((I haven't done this for quite some time, but this story has been sitting in my head for quite awhile. Let's see how this goes.))
Part One, Chapter One:
Wattson’s eyes opened precisely two minutes before his alarm sounded, just as they did every morning. The old man leaped from under the covers, disturbing a graying Manectric that had been sleeping at the foot of the bed in the process.
Wattson rolled into a crumpled robe, which fit, frumpy and comfortable, on his thinning shoulders. He walked out of his room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
It was a small room, befitting of a bachelor, but fully stocked. The countertops were wearing down, having not been replaced since the house was built; the fridge groaned a pitch higher than it used to; the stovetop was stained on every burner. A photo of Wattson’s nephew hung on the fridge, along with a couple of coupons and souvenir magnets. Adjacent the kitchen was a small den, with a television mounted on the wall above a fireplace, a couch against the wall, and a large, plush armchair angled toward the TV.
Wattson grabbed the remote from the counter and turned the TV on before dropping the remote without a second thought. He walked toward the coffee pot as the screen came to life.
It showed three people: two were obviously cohosts – one man, and one bombshell of a woman – they sat next to each other on one side of the screen. Across from them was a slightly uncomfortable looking man in a casual button down shirt. His hair was messy and his left leg was shaking.
“Sorry about this, really,” the nervous man spoke, “but Mason didn’t know about this until he woke up.”
“Oh really, it’s no trouble at all! We can’t say that anyone saw it coming, what with…” the woman host began, but Wattson tuned out the rest as he hummed to himself while fiddling with coffee filters and creamer.
Manectric climbed out of bed in a way that more resembled a fall, and stretched his paws across the carpeted floor. Sparks rose and fell from the friction. Manectric yawned as he stretched, straightened out, and trotted down the hall into the kitchen, where he dropped his head on Wattson’s feet and rubbed his Trainer’s knee with his mane.
“G’boy,” Wattson sighed as he massaged the doglike Pokemon’s snout with a slippered foot. Manectric sauntered over to the den, where he hopped onto the armchair and promptly shut his eyes.
Wattson chuckled as he poured coffee into a mug. He slid the pot back onto the heater and turned the dial to “warm” before turning to watch the interview. At that instant, however, the program was transitioning to a commercial break.
“Brilliant,” he sighed as he took a drink of the coffee. He put the mug down on the counter, next to an unsealed envelope, and wandered down the hall to properly dress.
Wattson replaced the robe with a dark-brown sweater and an old pair of jeans. He checked his antiquated, first generation PokeNav, and saw no new messages or calls had arrived overnight. He returned to the kitchen where he sat down with his mug and turned back to the TV. The man being interviewed looked a little calmer.
“This is, of course, almost unprecedented. The Mayor of Lilycove has come in third place for decades. So, of course, everyone back at Ever Grande City is absolutely thrilled that Mason – er, sorry, Commissioner Smith, got third place this year.” The young man was positively beaming, despite the sweat beading on his temples and flushed cheeks.
“I suppose that second cup can wait.” Wattson said as he stood up. He emptied his mug in one drink and traded it with the envelope that had been resting on the counter. The front door was slammed shut before Manectric had time to even lift his head off the armchair.
At the Mauville Post Office, Wattson picked up the newspaper while he waited in line. It was a special edition of The Slateport Chronicle. The front-page story was the annual list of The Most Influential and Powerful People in Hoenn. Wattson thumbed through it. First place was, of course, the Governor of the region. Second was the majority leader of the legislature. The mayor of Lilycove City, as the man on the television noted, typically occupied third place. This year, however, third place was given to a friendly looking, bespectacled man who looked to be in his late sixties. “Mason Smith, Commissioner of the Hoenn League,” the caption read. The profile was written by Roxanne. Wattson smiled at seeing her name; he had always had a soft spot for the youngest of Hoenn’s Gym Leaders.
The top twenty-five consisted of the eight Gym Leaders, the members of the Elite Four, a few politicians, the previous winner of the Grand Festival, and one, Wattson thought, particularly obnoxious musician. Wattson recognized few of the names beyond those in the top thirty, and hardly any beyond seventy. The list included everything from authors and poets to former Champions and deposed criminals.
“Mr. Wattson, if you’d like to step forward I can help you now,” the clerk behind the counter smiled as she spoke.
“Yes, please,” Wattson said as he removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope and some money from his pocket. “I’d like this for immediate delivery to Mason Smith of Ever Grande City.” As he spoke, Wattson scribbled his signature at the bottom of the letter. It read:
“Commissioner Smith,
It is with boundless gratitude for my position and deep enthusiasm for the future that I resign my post as a Gym Leader of the Hoenn League, effective immediately.
Send my regards to Debra.”
Part One, Chapter One:
Wattson’s eyes opened precisely two minutes before his alarm sounded, just as they did every morning. The old man leaped from under the covers, disturbing a graying Manectric that had been sleeping at the foot of the bed in the process.
Wattson rolled into a crumpled robe, which fit, frumpy and comfortable, on his thinning shoulders. He walked out of his room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
It was a small room, befitting of a bachelor, but fully stocked. The countertops were wearing down, having not been replaced since the house was built; the fridge groaned a pitch higher than it used to; the stovetop was stained on every burner. A photo of Wattson’s nephew hung on the fridge, along with a couple of coupons and souvenir magnets. Adjacent the kitchen was a small den, with a television mounted on the wall above a fireplace, a couch against the wall, and a large, plush armchair angled toward the TV.
Wattson grabbed the remote from the counter and turned the TV on before dropping the remote without a second thought. He walked toward the coffee pot as the screen came to life.
It showed three people: two were obviously cohosts – one man, and one bombshell of a woman – they sat next to each other on one side of the screen. Across from them was a slightly uncomfortable looking man in a casual button down shirt. His hair was messy and his left leg was shaking.
“Sorry about this, really,” the nervous man spoke, “but Mason didn’t know about this until he woke up.”
“Oh really, it’s no trouble at all! We can’t say that anyone saw it coming, what with…” the woman host began, but Wattson tuned out the rest as he hummed to himself while fiddling with coffee filters and creamer.
Manectric climbed out of bed in a way that more resembled a fall, and stretched his paws across the carpeted floor. Sparks rose and fell from the friction. Manectric yawned as he stretched, straightened out, and trotted down the hall into the kitchen, where he dropped his head on Wattson’s feet and rubbed his Trainer’s knee with his mane.
“G’boy,” Wattson sighed as he massaged the doglike Pokemon’s snout with a slippered foot. Manectric sauntered over to the den, where he hopped onto the armchair and promptly shut his eyes.
Wattson chuckled as he poured coffee into a mug. He slid the pot back onto the heater and turned the dial to “warm” before turning to watch the interview. At that instant, however, the program was transitioning to a commercial break.
“Brilliant,” he sighed as he took a drink of the coffee. He put the mug down on the counter, next to an unsealed envelope, and wandered down the hall to properly dress.
Wattson replaced the robe with a dark-brown sweater and an old pair of jeans. He checked his antiquated, first generation PokeNav, and saw no new messages or calls had arrived overnight. He returned to the kitchen where he sat down with his mug and turned back to the TV. The man being interviewed looked a little calmer.
“This is, of course, almost unprecedented. The Mayor of Lilycove has come in third place for decades. So, of course, everyone back at Ever Grande City is absolutely thrilled that Mason – er, sorry, Commissioner Smith, got third place this year.” The young man was positively beaming, despite the sweat beading on his temples and flushed cheeks.
“I suppose that second cup can wait.” Wattson said as he stood up. He emptied his mug in one drink and traded it with the envelope that had been resting on the counter. The front door was slammed shut before Manectric had time to even lift his head off the armchair.
At the Mauville Post Office, Wattson picked up the newspaper while he waited in line. It was a special edition of The Slateport Chronicle. The front-page story was the annual list of The Most Influential and Powerful People in Hoenn. Wattson thumbed through it. First place was, of course, the Governor of the region. Second was the majority leader of the legislature. The mayor of Lilycove City, as the man on the television noted, typically occupied third place. This year, however, third place was given to a friendly looking, bespectacled man who looked to be in his late sixties. “Mason Smith, Commissioner of the Hoenn League,” the caption read. The profile was written by Roxanne. Wattson smiled at seeing her name; he had always had a soft spot for the youngest of Hoenn’s Gym Leaders.
The top twenty-five consisted of the eight Gym Leaders, the members of the Elite Four, a few politicians, the previous winner of the Grand Festival, and one, Wattson thought, particularly obnoxious musician. Wattson recognized few of the names beyond those in the top thirty, and hardly any beyond seventy. The list included everything from authors and poets to former Champions and deposed criminals.
“Mr. Wattson, if you’d like to step forward I can help you now,” the clerk behind the counter smiled as she spoke.
“Yes, please,” Wattson said as he removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope and some money from his pocket. “I’d like this for immediate delivery to Mason Smith of Ever Grande City.” As he spoke, Wattson scribbled his signature at the bottom of the letter. It read:
“Commissioner Smith,
It is with boundless gratitude for my position and deep enthusiasm for the future that I resign my post as a Gym Leader of the Hoenn League, effective immediately.
Send my regards to Debra.”
