charlemagne didn’t know of any towns in Indigo or anyplace outside of Tropic really save a few of the capitals.
“No one in Indigo is crazy enough to go after a feral with just a gun,” he stated flatly, “Everyone leaves that kind of creative suicide to the tamers.”
Jorge looked up to him the best he could with his broken clavicle. “Are you a tamer?” he asked wondrously after remembering that the pokégirl he had shot had belonged to Charlemagne.
“I was,” Charlemagne said staring at Jorge heatedly to make his point.
“What’s that mean?” asked the older man.
Jorge piped up but didn’t meet the older man’s eyes. “I shot his pokégirl,” he said.
“And nearly killed me in the process,” Charlemagne reminded Jorge of what could have happened if his aim had been even slightly off.
The older man grimaced. “I’d like to apologize for my son’s actions then. Pokégirls are hard to come by,” he said with what sounded like true remorse, “Come, I’ll have you over for lunch. Oh, and welcome to Isla Sol Naranja of the Tropic Confederation.” Something in his tone of voice told Charlemagne that the man had much contempt for the League.
Charlemagne thought food sounded really good; however, there was one matter to attend to. “Well, I did promise your son here that we would never see each other again,” he began, “Although, first things first, he needs a doctor.”
The older man looked at Jorge speculatively. “Why?” he asked. Charlemagne poked Jorge’s clavicle, and Jorge’s elicited yelp of pain answered for him. “I see,” Jorge’s father said, “Well, there’s only place we can get that taken care of. Come, I’ll give you a ride.”
After setting his pack in the back of the wagon, Charlemagne got into the seat next to the older man. Jorge needed help getting up because his upper body couldn’t support his weight with his clavicle in its state. Fortunately, the driver’s bench seemed to be big enough for the three of them if Charlemagne crossed his legs. He still hadn’t given the gun back.
Jorge’s father flicked the reigns and the oxen began to muscle the cart forward. The ride was bumpy which caused Jorge to wince and yelp repeatedly along the trail. They rode in an uncomfortable silence for a little while before Jorge’s father broke it. “So, what’s your name, stranger?” he asked.
“Robert,” Charlemagne replied, “And yours?” It was the first, legitimate name he could think of that wasn’t Spanish.
“Francisco. Well Robert, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he inquired.
“Ask all you want,” Charlemagne- or ‘Robert’- said flatly.
“What kind of bloodtrait is that you have?” Francisco inquired innocently.
That was such an obvious trap to anyone in the know. The traited had been slaves in Tropic since they first started cropping up. He probably didn’t expect someone from Indigo to know. ‘Robert’ scoffed at the question. “I don’t have one. It’s just a normal growing disorder that’s been around thousands of years longer than pokégirls,” he said disgustedly, “I had a tumor on my pituitary gland- that’s the one that is primarily responsible for your growth- and it caused me to shoot up like this. Fuck, I told you I’m from Indigo. I wouldn’t have lived as long as I have if I had any pokégirl in me.”
‘Robert’ turned to look at Francisco. “I’m used to the assumption though,” he said disgustedly, “I used to have to carry my medical papers with me everywhere to keep from getting lynched in every town I wandered into.”
“O-oh,” Francisco stuttered, “Sorry there fella. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
The trip continued on once more in silence until they reached a two story log cabin. There Francisco hopped off the wagon and gestured for his son to come down. Jorge seemed unsure about getting down on his own and wavered. Robert took a chance to endear himself to Francisco- he had an odd feeling about this man- and picked Jorge up by the waste and set him on the ground. He had still been jostled a bit and hissed at the sensation of pain his broken bone gave him.
“Robert,” Francisco said. There was no response. “Robert!” he said again, this time more loudly.
“Huh?” Robert replied, “Sorry I was distracted. What is it?” In truth he wasn’t used to being called Robert. He much preferred his real name. Charlemagne sounded much more dignified, but on the off chance his real name was put into the grapevine, he could get found if people matched a name to a face. It was much safer to use a pseudonym.
“Come on lad,” he said, “No use standing out her by yourself.”
Robert followed. He assumed this was the home of some kind of doctor or maybe a quack that had set up to sell snake oil. Francisco knocked on the door. It was only a short while later that the door opened. A hunched, wrinkled man of Hispanic decent with wiry, white hair sticking in every direction appeared in the door way.
“Hello, Francisco,” he greeted in Spanish, “How can I-“ he cut off when she saw Robert. His eyes bugged at the size of him. He probably hadn’t seen a male as big as he before.
Francisco gestured to Robert. “This is Robert,” Francisco said carrying on in English, “Jorge here has a bit of a problem.”
The hunched old man nodded and beckoned them in while keeping an eye on Robert. Robert rolled his eyes and said: “Acromegaly.”
The old man’s eyes lit up in understanding and he nodded. It looked like he really was a doctor. Robert went inside and the doctor closed the door behind them. The home was cozy but spartanly, only decorated with practical but aesthetically unappealing furniture.
The doctor gestured to some wooden chairs in an area that vaguely resembled a living room. Francisco took a seat, and Robert followed suit.
Putting a clavicle back in place was tricky business, so it took a while to set and to properly bind Jorge. When it was all done and over, the entire left side of his body was put into some kind of makeshift torso splint and his left arm was bound to it at a very specific angle. The doctor gave Jorge a set of instructions to insure a safe recovery.
“Gentlemen,” the doctor addressed, “would you like some tea?”
Robert looked sideways to Francisco. He wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, so he would merely follow suit. “That sounds great,” Francisco said, “The wife sadly isn’t that skilled with the kettle.”
A few moments later, a round of teacups had been passed around. Francisco and the doctor shot the breeze briefly. When an opportunity arouse, the newly christened Robert posed a question: “So, where did you receive your training, doctor?”
“Call me Alex- not Alejandro by the way,” he said waving the formality off, “I didn’t really receive training in the traditional format. Before the Revenge War, my father was a doctor in the country of Cuba. When he heard that Typhonna was heading for North America, he feared for his safety and the safety of his wife who was pregnant with me at the time, so he illegally immigrated to the United States. Soon after, I was born and then a little while after that the Tropic League formed along with all the other land masses when Typhonna hit.
“I received my training from my father from the time I was young. He didn’t want his knowledge to be lost, and he knew that my chances of education elsewhere were slim to none.”
That sounded a lot like what the Molyneux family had done except on a smaller scale with a lot less hoarding and espionage. “I can see why it would be difficult to operate in a city then,” Robert observed, “Doctors are rare and in high demand but the League would come down hard on anyone operating without official licensing.”
Alex nodded. “So what’s your story young man?”
Robert gathered his thoughts as quickly as he could. His real name was Charlemagne, he told them Robert, they know he was shipwrecked, Jorge shot Janice, and he was posing as a tamer from Indigo.
“Well,” he began, “I was born and raised in Indigo. I wasn’t too fond of my home. So, when I was old enough, I got my Tamer’s License and took all of my earnings from odd jobs that I had managed to hide from my father and bought a pokégirl. Eventually, I ended up doing a job on a ship, and while we were heading home, we got caught in a storm and we hit some rocks. I washed up on shore a few hours ago with only one of my pokégirls who Jorge shot and killed.”
Now all he had to do was remember that. It was laced with enough truth to make it semi-easy to recall. “Now, here I am,” he finished.
Alex looked slightly sympathetic but mostly a little confused with the briskness of his story. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
With the tea finished, it was time to go. After formalities and goodbyes were exchanged, Francisco, Jorge, and Robert left. Robert wondered what they paid Alex with for his services. He didn’t look like he had any crops or anything, so he had to get his support from somewhere else. Maybe everyone just gave him food and he helped whenever anyone needed it?
Francisco’s invitation for a free meal seemed to still be open. It was odd though. He never asked how Jorge got hurt. Maybe he was smart enough to figure it out and didn’t blame Robert?
Once back on the cart, they traveled back down the trail to the tiny town center and turned onto a different trail from there. It was a silent but even bumpier trip that took them past some fields bustling with wheat interspersed with what Robert could’ve sworn was leafy bamboo.
It was only a little longer before they reached a relatively small shanty that the path led to in the middle of the fields. Francisco and Jorge both hopped of, Jorge with some difficulty. Francisco took off some kind of hand-smithed locking mechanism and entered.
“By the way, may I have my gun back? I’d rather not have us forget and have you walk off with it, Jorge’s stupidity or no.” Robert handed the elephant gun to Francisco. What was he going to do, say no? “Margaret!” Francisco called out, “We have company.”
Robert looked around. The house was actually nicely furnished. A few rugs were located here and there. The chairs had actual cushions on them. If Francisco had this where the doctor did not, then he was either incredibly capable or very important.
A Caucasian woman peaked around from a kitchen area. “Ah!” she said, “I’ll set an extra place.”
Jorge had been silent since Alex, the doctor, set his clavicle. He hadn’t looked at Robert since they reached the town center. It was unclear why. Perhaps it was guilt or fear? Francisco made idle chatter with his wife about the day’s work. Apparently he had been transporting fish from a coastal village in the early hours before dawn. A fishy feast seemed to be in the works for everyone in the village. Too bad they didn’t seem to have refrigeration or any other modern amenities because they’d have to eat it all before it could spoil.
An ice type pokégirl would work too if they could find a way to keep her healthy in this warm environment. This island, Isla Sol Naranja, is the southernmost habitable one in the Tropic Archipelago. Its northern regions were subtropical and farther south it was tropical. An ice type would be hard to keep happy and comfortable. Perhaps one of the ones that can control temperature placed in a properly insulated building?
Francisco didn’t move to help his wife set the table or move the food to the table. Robert nearly extended the offer to help but for all he knew that could be seen as a sign of weakness here. He had no idea what kind of misogyny or chauvinism existed here. He was only really familiar with the snobbery of the upper class and the disgruntled nature of the bourgeois that he had seen during the few times the family extended their fingers into someone of the middle class’s affairs.
The table was set with a small meal of potatoes, fish, and bread without butter. Robert was used to eating much more than this, but was not about to complain. His food was goon much more quickly than the others’.
Francisco chuckled at his voraciousness.
Feeling mildly embarrassed, Robert defended himself with: “In my defense, I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
Francisco waved him off. “No worries, friend,” he said jovially, “but now that you’re fed, would you hear out a proposal of mine?”
Robert nodded. There was never any harm in listening. Unless of course, they were trying to distract you, but what are the odds of that in this situation?
“Here’s the breakdown,” Francisco began, “I’m going to venture a guess and say that you have no funds to return home.” Robert’s silence apparently answered for him. “Well here in Tropic, unless you’re a soldier, you don’t get pokégirls, and even if you’re a soldier, you’re not guaranteed one.
“The common folk don’t get that luxury. Sure, there are little bloodtraited bastards being dropped off by irresponsible soldiers and richies who want to keep their flings a secret, but that’s about the only folk who get the opportunity to have access to pokégirls in the first place.
“Not to mention, it’s not like we have the knowhow to catch them in the first place,” he paused for effect and gave Robert a knowing smile. “But, now we have a bona fide tamer in our midst.”
“With no pokégirls,” Robert reminded.
Francisco waved him off. “They had to catch the first pokégirls without pokégirls. They fought an entire war doing just that,” he reminded ‘Robert the Indigo tamer,’ “With you to guide us, we can get you a pokégirl and you can stick around for a little while and distribute them to those willing to buy. When you’re satisfied, you can skip your merry way back to Indigo.”
Robert thought good and hard on that. They’d help him get a pokégirl, eh? That’s worth a lot. He was no tamer, but he knew enough about pokégirls from the Molyneux library to act the part- or so he thought. And they want him to sell? Then they wouldn’t need him. No, he’d formulate a plan. He’d get the pokégirl… and then he’d make his next move.
“Since there’s no way to get a pokégirl elsewhere or for me to return home, I suppose that’s the best deal I’m going to see,” he said watching Francisco. Jorge was looking at his father incredulously and Margaret was sitting silently, not looking at anyone. “However, I do have one, important question,” he amended.
Francisco sat back. “Oh?” he said.
“This plan is, if what you said earlier is true, very illegal,” Robert said distastefully, “How would we avoid having the League come down on us?”
Francisco smirked at Robert. “The League supposedly sends tamers out to defend towns and such whenever there is a feral problem. They don’t. They do however tax the holy bejeezus out of everyone. Most of the fishing villages have difficulty staying afloat with their quotas. So, eventually people settled off of the League grid. The capital, Terminus, and all the villages known are on the north coast. We live very close to the Mutated Zone, off the grid. The League tax collectors don’t come here, but neither does any support if things go south.”
Robert’s eyes were wide. This was news to him. Didn’t the League chart its territory? Or, was that too inconvenient? He knew little of the ‘Mutated Zone’ that Francisco mentioned; no one knew much of it. All that was known is that everything in there is very strange and very dangerous.
“Let’s make a plan,” Robert said. It was do or die. There was not much of a choice for him at the moment.