The old woman curled up with the Zigzagoon, Oddish, Skitty, and Zangoose on the matted floor as they laid down for a nap. It was the Zigzagoon's first day at the Day-Care and she wanted to make sure he was comfortable. The regulars took kindly to him, to her relief. His owner would be returning in a couple days, but she wanted to make sure he was having fun in a new environment.
Mrs. James had to keep him company most of the day on account of the weather. The little Zigzagoon seemed not too fond of water, which seemed slightly unusual. But she didn't mind reading to him and having him go through tunnels and toys. She just also had to keep an eye on the others to make sure they didn't get sick for being outside in the storm too long.
She was glad to have opened a Day-Care. Her profession as a Breeder was taking a toll on her body. She wished to continue her career, but not have to travel. Now she, alongside the Johnson Academy and the Fairfax Hospital, worked toward education in Pokemon health, training, and behaviors. She enjoyed learning new things from up-and-coming Breeders, but always advocated for the use of natural remedies. The Lavaridge Medical Centre and the Berry Farm were often her go-to recommendations.
A particulary round Azumarill gently rolled into Mrs. James' side just as she began to nod off. The blue orb squeeked and cooed. Mrs. James realized that someone had entered the Day-Care in need of some assistance. When she made it around the corner from the hall to the front desk, a girl and a boy, likely to have not known each other, could be seen adjusting herself from being in the downpour to being in a dry building. Despite the adjustment, they trailed water behind her upon the wooden floor.
"Joy," Mrs. James addressed the Azumarill. Her voice, though aged, was light and soft, almost a whisper. "Please grab a towel for these two," she finished with a smile full of warmth and happiness of a fulfilled life to the girl and the boy. "What can I do for you?"
The egg placed on the counter looked ordinary enough. However, Mrs. James hadn't known of an egg being produced at the Day-Care within the past month, even. "I'm sorry, miss," she said in her cloudy voice with an equally soft smile that pushed sagging skin in an endearing manner. "I've not seen an egg here for over a month, now."
Her eyes were filled with empathy, whether for the girl or the egg was uncertain. She touched the egg lightly with a liver-spotted hand. Joy had returned with towels for the two with a bright, yet tired, grin akin to the elderly woman. The egg was chilled from the rain, immediately putting Mrs. James in a concerned panic that she played through with "Come with me, dear. Joy, here, will take care of your pack," she said as she caressed the egg against her chest and led the girl further into the building. "And Joy," she began to add as they turned around the corner, "please show this young man to the bathroom to wash up and change." A light giggle could be heard echoing through the hall. She'd smelled the odor from the boy, indicating he must have been traveling for some time.
Past a couple nursery rooms was a space with a few empty incubators. They were utilized to keep the egg safe when she felt the parents weren't careful enough to not crack it or tend to it themselves. It seemed the light egg weighed 50 pounds in the arms of the old Caretaker as she lowered it into the box and turned on the heating blanket. Her hands worked gingerly to wrap the egg tightly in it's plush softness. It might have felt like a half hour's wait for the girl standing there, watching.
Eventually, Mrs. James turned around to face the girl. She gave another of her aged smiles, closing her eyes which smiled just as brightly. "Please, dear," she said, gesturing her tired arm toward a chair across the room. The woman paced behind her to take a seat next to the girl. "So, where did you find this egg, then?" she asked while acknowledging the Corsola that followed the girl closely. She reached her finger down toward the Coral Pokemon, knowing how rough their skin usually was, and allowed the Corsola to approach if she felt comfortable.

The Azumarill at the front desk hobbled over to lift up the girl's pack. But the poor thing was too old and round to lift it up very well. She squeaked and oo'ed to the boy to help her hang it up onto a hanger behind the counter. She then smiled and chirped with pleasure as he helped her. She waved him to the right, the opposite direction the girl and woman had gone. She showed him to a quaint bathroom with an antique bathtub fitted with a shower head. The Azumarill showed him where she'd gotten the towel he had currently as well as soaps, washcloths, shampoos, razors, and other toiletries. Mrs. James was always the gracious host and always made sure to keep her Day-Care stocked with anything and everything anyone passing by would require.

Far-off thunder rumbled in the sky. The thick gray clouds seemed unmoving. Still, the worst of it floated northwestward and the downpour had turned to rain. From above, Slateport was decorated with small dots of umbrella's and rain hats. The weather didn't do much to deter shoppers or natives on their usual schedules. Though the wet season of Hoenn could be brutal, it wasn't anything that would prevent people from carrying out their patterns of daily life.
Slateport was known more for its Marketplace more than it's Center for Marine Biology. Possibly because it was the only place in Hoenn to find rare and exotic goods, but more for the Black Market that, inevitably, formed from the lack of Fairfax oversight. Rangers were usually stationed at the Marketplace to deter patrons from practicing illegitimate purchasing practices. However, any investigations usually ended up fruitless. If you kept your head down and didn't attract too much attention (or too many enemies), you could do very well in Slateport.
The harvesting of "sentient products" was generally frowned upon. But, like anything else, there was still a market for it. Fairfax goods, specifically, could be sold at a much greater profit while selling it for less. Most could tell when goods being sold were "legitimate" or not simply from the pricing. However, most didn't care since they were the same product, regardless.
Even so, everyone cared for the aesthetics of the city and worked to keep it clean and functional. Against what most Black Markets would do to the state of a city, foreigners couldn't tell that Slateport was the underbelly of the region. Only when such practices negatively impacted individuals, Pokemon, or the environment would Rangers intervene.
Wildom was one individual that the Rangers were actively pursuing. He'd managed to establish a contact with someone working with the Fairfax Association directly. The audits and inventory seemed to always be off. It became such a problem that the Association began laying people off. But this did little in the way of rectifying the loss of revenue. Before it could get out-of-hand, Marilda Fairfax, the "Queen" of the Association, began to request the attention of the Rangers to Slateport, Lilycove, and Mossdeep. Months passed, however, the the deficit only remained steady. Whoever was stealing from her knew what they were doing, it seemed. So she paid the best money to hire a personal Detective, a man from a foreign Region but with a widely-popular reputation.
Detective Jin Azuma was paid the best money to travel from Alola to Hoenn to track down anyone to gain any knowledge that she could add to her web of conspiracy. She just requested that no one knew he was there and that they had no connection to each other.

Air passed through pursed lips which produced a tone high and bright. The cool dawn air forcasted a storm later that day. The cresting ocean waves chopped and rippled with dull oranges and yellows. The sand formed cold and hard from the night. White sheets scattered the blue and violet sky. Far in the distance coasted a fishing boat, casting nets for Corphish and Clauncher. Goldeen and Finneon weren't their aim, but they certainly wouldn't dispose of them. Pelliper and Wingull circled around, unable to get close enough without a Swellow or Braviary darting through to push them back. However, there was one Wingull circling the waters low, unharrassed by the predators. It must have been there to guide the netting.
Honnings' vessel passd by the horizon. After its wake cleared, a blackened image was seen bobbing in the waters. It was a fateful fortune to not become the prey of any Tentacool or Tentacruel. Arceus forbid a Carvana or Sharpedo pass by. But these waters were generally too shallow for such predators. And there was much easier prey to be found, as well.
Fredrick Briney was the seventeeth son to be born in the long history of Briney ancestry. His own father died soon after he was born, lost at sea and found floating near Sea Mauville. His mother moved back to the Sinnoh region once Fredrick came of age, unable to continue mourning in the house where she'd lost her husband. His wife left him for a cousin of the Fairfax family, unsatisfied with the lifestyle (and lesser income) in the seafaring business. His son was the only family he had left. Having just turned 8, Fredrick began to worry his son would leave, as well, to adventure as a trainer or coordinator. He'd try to tell himself that he only needed his Pelliper and his ship, but knowing that he had family that chose to leave him left him slightly bitter, though rightfully so.

The stranger seemed adamant he forget ever seeing the man. However, seeing someone in such a state (and with a slight accent indicating he was foreign) made it difficult for Fredrick to just let him walk to the next city. By the stranger's trajectory, it seemed to be Rustboro, which could only be reached through Petalburg Woods. That was certainly an unhealthy choice to make. Traveling on foot and soaking wet was something he couldn't let go. So he started loading up his gear into his, almost antique, tackle box. Gripping that in one hand and clenching the rod under that arm, he paced through the sand to reach the stranger.
"Oi!, he shouted not-too-loudly but with enough force to grab the man's attention. "Oi, come on in and shower off that sea, yeah?"
Fredrick's tone was light and smiling over its rough sound.
"And we'll get ya some new clothes," he added after examining the man's size. He looked similar enough in height, but Fredrick's frame was noticeably wider than the stranger's. "What can I call ya?" he then asked, respecting his privacy.
An aged Pelliper alit next to the two men. "Ah, Daisy," Fredrick said with a sad smile. The creature reminded him of his wife, ex-wife, but this Pelliper had a heart infinitely more genuine than that leech. The Pelican Pokemon looked up to the stranger and cooed cutely, however tired.

The precious Coral Pokemon approached the kind woman tentatively, cooing as she hobbled over on her stiff "legs." She wasn't any smoother than the average Corsola, from what Mrs. James could tell by the slight touch, but there was a softness to this one's personality that indicated to the aged Breeder that from where she came, at least, they were often farmed for the pieces of coral they would break off to polish into divine jewelry. The Corsola discovered a small treat in the wrinkled hands of Mrs. James, to which she cautiously retrieved and nibbled with a shy look on her face.
Mrs. James' face never turned from the girl, however. Learning that two of her other Pokemon had returned from a day of mischief with the Egg made her slightly concerned for the owner of such a delicate form of life. "Thank you for bringing it here out of the rain, child," she said with another glowing smile and reached her hand to pat the girl's that was placed on her nervous knee. "Why don't you stay here the night and be on your way in the morning?"
The elderly woman wrestled to her feet, bracing herself on the back of the mahogany chair on which she sat. Her hand reached out for the girl's who offered her hand in support. "What's your name, dear?" she asked as she slowly paced toward the egg.
All others were usually "dear" to her, which didn't seem to bother strangers. Regardless, she'd often continue calling everyone "dear" if only because her mind was filled with names of Breeders she'd met throughout her life, and keeping track was almost impossible. She turned from the egg and said "Well, it's nice to meet you, Haven." Her eyes smiled as she led the girl into a separate washroom where the girl could bathe in privacy from the young man who'd entered behind her.
"I'll be back with some dry clothes for you. I'll put your supplies into a bedroom as well," she told the girl as she opened the washroom and began to situate it for use. "Is there anything you want me to do with your things so nothing gets damaged?"
She knew the girl was an artist, though never mentioned it earlier. However, Mrs. James made a trip into Mauville earlier that day and passed by the skillful young woman. She was equally concerned with her supplies as Haven must have been. "Supper will be ready when you are."

Joy took the boy's clothes after he'd entered the shower. She whisked them away to the laundry room and searched for dry clothes that would fit the young man and dragged his pack on the floor behind her due to its weight. Looking through his belongings, briefly, revealed only more wet, or, at least, musty, clothing that she threw on top of the washer with the mind to clean them after bringing him fresh clothes.
She had the mind enough to look at the sizing of his clothes and attempted to match them with whatever she could find. However, they were not a thrift shop nor a charity where hand-me-downs were donated. She found a white tank-top and a pair of brown Dether (a material of denim and leather developed for both comfort and durability) shorts. Both were a size too small, but she believed his physique wouldn't condemn the discrepancy in sizing. With no proper underclothes available, she hoped he wouldn't be too uncomfortable.
She returned to the bathroom and knocked on the door with her round fore-appendages and a blushed face. She looked away but stretched out her stubs in a gesture for the boy to take the clean clothes when the door opened. She squeaked an apology, which he seemed to take well enough.
Joy remained outside the door until the boy was ready. For only two articles of clothing, he seemed to take too long to get dressed. When he exited, she understood why.
His body was wrapped tightly in the cloth, accentuating the athleticism of his body. She blushed again, realizing how provocative her choice of clothing actually was. It seemed his own clothes came from a different region where sizing was determined by differing measurements. She bowed her obtuse body in a kind of apology, to which she almost fell immediately onto her face.
She was never known for her grace and often put herself into awkward positions. This only took away what little grace she actually had.
Joy waved one of her stubs for the boy to follow her to a small bedroom with a twin-size bed and a small desk. The curtains were heavy and warm, the color of the walls were a light mustard cream. The linens were light and airy with some quilts, apparently hand-made, folded at the foot of the bed. There wasn't much in the way of amenities, but a bed was what most travelers required more than anything else.
Joy cooed to imply she'd call him when supper was ready and then exited the room so he could situate what little belongings he'd had. His packs were place in the far corner of the room that felt more like a hallway cut in half in order to create a bedroom in such a small space. There was a pad of paper on the desk and an old pen that often went untouched simply due to the advanced level of technology on which their culture depended.
Before he could really get settled, a tap sounded on the glass pane of the window behind the heavy drapes. A muffled "Hey, bro! Hey! Let me in," passed through the pouring rain and the barrier between them.
When the drapes were pulled, a rather homely looking man in his mid-late twenties stood pathetically in the rain. A vest was the only piece of clothing on his upper body, which was pulled up over his head with long curly, almost matted, hair of a muddy blonde. His eyes were dark in the poor lighting and dark circles sank beneath his eyes. His muscles cut the only definition in his body, making him look malnourished.
Perhaps he'd walked from the Lavaridge Mountains and this was the first building he'd come across and needed to get out of the rain before hypothermia set in. He looked terribly desperate on the other side of the window.

The rain made the non-locals frantic and rush to drier locations. Just behind a stall were a group of young trainers (judging from their gauntlets) shivering in the wetness of Hoenn's weather. The rain would probably last a few days, but they weren't quite concerned with themselves. They'd trained too rigorously earlier that day at the beach on Route 109. They thought themselves not worn-out enough to partake in a friendly battle with some other trainers. Though none of them knew each other, they all fell victim to some of the more advanced trainers. Caught in the rain, they were desperate to treat their Pokemon before checking into the Slateport Hostel just north of the Marketplace.
Being in the Marketplace meant these trainers weren't fortunate enough to afford supplies from the one of the PokeStations nearby. They were hoping a keen eye, specifically charitable, would pass by and notice their sad states of being and take pity on them and their Pokemon for their own foolish behaviors.

At the other end of the Marketplace, where a young man sat on a bench under an overhang along, a small interaction occurred. They leaned into each other briefly and then walked away from each other in directions they weren't headed when they walked toward each other. They stood out rather noticeably to anyone attentive enough due to their apparent resolve to endure the weather without accessories against it. Then, they exited the Marketplace by the same path despite taking two different directions.
Following them was difficult for anyone. Either they were trying to keep ambiguous their destination or they believed they were being followed. Still, they took alleys into other alleys and behind buildings and in circles. A half-hour of walking lead them to a scrapyard near the Naval Shipyard, which was only a 15-minute walk from the Marketplace. Then the two disappeared behind a pile of beams and girders. They'd taken a secret passage into a bunker where other men, and a few women, circled around and watched Trainers and Pokemon brawl in a most barbaric and unsanctioned manner.
They didn't take well to new-comers and were often skeptical that anyone would truly be interested in such a manner of fighting. They also always had to frisk, and sometimes cavity-check, strangers who thought they could include themselves in their "sport." They couldn't risk allowing wires or drugs into the ring for the safety of themselves and the sanctity of this "art."

There was no real need to be so suspicious of a stranger who washed himself onto the shore. There wasn't a thug out there that "Mr. Briney" couldn't wallop into the ground in a few seconds. Having lived as a deck-hand and sailor made him tough and resilient, but also patient.
"Up the stairs, your first left is the washroom. I'll take your clothes and get 'em in the wash. There's a bathrobe you can use if you don't like my stuff," he said as he headed away from the man and toward the kitchen. "I'll have breakfast ready when you get done."
His son was still asleep. He'd been traveling to Oldale to the Academy by himself for the past week and was clearly beat by the hike every day. Fredrick was proud of his son's determination and tenacity, but still worried deeply for his child's well-being. He hoped the stranger wouldn't awaken the boy.

The bathroom door opened when the water was turned off and the curtain pulled. A small boy ignored the exposed adult and used the toilet without acknowledging that it was a stranger and not his own father that was using the shower. "Are you gunna go to the Academy with me t'day, daddy?" he asked with a silent yawn. He tucked himself back in and turned to the man in the bathroom, rubbing his eyes with his forearm to focus his fuzzy eyes.
Though clearly no older than 10, it seemed the child was no stranger to hard work. There was some development in his musculature that most boy's his age wouldn't achieve for another three years at the least. His bare chest gave the illusion of soft pectorals and his arms had creases not commonly found in one's so young. His abdomen was cut with squares of thin muscles underneath. His pajama bottoms were the only thing he wore, but judging from the top, the bottom must have been just as toned.
The boy's hair hung in the air in a silly manner. He'd refused a haircut for the past few months and wanted to have it grow out. It was wavy and probably knotted to some degree. There was a bruise on his left elbow that suggested he'd taken a fall the day before. His arm fell to his side and he focused on the figure in front of him. His eyes widened and he froze where he stood.

The man just stared at the narrow planks of wood he was lead along by the Azumarill with the help of the stranger. His knees were purple ice and his feet were probably turning black by this point. No one knew how long he was out in the storm, but from the look of his condition, he must have been at a higher elevation where the temperatures were lower.
Joy cooed for Diego to help the stranger undress further when they made it to the washroom. She directed him to sit on the closed toilet while she looked around for a first-aid kit or anything that could help the poor man warm up. At closer inspection, the ribs on his right side were protruded and the color of the deep waters of Route 127. It was a wonder he didn't groan in agony as he was, essentially, carried to the washroom. Perhaps he was so cold his entire body was turning numb. The blackened blue of the skin indicated some broken bones, to which needed more immediate attention than they could rightly address with so little supplies here. He needed to be taken to the Rustboro Hospital as quickly as possible.
Old Blue purred in grave concern for the boy and looked back at Diego. She pointed and squeaked to go fetch Mrs. James and notify her of the situation. However, he would have been stopped by seeing Sapphire with the girl he'd seen at the counter earlier.

A low shriek sounded not long after they introduced themselves and exchanged the normal pleasantries. The came from the direction of the Nursery, if Haven remembered correctly. Glass shattered and a loud thud sounded, as if a bureau fell flat on its face. "No! Please!" was shouted from a tired yet equally frantic voice.
Once they recuperated from the shock, it would have been discovered that Sapphire, Diego's Azumarill, was not longer with them.

Knuckles cracked into cheekbones. Elbows crushed the cartilage of noses. Fangs sank deep into hides. Talons lashed at eyes and throats. Blood dried and painted the floors and walls with an interesting collage of brutality and passion.
Sorel, the only familiar face to Rai since arriving in Hoenn, led him through winding passages. They climbed through tunnels and had to break down some girders to get where they needed to go. They made sure only the toughest and most clever of combatants could actually make there way to this location.
A couple of combatants sparred while others were exercising with old and outdated machines. Some Pokemon worked on their speed, others on their endurance, and others on their strength. Despite the effort it took to get here, the dome-shaped cavern was impressively well-kempt and had an air of calm and comfort. Most would have turned back at the sight of this is they were looking for serious brawls.
"Oy, Dicky!" Sorel bellowed in a voice lower than his usual tone. It was as if he wished to be perceived with more authority than he actually possessed. "Gotta Foreigner, here. Johto."
A man standing no taller than Rai's collar bone, approached the pair. As he neared the convex and concave angles in his musculature became more pronounced and impressive. He looked Rai up and down with disgusted suspicion. "Yeah, and?" his voice was dragged across the gravel of the chords in his throat. Despite his size, the bass of his tone filled the entire area without much effort.
Sorel shifted where he was and looked at Rai as if to gather more information for this "Dicky" on which to judge the newcomer. "Well, I've seen him fight," he said, his voice still attempting to sound authoritative. However, following Dicky's voice, it sounded effeminate. "And he doesn't fight like a man..."
There was a pause from Sorel as he tried to think of something clever yet impressive. "He tears at his opponents like a female Ursaring."
"Yeah," Dicky seemed to shout with disbelief. "Fuck me if you're not as intimidating as a Teddiursa," he added and poked at Rai's breat to test its firmness. His dense finger pushed past what muscle was there and rammed against the ribs underneath with enough force to fell a man twice Rai's size, it seemed.
He turned to walk away, dismissing them without a word. Sorel looked back at Rai when Dicky called out at them. "Karen!" his voice shook the rocks. Sorel swore one day Dicky would bring this place down. "Fuck this boy up for me, yeah?"
Sorel's eyes widened as he heard this. Still staring at Rai, his chin dropped a little. "Um, sir..." he began to say in protest. His voice seemed to grow more childish as the interaction dragged on.
Dicky turned slightly, though not enough to look on directly. "If he has what it takes, he won't die." The threat was a mockery of a whisper through his neck.
"Shit," Sorel said. "Well, it's been good knowin' ya," he said and placed a hand on Rai's shoulder before walking out of the cavern.

"Ha! Dicky," a woman began to complain playfully. "You really want me to fight this little Bald-dick?"
She beautiful from the neck down. Her nose was misshapen and her lips crocked and uneven. Half of her left eyebrow was missing and half of her head with shaved with the other half no longer than Rai's. Her cheeks were bulbous, almost puffy. Her ears seemed to have been chomped at and twisted. Despite this, her body was hard but definitely feminine, and finely so. She wore only a sport's bra and compression shorts with light-weight sneakers.
"Kill 'im if ya want," Dicky responded and laid back down at the bench press machine with what looked like too much weight for someone so small.

A shadowed figure stood with his foot against the Hotel and smoke floating around his head. [+]

The streetlights nearby obscured his face as the storm continued to pass over Hoenn. The figure's head faced "Johnny Gastly." It was clear who his target was. Once near enough, he offered a few warnings to the stranger.
"There's a better way to go about dealing with loose-lipped customers..." The voice was intimidatingly playful.
His voice was low as to dissipate with the falling rain. His brows curved above his eyes in a relatively threatening manner. His hand was placed upon a Pokeball against his thigh in a gesture of self-protection. The long caw of a Mandibuzz wheezed high above. A low buzz of a croak sounded from around a corner. This man wasn't going to be threatened. Indeed, he was the one to do the threatening.
"Wildom told me to give you some advice. If he has to clean up after you or you lose another one of his customers, you're not going to see your business into the dry season." This suggested he was being watched at almost all times. However, it was also to look out for themselves, as well.
The man's foot pushed off the building and he stood at his full height about half a head higher than Nick. His body was hard, and not just from physical conditioning. His eyes were a dark steel-gray like the clouds above. He never broke eye-contact with his fellow criminal. In fact, Nick would have not noticed the man even blink. "And get rid of that gun if you know what's good for you. People here know what it looks like when you're gunned down. I know you're new here, but you'd be learn up on the local laws." He turned away from Nick and walked toward the shore without Nick able to respond properly.
Gun were illegal in Hoenn. The sport of hunting was outlawed. Hunting was only legal when survival was necessary. Murder with an illegal tool for such practices would have been a high priority for the Rangers of Hoenn.

The boy's cheeks turned pale red at the awkward interaction. "Sorry mister" he peeped before leaving the bathroom. He felt awkward not knowing a stranger had been invited to their home and having called him "daddy."
Still, he rushed downstairs to see who it was that his father had welcomed into their home. "Daddy! Who's that?" he asked with a pep in his tone. He sat at the table, ready for the breakfast he'd started for them.
"Just a passer-by," Fredrick answered plainly. He turned to shovel some food onto the boy's plate while Leodin poured himself some Oran juice. "He's from far away. I caught him swimming in the Route."
"Oh," the boy said as he stuffed his little mouth with food. "So, ya goin' t'the Academy wit'me?" he continued through the masticated breakfast still sitting on his tongue.
"Swallow before you speak," Fredrick corrected warmly and patted his son's head. "Yes, after we see this gentleman off."
Leodin was about to finish his breakfast as the stranger descended the stairs. Fredrick was sat at the table, waiting for his guest to join them. "'Fore it gets cold, now," he said and gestured to the chair at the end of the table.
The only thing in the washroom was a robe, suggesting it was either the robe or just the towel he'd have to wear while he waited for his clothes to dry. "Your clothes should be done insome'. Eat up while ya wait, yeah?"

Leodin was into his food, oblivious to the stranger joining them that morning. Briney simply gave a confused look and glanced at his son in an attempt to gather any clues as to the purpose of the apology. All he saw was a contented, if rather eager, boy shoving various breakfast foods into, and onto, his face. Fredrick brought a napkin to the boy's mouth, passively insisting he pay closer attention to how he ate.
Fredrick looked back up at the stranger, who'd begun to tentatively bring food to his mouth instead of just picking at it. He decided to not respond to the apology and just silently accept the gesture. He brought a cool glass of juice to his lips when the stranger began to speak again.
An amused huff was pushed from his lungs. "Aye," he said through a soft, yet coarse, chuckle. This was to the monologue "Cloud" had just performed. But he shook his head, silently apologuzing for letting down a man who he'd just saved from likely death.
"I'm gon' t' Oldale wit' muh son t'day. He want's me t' watch a demonstration with him."
He pointed his chin, signalling for the boy to get washed and dressed now that he'd finished his breakfast. "You're more 'n' welcome t' come along."
The table gave way to Briney's legs as he rose from his seat, the same motion grinding the chair across the floor behind him. The plates dinged and rang as they were gathered from the table and brought to the sink nearby. "But, if yer eager," he continued as the dishes sounded their descent into the basin, "my first,' Honnings, 'll give ya'h day at sea."
The dry clothes and privacy to change were provided. Little to no small talk was had while the men (and boy) were preparing for their day. The quite bustle of preparation filled the walls of the small cottage. A knock at the door interrupted their percussion and the passage whined open to reveal a man, young, perhaps, but certainly seasoned.
"Oi! Brine!" he called in a voice surprisingly spritely compared to his hard, tattooed and pierced appearance.
He didn't look the part of "sailor," but perhaps that didn't mean much. His hair was dramatic yet kempt. His body was clearly strong enough to be a sailor, but his skin was a canvase. His eyes were bright and his face angled. A torn, or ripped, plain black top showed the aesthetic of his skin. Accompanied with a full beard, and weathered jeans and boots, he looked ready for some kind of concert or a biker outing. Instead, he looked around expectantly for his boss.
"I got fuckin' shit t'do t'day, ya bastard! I'm not fuckin' 'round wit' some pussy-bitch 'cause you an't'e fuckin' assed!"
The language fit that of a man at sea for too long. It also insinuated he knew not a child could hear, or that he simply lacked the decency of censorship. Regardless, a short haw downplayed the level of vulgarity in his words.

The crowd roared, whether in upset or excitement was difficult to tell. The ground trembled, vibrated with the powerful emotions and people surrounding. The individual standing in the center urged other competitors to not end up like the broken woman and Hitmonlee sprawled across the ring.
A single hand raised, hidden in the commotion, and silence replaced the cheers and jeers in just moments. Some kept their eyes on the beaten and broken foreigner looking for someone to kill him, while others looked expectantly at Dicky. He began to descend the bleachers around the ring, his stout posture keeping him from being easily followed by curious eyes.
"Someone get this damned foreigner out of my ring!" His voice still echoed in the hollowed earth despite his stature and the people to absorb the vibrations. "And get that bitch to the infirmary!" he added with a dismissive wave of his hand.
When he turned away, a few large men entered the ring to remove the combatants. A particularly misshapen couple escorted Rai with a lack of care of grace. The others picked up the unconscious Hitmonlee and Karen to get them healed up as quickly as possible so their "career" wouldn't end with a fluke of a child and his inflated head.
Rai was carried through a tunnel, a portal, that was disguised as part of the interior dome structure. A narrow passage forced the brutes to walk sideways, sidestepping, so their broad shoulders wouldn't scrape against its sides. It would have felt like hours for someone half-conscious before they reached a chamber looking more like an executive's office than that of a head of a Brawler's community.
Dicky was sitting in a high-backed leather chair. A wet clicking echoed throughout the "room," rhythmic like a faucet dripping onto metal. A woman stood beside him, wearing little and too pretty to be a fighter. The amount of cosmetics on her face and the manner in which she held herself and the way in which her hair bounced as she shifted suggested her profession wasn't so "professional."
The man flicked his hand and the woman waded across the stone floor in heels too high to look as if she glided across ice, sensual and elegant. She caressed a chair as she would the chest of a strong man to position it before the desk. When she returned to her spot next to Dicky, he thanked her with a series of gropes that suggested a carnal familiarity of her body.
The men carrying the Johto boy dropped him on the chair and were then waved out without a word. Dicky let out a contented sigh and shifted around at his waist. A boy, not quite as old as Rai but with a more impressive aesthetic unadorned with clothing rose from somewhere under the large desk. He wiped his chin and gave a pleased and pompous eye tot he visitor. He exited the "office" more gracefully and tented than when he left the womb.
"Johto, huh?" he pondered aloud. His small hand cupped his wide jaw. "And Rai's the name?" he continued, looking away from the boy.
His eyes searched for information he seemed unable to recall. "I don't suppose your General Kurin's bastard."
He lit a cigar materialized in the woman's manicured and sleek fingers next to Dicky's lips. "If so, you're lookin' in the wrong place, kid."