Marceline walked into Blasto City's Fire Gym like she owned the place.
There was a loose swing of her hips, a gleam of challenge in her wine-red eyes, and a battle outfit that could've shut down a fashion week runway mid-walk. Honestly, she didn't know how Jaxon had pulled it off—some high-IQ, dumbass-level shopping spree where he apparently bought out an entire failed Kalos fashion line, then fused it with a defunct Battle Circuit aesthetic for a "combat couture" effect. But gods damn it, it worked.
Marceline thought it would take years for her to get her own fashion line, but of course the cute idiot couldn't wait for it to happen.
The result? A dangerously flirty outfit themed around Poison-types, equal parts goth-glam and assassin. The dress had an asymmetrical neckline with spiderweb mesh on one side and a ruffled lavender strap on the other. The top half was a dusky apricot crop with subtle toxin-drip embroidery, cinched with a belt shaped like an Arbok's jaw. Her skirt was a chaotic black bubble with a pleated tail-coat flair—thigh-length, venomous, and criminally flirty. Poison Barb earrings, muk-sheen lip gloss, and a sludgy purple Pokéball holster on one hip sealed the vibe. Sweet. Spicy. Lethal.
Jaxon would pay. Eventually.
Because thanks to that bastard, the gym appointment process had been smooth. Food? Covered. Training access? They'd been using equipment meant for Trainers with eight badges or more. Strategy? Bonnie's sudden obsessive Professor-track cramming had unlocked high-level Pokédex data Marceline's entire family hadn't accessed yet. Even Jaxon's Dex didn't go as deep.
And worst of all? It worked. They'd trained for two months straight. Morning to midnight. From basic conditioning to high-intensity move optimization, from 6 AM drills to 12 AM cooldowns. The synergy between her team was tight. Her toxic field maneuvers were prepped. Her Pokémon's timings were shaved to the frame.
There was no excuse to lose. Which meant there was no excuse to hold back.
Blasto City's gym looked like an active foundry crossed with a rave. The exterior was built from dark obsidian and steel, with geothermal vents steaming from grates in the sidewalk. Molten-orange floodlights traced the outline of a fire-symbol etched into the side of the gym wall—blinking like a warning. Inside, the air was heavy, metallic, humid. Lava tubes glowed behind transparent barriers. Steel catwalks wound around boiling pits. This wasn't a battlefield. This was a crucible.
And standing in the center was Ignis Krowe, Minor Gym Leader of Blasto City.
According to the Pokémon League Registry, Blasto City ranked 18th in the Kanto Region—not bad, considering the 100+ gym cities across Kanto alone. It was an industrial hub where Pokéball cores and Trainer gear got mass-produced, and its gym sat above a semi-dormant magma vein.
Kanto had 8 Major Gyms—the old powerhouses tied to the region's founding. But beneath them were 40 Minor Official Gyms like Blasto City's, and then 52 Unofficial ones.
The difference? Major and Minor gyms both issued League-recognized badges. Their leaders had to be at least A-Rank Elite Trainers with six registered Pokémon and two alternates. Most Major Gym Leaders were champion-tier monsters-in-waiting. Minor ones like Ignis? Still brutal, just not mythical.
Unofficial Gyms were like indie joints. You could walk in and challenge the Leader for a badge, sure—but it wasn't League-standard. Still, they were cheaper, useful for certification exams, and half of them were run by Ace Trainers with Silver Rank status.
But here's the kicker—Blasto's Gym cost 7 million dollars per challenge. No joke. Between the geothermal hazard insurance, terrain customization fees, and Trainer-tier facility rentals, this was a premium match.
The standard price for the Major eight was 10 million base.
Ignis Krowe paused at the edge of the battleground, boots rooted in the heat-scarred steel like he owned the lava-slick earth. And in a way, he did. This was his domain—the Blasto City Gym, built above a live magma chamber, one misstep away from becoming your own cremation.
He looked like he'd walked straight out of a villain casting call—early thirties, tall, scarred, shirtless under a crimson fireproof cloak trimmed with jagged fur. His left arm was a cybernetic gauntlet, scorched and claw-like, with miniature vents along the knuckles that hissed heat as he moved. It wasn't just a prosthetic—it was a battle interface, designed for high-speed command relays mid-match.
Rumor had it that he was a former G.A.T.O agent. It stood for Guild of Advanced Tactical Operatives, a controversial quasi-legal combat initiative known for breeding unconventional Trainers, black-ops battlers, and wildcard specialists. Most members were banned from traditional tournaments or scouted by special divisions of the League.
Ignis also used to be a flashy Fire-Type Coordinator—charming, precise, annoyingly good at spinning his Typhlosion in midair like a flaming ballerina. Then the wars came. The giggling ended. He turned mercenary. When the old gym leader of Blasto City burned out in a literal blaze of glory, Ignis stepped in like the world owed him vengeance and a paycheck.
He recognized her the second she walked into the arena.
A banking clan member is actually going to become a Trainer and it's one of the promising rookies
The Pokemon League are always on the look for Trainers 25 and under with potential. The world needs more competitive capable and flexible batards and bitches. Most settled with Bronze tier rankings their entire career. It's hard and expensive to be an experienced Trainer.
Marceline Gato is hot topic among the rookie this year. Not only she passed in the top five in all subjects but also chose not pick her starter Pokemon until about two months ago.
The Asian beauty is one a very few people with an affinity aura and with her background she was soon in to pupil towards Agatha or Koga. Two of the elites fours wanted Marceline for her Poison aura.
Instead she chose to help her families finances until she captured a Gasly. More like given to her by her boy toy who is another hot topic of in the League.
Mostly because how much the boy hustled from the Devon corporation. Ironically the corporation got more attention from him because the loophole he found.
Especially when boy posted his training video. And Jaxon Ryder Mercer is competing with Steven Stone and Wallace at making girls fall to their knees. Hell Ingis younger sister even loves when he sings his absurdly popular and original music.
'T.N.T' and 'Thunderstruck' were Ignis favorites there was no question about it. Marceline chose well picking a sucker to fund her career.
But most importantly he wasn't expecting a busty form of a half-goth, half-pop-idol poison bombshell wearing a dress that looked like it belonged on the cover of Battle Fashion Monthly. She had no business looking that good in a combat zone.
"You better not waste my time, girlie," he said, voice like ash and broken glass. "I burn through challengers like they're kindling."
Marceline smiled, slow and sharp.
"You won't be burning through me," she said, flicking a Poké Ball up and catching it without looking. "I'm the poison you choke on after the flame goes out."
The gym's lights dimmed, red emergency bulbs casting the volcanic battlefield in deep crimson. Announcers in sleek uniforms called out the rules—2v2, no substitutions, one win condition: complete incapacitation. The floor was heated basalt, lined with vents that occasionally hissed scalding steam. This wasn't a beginner's playground.
"Battle Start!"
"Let's dance, Hemlock!" Marceline tossed her first Poké Ball into the arena.
Ignis chuckled at the sight. Money doesn't make you a good Trainer but sure fucking helps when you have a lot of it.
Ignis is impressed that the woman can even train a ghost type in her first year.
He wasn't having doubts, not by any means. Ignis was only being realistic. Ghost-type Pokemon, besides being dangerous, presented a remarkably treacherous trial of controlling them. They were supernatural, even amongst other Pokemon and their origins were still largely unknown. Yes, certain ghost-type Pokemon were confirmed to only be born from the souls of other dead Pokemon and humans. Unsettling, yes, but concerning most of all. It added a layer of volatility to the situation, not unlike dragon-type Pokemon. That's why they were typically lumped together in a group with dragons. Not for their power but their natures.
Ignis was going to have fun with this one.
"Charmeleon. Burn her down. Use Flamethrower
[Flamethrower: The target is scorched with an intense blast of fire. This may also leave the target with a burn.]
"Confuse Ray" Merceline said and everyone could sworn her voice sounded snakelike.
[Confuse Ray: A sinister flash of light makes the target confused. A special Ghost-type technique.]
Hemlock dodge the fire type attack with surprisingly speed for the ghost. Its eyes glowed purple hitting Charmleon.
"What the hell?! How did—" Ignis was flabbergasted since Confuse Ray competes with Focus Blast for its lore hit chance. Unless…
Ingis spotted the twinkle in the Gastly eyes and immediately knew what happened. The Ghost Poison type has a wide lends on equipped.
[Wide Lens: An item to be held by a Pokémon. It is a magnifying lens that slightly boosts the accuracy of moves.]
Well shit I going to lose this one.
Ignis growled through clenched teeth. "Snap out of it. Flamethrower again. Pulse it."
The Gym's volcanic vents hissed louder, echoing like breath from a sleeping dragon beneath. Charmeleon turned—then slashed the air with another wild burst of flame. This time, it singed the far edge of the battlefield, missing Hemlock by a good five feet.
Hemlock hovered motionless, his spherical body pulsing with smug amusement, gasses swirling with lazy menace. Marceline didn't even flinch.
"Smog," she said softly, her voice like venom kissed with silk.
The Gastly exhaled. A thick cloud of noxious, purple vapor rolled forward like a living thing, coating the battlefield. The poisoned haze wrapped around Charmeleon's legs, seeping into his open mouth mid-snarl.
[Smog: A cloud of poisonous gas is expelled, possibly poisoning the target.]
Charmeleon reeled, shaking his head and coughing, flames sputtering. His taillight dimmed briefly.
Bonnie cheered on sidelines wearing a pink theme cheerleading outfit. "GO MARCY! MAKE HIM BLEED!"
Jaxon laughed nervously as his beautiful girlfriend said things would make Freedy Kruger scared to death. He has no idea why, but Bonnie gets mad bloodthristy when watching matches.
"Marcy, if you win this, remember that I have to listen to whatever you say!" Jaxon was not sympathetic to Ignis when she went into full-on Gorgon mode after hearing this.
What is the extent of Merceline's desire for him to adhere to her orders?
Back in the ring, Ignis's eyes narrowed. "Use your claws. Break the gas. Clear the air. Metal Claw, if you're still with me."
Charmeleon roared again—but instead of lunging at Hemlock, he turned on himself, swiping his shoulder in a furious, misguided flail. The confusion hadn't let up.
The gym lights flickered slightly as the battlefield's steam vents belched another hiss. Hemlock drifted closer like a shark cruising just below the surface.
"Hemmy," Marceline whispered, her expression all teeth and confidence. "Hypnosis."
A ring of concentric, ghostly pulses radiated from Hemlock's eyes. Purple waves shimmered over the battlefield, washing over the already-disoriented Charmeleon. He staggered.
And then—thud.
Charmeleon faceplanted into the basalt with a groggy snore, tail flame dim but steady.
[Hypnosis: The target is hypnotized into a deep sleep.]
A collective gasp rolled through the gym, even among Ignis's battle-hardened staff. The monitors above flared with real-time data: Confused. Poisoned. Asleep.
"You've gotta be kidding me..." Ignis muttered. "What kind of bastard move pool did she load that thing with?"
Marceline raised a finger, gently spinning a curl of her hair. "Soon that boy will follow my commands!!"
Ingis at this moment sent a prayer to an unlucky bastard that pissed her off. Or more specifically, turn her on. It's hard to tell which is which.
"Dream Eater," she said like she was placing a dinner order.
Hemlock's body warped slightly, eyes glowing red as ghostly tendrils slithered into the sleeping Charmeleon's mind. The Fire-Type shuddered, his limbs twitching as if caught in a nightmare. Hemlock pulsed with stolen energy, growing darker, stronger.
[Dream Eater: The user feeds on a sleeping target's dreams. It restores the user's HP.]
Ignis swore—loudly.
"Charmeleon, wake up! Flamethrower, Fire Fang—hell, roll over if you have to!"
The lizard twitched in place but didn't rise. He looked exhausted, tail flickering dangerously low.
"She's draining him in his sleep," muttered one of the announcers. "The Gastly has yet to be touched. This is an absolute clinic in status-lock warfare."
Bonnie was practically dancing. "We are going viral, baby! I'm editing this into a music video the second we're out of here."
Jaxon just grinned, whispering under his breath, "Okay, Hemlock. Let's see how far you can push him."
Ignis pointed. "Emergency steam cycle. Vent four."
A loud hiss erupted from the corner of the field as superheated steam exploded across the terrain—an environmental control feature meant to break stall battles. But Hemlock rose above the blast, his gaseous body rippling but untouched. He stared down at the smoldering Charmeleon.
"Finish it," Marceline said. "Poison Jab."
Hemlock surged forward with terrifying speed. His mist compacted into a sharpened, lance-like spike that protruded from his core. He struck downward—clean, clinical, no flair. Just deadly efficiency.
The jab pierced past Charmeleon's defense aura with a hollow sound like a knife sliding into meat. The lizard shuddered—and went limp.
[Poison Jab: A stabbing attack that may also poison the target.]
The monitors blared: Charmeleon: UNABLE TO BATTLE.
Silence fell over the gym for two full seconds before it erupted into chaos. Cheers. Screams. Horns. Even a few League staff leaping from their seats.
Marceline exhaled through her nose. Her Gastly floated back toward her, spinning in lazy victory twirls.
Ignis didn't call out his next Pokémon right away. He just stared.
"She didn't take a single hit…" one of the officials muttered, tapping rapidly at a monitor. "Confusion, poison, sleep, dream feed, then strike. That's textbook… no, that's elite."
Ignis finally spoke.
"You trained that thing in under two months?"
Marceline tilted her head. "I'm a fast learner."
"I hate your boyfriend," Ignis muttered. "You know that, right?"
"I'll send him a Valentine's from you."
Hemlock chuckled—a deep, wrong sound like wind over a graveyard.
---Jaxon Ryder Mercer: Pokémon Battles (Waifu Team)---
Ignis took his time.
Charmeleon's body had been recalled in a hiss of red light, the scorched floor still radiating heat where he'd fallen. His defeat wasn't just a loss—it was a dismantling. Marceline hadn't traded hits. She hadn't even blinked.
"Alright, kid," Ignis muttered. "You want my second string?"
He tapped his gauntlet. The vents on his knuckles hissed again, releasing a puff of ember-colored steam. A Poké Ball clicked into place between his fingers. With a sharp gesture, he flung it across the field.
"Scovillain. No more games."
The ball burst open mid-air, releasing a howl of twin shrieks as a two-headed Pokémon materialized. One head belched fire, the other seethed with toxic vapor. Its body twisted like a coiled vine in flame.
[Scovillain: Fire/Grass-Type. A volatile dual-headed Pokémon. Each head operates independently, often bickering mid-battle.]
Marceline didn't flinch. "Hemlock, toture him."
The Gastly pulsed once—dark mist swirling around her form like a living shadow. She could feel it. This one wasn't like the last. The Scovillain's auras flared red and green simultaneously—pure heat and venom. Dual nature. Dual threat. Dual the pain when she feats on its soul!
"Sunny Day."
The Fire Head of Scovillain laughed, mouth stretching grotesquely wide before blasting a flare skyward. The ceiling lit up in seconds, artificial lights amplifying into a miniature sun. The temperature surged. Beads of sweat broke across Marceline's neck.
[Sunny Day: Boosts Fire-type moves and suppresses Water-type effectiveness.]
The flames intensified. The air thinned. Hemlock flickered mid-air, his body struggling to maintain cohesion.
"Toxic,"
Hemlock hurled a glob of caustic sludge at Scovillain's vine-like torso, but the Grass Head reacted instantly—whipping its stem tail to block. The glob hissed against bark-like flesh but didn't connect.
"Fire Fang."
In a burst of speed far beyond Charmeleon, Scovillain closed the gap, twin heads snapping in tandem. The Fire Head surged forward—mouth engulfed in flame.
"Thunder Wave!" Marceline's voice cut like a whip.
Electricity lanced out from Hemlock just as Scovillain struck. The Fire Fang barely missed as Hemlock dropped altitude, letting the jaws slice through his trailing mist.
The Thunder Wave hit the Grass Head dead center.
[Thunder Wave: Paralyzes the target, cutting speed drastically.]
Scovillain recoiled, hissing violently—its rear limbs locking momentarily, motion stuttering.
Ignis grunted. "Paralysis counters sun-speed advantage. Smart."
"Next time I'll use Ice Punch," Marceline called sweetly.
Ignis laughed. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
Hemlock shimmered, and with a sharp crack of cryogenic pressure, his ghostly appendage swung into view—wreathed in pale-blue frost.
He darted in. Ice Punch connected—hard. Scovillain buckled at the legs. Ice and flame collided, casting up a burst of steam. The impact echoed.
[Ice Punch: May freeze the target.]
The Grass Head twitched but stayed active. It hissed something to its Fire sibling—guttural and urgent.
"Chloroblast," Ignis barked.
Everyone paused.
Even Jaxon blinked. "No way…"
Chloroblast. A risky, self-damaging move normally used as a finisher. Scovillain inhaled—and then one of its heads detonated a beam of concentrated photosynthetic energy straight at Hemlock. The beam tore through the misty battlefield like a railgun—green and gold and blinding.
"Perish Song!" Marceline screamed.
In the split second before the blast hit, Hemlock began humming—a low, dirge-like note that vibrated through every vent and panel in the arena. The song echoed like something sung by the dead.
Then Chloroblast struck.
A deafening roar of impact. The entire arena shook. Smoke covered the gym floor. Lights flickered.
When it cleared—Hemlock floated there. Barely.
Tattered. Faded. But alive.
The Scovillain, however, had collapsed to one knee, panting. Its body trembled from recoil.
Ignis looked genuinely shaken now. "Still standing…"
The monitors flared.
[Perish Song: Both active Pokémon will faint in three turns.]
Marceline's eyes gleamed.
"It's checkmate."
Ignis swore.
Bonnie nearly fell off her chair. "She's going to trade one-for-one?! In a gym match?!"
Jaxon's grin widened. "No. She's going to do something dumber."
Back on the field, Hemlock's body pulsed one final time. Marceline closed her eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Explosion."
Silence.
And then—a sound like a rift in reality.
Hemlock's body ballooned in size, shadows contorting inward like a black hole folding in on itself. For a brief second, he flickered—like a candle in a hurricane. Then:
BOOM.
A detonation of spectral force erupted across the battlefield, turning night into day. Ghostly flame. Psychic backlash. Poison haze and electric arcs rippling in every direction.
The arena screamed.
The explosion wasn't fire—it was entropy. It tore across the Scovillain like a judgment passed by death itself.
When the smoke cleared, Hemlock was gone. Fainted. His Poké Ball pinged as it auto-recalled him.
But Scovillain?
Flattened.
Its vines were smoking, one head limp, the other twitching. It collapsed with a groan.
Scovillain: UNABLE TO BATTLE.
Stunned silence.
Then chaos.
Announcers screamed. Camera drones zoomed. League officials practically fell over each other scrambling to process the move logs.
"Was that… was that Explosion?! From a Gastly?!"
"That's not legal—wait, no, it is legal—it's just nearly impossible to teach unless—"
Ignis's gauntlet chimed with damage reports. He didn't even look at them.
He just stared at the empty air where Hemlock had detonated, like something had been torn out of the fabric of his expectations.
Finally, he said:
"…How the hell did you teach that thing Explosion?"
Marceline wiped ash off her cheek and smirked. "I had a little help from a lunatic with an underground TM auction account."
From the audience, Jaxon raised both hands. "Guilty."
Bonnie cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed, "BLOWN. THE. FUCK. OUT."
The gym bell rang. Victory light: Marceline Gato.
Ignis just started laughing. Hard. Loud. Shoulders shaking.
"You crazy banking brats. You're going to ruin the whole League with your flair for drama and debt. I love it."
Marceline bowed. "Pleasure doing business, sir."
The woman turned to Jaxon—and without any hesitation, ran up to the edge of the stands. Her boots skidded against the grated steel, skirt flaring as she leapt over the security rail like it was made of tissue. Gasps followed her, but she didn't care.
Before he could get a word out, Marceline grabbed Jaxon by the collar, yanked him forward, and kissed him—hard.
Full crowd. League cameras. Bonnie screaming. Didn't matter.
She kissed him like the arena wasn't melting behind her. Like she didn't just pull off a televised assassination with a Ghost and a dream.
When she pulled back, her eyes were still burning—more than the Scovillain ever had.
"That," she said, breathless, "was for the TM, the training, the Wide Lens, and the sheer goddamn confidence you loaned me."
Then, quieter, but more dangerous:
"Next time you hold out on me, Mercer, I swear I'll make Ricin use Toxic on your cereal."
Bonnie was frozen three steps behind them, face a warzone of shock, secondhand fluster, and unprocessed jealousy.
Jaxon coughed. "Worth it."
Does that means he has two girlfriends now?