FLOOD [Pokémon]

Chapter 41

^ I actually thought FLOOD might be entered into the 2018 Watty Awards. Doesn't that put a stitch in your side? I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even put it in the Watty Awards now, because some poor judge would have to slave through 41+ chapters of a very flawed story. XD

Also, 2018 art, yikes. Shield your eyes if you haven't already.

—

DARWIN

Friday, April 6, 2018

It was the end of the day, and I was feeling...nauseous.

I should have been riding a wave of triumph, or at least relief: I'd fought my way through another hectic week of the tenth grade and had a well-earned weekend to look forward to. I'd also made significant progress in optimizing my outlook for Midterms — I'd completed the first three pages of my chemistry study guide (and had a better hold on that dimensional analysis bullsh*t); finished an extra credit assignment for Pre-Cal (which involved many graphs of sine, cosine, and tangent waves); and had slaved through a migraine's worth of quadratic formula problems.

But right now my stomach still felt like it was stuffed with splinters of glass, and it was all Thomas's fault. We hadn't spoken about today's Seawatcher orientation since after the OC Club meeting yesterday, and not knowing whether he was going to go voluntarily was driving me nuts.

Or was it his apathy turning my stomach? Every time I'd run into him today, he'd been wearing an oblivious and infuriatingly carefree smile, like the Seawatcher orientation had slipped his mind and he didn't give a damn. Meanwhile, the upcoming meeting occupied the forefront of my mind, and most of it concerned whether or not Berechiah would have to get involved in the area of Thomas's compliance — as the day had worn on, my heightening anxiety had brought me to one simple fact: because of the quarantine, Thomas hated the Seawatchers, and the only way that he was getting his ass into that orientation was if he was made to.

I had reason to be worried about Berechiah, too: I'd had a tough conversation with Grandpa Jon outside at lunch. By the grace of Arceus, it had been overcast in Rustboro City today, so I'd had an excuse to eat my lunch out of doors, rather than look like a loser by eating by myself. I'd called and told him my worries about Thomas while sitting cross-legged beneath a tree standing at the corner of the cafeteria building, a cup of insta-ramen in one hand and my phone in the other.

"Yes, I agree," he'd said wearily. There'd been the sound of water in the background — he must've been down by the creek, doing something with the two or three boats that he owned. "But I was hoping that Berry wouldn't have to be involved... Can you talk to him?"

My shoulders had slumped. "I tried," I said on a heavy breath, "but he's still not going for it. I thought he was coming around, but..." ...But this problem seemed to be a mix of pride and leftover PTSD from what had happened in that damned quarantine chamber now, more than anything else.

"Can you try one more time?"

He doesn't get it. "He won't listen to me," I said pointedly. "He won't go unless there's a gun pointed to his head."

The conversation devolved into an argument where we went around and around, and I'd became hugely frustrated, not for the first time, that Thomas Ryans-Wade was capable of causing this much frustration when he wasn't even present. Eventually, Grandpa just told me to try my best to convince him to come, and if he didn't...

Now, after the final bell, I was standing in the Armstrong Building by the lockers. Thomas's locker — a top one, of course, right at the end of the block on the second floor. Students hurried back and forth like go-home traffic on a big highway, and I tried to stay out of the way — I pressed myself against the wall and looked down at my watch every couple of minutes, trying to tune out the din of stupid kids shouting at each other.