Paint Job

The scrawny Linoone scampered on all fours into the infirmary. A Reuniclus internist, floating placidly behind a counter, smiled amiably at him and waved a gelatinous hand. Reuniclus were a fascinating species, Stanley idly noted. How their amorphous matrices levitated against gravity and stayed cohesive despite air pressure from all directions. Someday he would have to sit down and examine one properly. But not now. There were slightly more important things than a mathematician's trifling fancies at the moment. Like his critically injured friend. 

"Um, hey." Stanley greeted it. He couldn't really determine the Reuniclus' gender, so he didn't bother guessing. Never guess unless you have evidence to back it up. Stanley was the type of Pokémon who wouldn't predict the sun was going to rise unless he had some star charts. 

"Hello there!" The Reuniclus had a surprisingly deep, masculine voice. If the Linoone hadn't been looking at the internist dead on, he would have sworn he was talking to a Golem, or perhaps a Nidoking. Certainly not a green, spongy, childlike blob. 

"Um, looking for Farrokh. Krookodile. Big, maroon, broken ribs?" He tilted his head to a side.

The Reuniclus’ eyes lit up. "Yes! Your friend is recuperating nicely. An Espeon nurse has just given him a healing, and he's been doing well so far. Eating like a Hippowdon, though." It chortled. "You want to visit, right? What name should I give him?"

"Stanley. Galen."

"Which will it be?" Another chortle. Stanley scratched the fur behind his ears self-consciously. 

"The first."

"Alright, follow me." The internist floated away from the large counter and started to slowly drift down a hallway. The Linoone set his spectacles straight on his face as he followed. The receptionist was certainly taking its time with it. Perhaps the maintenance of such advanced telekinetic levitation forced the Reuniclus to proceed slowly, or end up in a green puddle on the floor. Either way, Stanley tried to match the slow pace. 

"Farrokh, a Linoone by the name of Stanley is here," the Reuniclus announced in cheery baritone as the duo entered a sickbay to the left. It smiled at the herbalist before drifting away.

Farrokh was propped up on a cot. He was dressed in a faded smock instead of his standard scale armor or priest robes, and his arms and chest were wrapped in bandages. He weakly looked up, then dropped his head reflexively back down to the pillows as his snout touched his damaged ribs. "Greetings."

"Hey," Stanley replied in his typical laconic fashion, but the one word was imbued with genuine concern. He rushed to his side. "How're you?"

"I have seen…better suns," the bounty hunter chuckled, rasping a bit as he nursed his ribs gingerly. "Your gelatin has helped…immensely."

"I try," Stanley stated, not without a touch of pride. It was good to know that his medicines worked. "When're you getting outta here?"

“Eh…soon. I expect to leave within two weeks or so. Even then, it’ll take some time before I am at…full capacity. But I’ll be back in the flat soon enough.”

"Hope so. How're they treating you here?" Stanley looked out the window. The sun blazed down at them, stinging the Linoone's eyes. In contrast, Farrokh seemed content with its soothing warmth; he basked in its rays, beginning to doze off.

"Good. The internist has been helping me…get situated. She's been…eh, loquacious." His voice trailed off as he closed his eyes.

"Oh." So the Reuniclus was female. Would have never guessed from that deep voice. Stanley sank into a chair, taking out a sheaf of papers and beginning to leaf through them. He heard Farrokh began to snore, his snout whistling in contented pitches. 

"Farrokh," Stanley broke the tranquil atmosphere some ten minutes later. "Wake up. Lump." He snapped his claws together in a sharp, brisk movement. That was rather suave, actually, He repeated the motion a few more times experimentally before Farrokh's growl cut through.

"Are you performing a new dance maneuver or are you portending news? Get on with it."

Stanley sniggered. "New bounty. Vandalism. Kecleon, female. Suspected high-class from Artiphron. No fighter, prefers to hide. Alert. Fast."

Farrokh had already closed his eyes and sunk back down into his pillow before Stanley had even finished the description. "I am in no shape to conduct any business, my friend."

"True. Just thought aft--"

"But on the other hand, you are."

"What?"

"This is a two-tier business, no?" Farrokh painfully cocked his head at him, taking special care not to touch his bruised ribs with his snout.

"Yes. As in I do mine, you do yours. Coexist."

"And coincide, Stanley. Consider this job." Farrokh held up a claw, caked with blood under the linen bandages. "The suspect is unarmed and untrained in combat. She is nimble, as are you. She is cunning, as are you. She is unlikely to pose any major threat to your health."

"You never know. Could knock me out. Then I couldn’t run JELLO."

"It is a mere vandal. You will be fine, especially with your JELLO. I'm alive thanks to that shop." He gestured to himself, and Stanley smiled proudly before remembering he was supposed to look deadly opposed to this proposal.

"It's a high-paying job too, no? Issued from the castle. I have every confidence in you."

"Great, 'cause I got none." Stanley scratched behind his ears. "You can cover both of our confidences. Like you can cover this job when you're on your feet."

Farrokh held up a claw. “You came to this city to learn, no? If you want to learn about this world, you must learn about combat. The world runs on it, and you must run with the world. Think of this as training, not tedium.”

Stanley sighed. His claws slowly inched towards his satchel. "Bombs?"

The bounty hunter grinned. The nurses had cleaned out most of the blood in his teeth, but a trace amount still lingered in his incisors. “Granted."

Stanley bowed, wished Farrokh well, and scampered out. There was a business to attend to. A bounty-hunting business.

I really must get better at these one-liners, he thought. 

The Linoone departed several hours later from the flat itself, carefully flipping a sign around to read CLOSED. He rarely used that sign. It wasn't because he was incredibly busy, either; quite the opposite. JELLO just had few enough customers that he forgot about the sign most of the time.

But on this day, Stanley actually remembered. He had also remembered to bring his satchel, bristling with Seed Bombs and various vials, a spare pair of silver spectacles, and a letter opener. It too was silver, and a small affair; short and sharp, just like Stanley's wit.

He set out for the main town. The mathematician had an idea on where to find someone who would know more about the bounty. Farrokh had only mentioned him once in passing, but Stanley rarely forgot things. except that one time where he had left an Occa gelatin out in the sun too long. He hadn't expected it to combust. Who expected Berry snacks to burst into flames?

He reached the market square. It was already around dinner time, and most of the marketgoers had dispersed for the night, eager to eat. Not Stanley. He often forgot to eat; Farrokh had to remind him sometimes that mealtime was just as important as study-time, if not more. Though sometimes Farrokh would just outright eat his portion of the food. The glutton.

The Loudred chowing down on a sandwich in front of him seemed to run on similar lines to his roommate. He wore a purple, floppy hat, equally loud checkered clothes, and a delighted grin as he dined, sitting on a stone bench. Stanley approached. 

"Hey Gian." The town crier looked up.

"Hey, cuz!" Gian got up, spraying crumbs as he reached for a handshake before stopping himself with a curious look. "How didja know my name?"

"Farrokh told me. Friend and roommate."

The Loudred grinned. "I owe that feller me life! Ask him ta tell ya the whole yarn sometime, master…?"

"Stanley. Galen."

"Master Galen!" Gian's stentorian voice was far too loud for Stanley's ears, but his heart felt curiously warmed by the congenial way the town crier pronounced his name. "What can a humble crier do fer you?"

"Kecleon vandal. Looking for her for the bounty. Clues?"

"Ah, so ya workin' with Farrokh?" The brash Loudred chuckled as he sized the mathematician up. “Don't look like the biggest fella. Sure ya got what it takes?"

Stanley bristled, the fur near his ears standing on end in outrage. He may not have looked like a fighter, but the Linoone certainly had tenacity and pugnacity. As Gian was about to learn. "Yeah. Where's she at?"

Gian appeared to not have noticed Stanley's indignation. He scratched his nose idly. "Reckon the gal's normally near the baker's district. Ya know it, cuz? Take a right here, then a left, then go straight a while and you'll be there in two shakes of a Furret's tail.” He pointed out directions for him. 

"Don't like Furret. Hysterical bunch. Thanks." Stanley fished a few Cressents from his satchel and dumped them into Gian's lap. He scurried off, and Gian regarded him oddly.

"That boy just ain't right." The town crier observed to himself before turning his attention to his newfound wealth.

Stanley's head pivoted back and forth on a swivel as he skittered on all four paws. The wanted poster had mentioned a red, zigzagging stripe as the hoodlum’s signature tag. He kept looking. What he should do, Stanley thought, was get a stakeout going. Pokémon followed patterns, and he had to assume the Kecleon followed a pattern as distinctive as the pattern on her back.

He skidded to a stop at a stone wall, bumping into a large Drifblim. The purple phantom glowered at him with jet-black eyes before floating away. Stanley shook his head as he rose to his haunches. Ghosts were always enigmas. For all he knew, the Drifblim was telepathically greeting him, or wishing him an excruciating death. Either way, he was glad the deceased dirigible had moved on. Now he could see the red paint emblazoned on the masonry in front of him, clear as day.

He moved back and started to measure the dimensions of the wall. It was a sturdy wall of venerable stone, about seven feet tall, thirty feet long, maybe three inches thick. The manor itself was a quaint one, neighbored by almost identical houses in a classic example of insipid suburbia. There was no good reason why this particular residence had been singled out. But the scarlet streak was smeared on the stone, and that was that.

Stanley looked around for cover for the stakeout. The street itself offered no protection, even if the night was darkening. His light fur would give him away too easily. He drew a murky vial of restorative mud, and slathered himself liberally in a Mud Sport. The mud was typically meant to allay pain, neutralize Electric attacks, and moisturize fur but it would do for camouflage tonight. Stanley checked the metal gate, and found it unsurprisingly locked. It was late, after all. He then looked at the graffitied wall. If he could scale it and find a place to hide INSIDE the wall, all would be well. Good ambush plan. Or so he thought. It mostly made sense at the time.

The mathematician took a few more steps back. Farrokh, he knew, was adept at parkour. Himself? Slightly less so, and he weighed slightly less than the burly, armored Krookodile too. It was somewhat humbling to imagine Farrokh making the leap with ease, with a hundred more pounds of weight. But back to work. The wall wasn't going to move aside, and neither was he. Stanley began to run at the wall at full speed, timing a jump over it. 

He leapt. And immediately smacked into the top of the wall, and only barely succeeded in hanging onto the rim with flailing claws. Latched onto the wall with a bruise on his cheek, Stanley breathed a prayer he had used Mud Sport. The bruise didn't hurt much thanks to it, and without the mud, Pokémon could’ve probably seen how absurd he looked.

The herbalist scrabbled a bit, and managed to clamber over the wall--and promptly lost his balance and fell over the side. The Linoone landed with a light thump into a bush, wincing with pain. So glad he had used the mud.

Two problems then presented themselves. One, his impact hadn't gone unnoticed; he heard creaking as someone emerged from the front door. A beam of gentle, bluish light flashed on, and began to scan the front yard. 

Two, Stanley realized what kind of bush he was in. Out of every bush he could have landed in, it was the worst one possible. He wouldn't even call it a bush, really; more like a mass of tangled brambles and foliage. Terrible bush, really. Riffen Creek had much nicer ones, all lush, green, and full of nice berries. This one was infested with Nidivy. A type of climbing plant that usually clung onto walls, but sometimes latched onto shrubbery as well. And it was very, very itchy. The mud somewhat helped, but it couldn't keep out every irritant, and Stanley fought the overwhelming urge to convulse on the ground and scratch. His fur was on fire and he strained to open his tear-blurred eyes. He had no idea where his glasses had gone; he hoped they were over the wall. 

Not that he was in a good position to search for them. A Flaaffy in nightclothes was swinging her illuminated tail back and forth from the front door. She looked sleepy, and seemed to be taking forever to sweep the front yard. His camouflage seemed to be working so far, but he didn't want to pat himself on the back as much as he wanted to scratch it. Stanley had half a mind just to reveal himself to relieve the agony of itching. His fur was probably going to look as red as Farrokh's scales. The things he did for that guy. He lay still in agony, waiting.

"Nothing, dad!" The Flaaffy reported at length. Stanley didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief. It would have hurt too much. 

"I could've sworn…well, come back in, Julie." She turned and walked back to her father inside, shutting the heavy doors behind her. Stanley slowly and painfully crawled out of the bush. He fell to the ground and started to scratch like crazy. After a while, Stanley remembered why he had just pent what seemed like an eternity in a Nidivy-covered bush. Applying more mud to himself, both to soothe the itching and reinforce his camouflage, Stanley found his glasses and set them back on his face. Thank goodness they were in one piece. He headed to the bush opposite of the one he had fallen in. There was no Nidivy. In fact, not a single shrub in that garden was infested with Nidivy except the one he had landed in. Typical.

He crouched down and waited, occasionally patting his satchel. He really wasn't sure if he wanted to use his Seed Bombs. On one hand, they were explosively powerful and could help him catch the outlaw quickly. On the other hand, they were explosively powerful and could create quite a bit of properly damage. Farrokh would kill him if he incurred debt from a paying job. Or, as he put it, "eliminate his threat potential". 

Some time later, the Linoone was stirred from his musings by a faint sound of brushing. He looked through the gaps in the iron gate. A vague shape of a green tail protruded. It had to be the target.

"Stop!" Stanley was thinking of what to say next when the Kecleon turned, saw his dark image emerging from the bush, and bolted, dropping a flat red brush. Stanley immediately tried to give chase, and very quickly recognized the flaw in his ambush plan. He would either have to rescale the wall to get to her, or get through the locked door. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The mathematician decided on the second option. Fumbling with his satchel, he drew a small seed and hammered it into the lock with his fist. Taking a few steps back, he crouched down on all fours and started to race to the primed bomb. Either he had timed this right and he would rush through milliseconds after the Seed Bomb had detonated, or it would explode in his face.

The bomb exploded. The iron frame was warped by the impact, forming an opening big enough for him to go through. He leapt through and looked down the street. The Kecleon was still running down it. 

"No, no, no, no," Stanley panted as he gave chase. He was much faster than the Kecleon, but the chameleon was able to blend in. He listened for the sound of commotion behind him. Nothing. Unbelievable. The Flaaffy and her father had heard a light thump of a Linoone dropping in, but not a minor explosion? Heavy sleepers.

The Kecleon turned to the left into an alley. Stanley reached it a few seconds later and found himself face to face with a dead end. No sign of the graffiti artist. He cursed and scanned the walls, cleaning out his spectacles hurriedly and replacing them on his snout. A slight shimmer along one wall was edging close to him.

"Not tonight!" Stanley lunged for the shimmer with outstretched claws. He made contact, but his claws pinged off the Kecleon's Rock-hard scales. Damn Camouflage.

The Kecleon swiped at him with blinding speed, and Stanley was floored. Even as he listened to the pitter-patter of the Kecleon's footsteps, he felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment. His first fight and he had been knocked flat out by the first blow. Then he realized what the sneak had done.

"Fake Out," he darkly muttered. Stanley rose, drawing his letter opener and holding it in his closed fist. He skulked out of the alley, and looked both ways. Nothing. Not even a hint of green. Other than the trees. But trees were normally green. It wasn't likely that the vandal could climb that fast. And it was even more unlikely she could make like a tree and leaf that quickly. 

With a sigh of frustration, the mathematician stowed the knife and strode back to the vandalized wall. He wanted to survey how much damage he had done (and how much he was going to pay in reparations), and he wanted to see the Kecleon's brush. At least he had that. Could be a clue. 

Stanley put both of his claws to his hips as he examined the outcome of that night's hijinks. The offending stripe had definitely been extended. Now it was blazed against more than half the wall, an ugly red scar that stung the eyes in its sheer ugliness against the venerable stone. What a juvenile and stupid act. Stanley sighed at the graffiti. Well, sighing wasn’t going to wipe it off. Time to start scrubbing while it was still fresh.

He drew a rag and flask of water from his satchel, uncorking the canteen with his teeth. Pouring some water onto the rag, he briskly strode over to the wall and began scrubbing. The rag came away blood-red, and Stanley was reminded of Farrokh in the hospital. He hoped he would get well soon. The Krookodile would’ve caught the miscreant instantly if he was at the scene. What was Stanley doing instead? Janitor duty. 

He continued exploring the wall with his rag, occasionally pouring more water on it or squeezing it out, spattering crimson liquid. Enough of the reddish solution was pooled around his feet to make him resemble a psychopath. The stone was rough, eroded with age, and the paint came away thankfully easily. Then he started swabbing at another part of the wall, and frowned. This was smooth stone, scaly and slick and shiny. It should’ve been easy to wipe away the offending paint. But for some reason, the scarlet stripe stayed stuck to the stone. He tried again. Nothing. 

Stanley took a pace back and examined the portion of the wall. Hang on a second. Time for an experiment. He drew back a fist, and punched the wall as hard as he could.

A high-pitched cry of pain rang out. The Kecleon stumbled out of the masonry, displaying the same red stripe across her chest that was emblazoned on the wall. She was clutching at her face with a claw patterned exactly like the stone wall behind her. Amazing camouflage ability, an idle part of Stanley’s brain commented. Shut up, the more aware part countered. Do your job.

“More of that unless you come clean.” Stanley did his best to sound like a tough guy. He wasn’t sure if he was doing a good job of it. It was hard to pull it off when you were a Linoone. 

“You leave me ALONE!” The Kecleon let out a piercing Screech. Stanley closed his eyes reflexively at the deafening sound, and covered his ears with both paws, leaving himself exposed to attack. Fortunately for him, the crook never took that opportunity; rather, she bolted away again. 

Stanley was faster, though, even with his eardrums shot. Today just wasn’t a good day for them; first that loud conversation with Gian, and now this auditory assault. He went back down on all fours, and started to race after her. As he charged, a vine broke through the cobbles. It swiftly lunged horizontally back down into the ground, forming a quick tripwire. Stanley neatly jumped the Grass Knot and continued running. The Kecleon looked back at him, clearly tiring. With a burst of adrenaline, Stanley sank his little fangs into her large tail.

“Ceash and deshish!” Stanley tried to declare. She tried to wave her tail to fling him off, but he stayed put. He began to bite harder; while he didn’t want to draw blood, he didn’t want her to escape again either. 

“Stop being MEAN!” She flexed her tail, and Stanley suddenly tasted acrid metal. It was like chomping down on an anvil. He released his grip as she lifted her Iron Tail and slammed it into the ground. The mathematician staggered backwards, observing the impact of the heavy tail on the shattered cobbles.

“You first,” Stanley fired back. He swung a punch. The Kecleon tried to clumsily dodge, but ended up taking the blow anyway. She reeled back, and Stanley jabbed at her nose. Blood sprang forth, and with a little shriek she stopped resisting. 

“Okay, okay, okay! Calm DOWN!” The Kecleon was watching her bleeding nose with trepidation, as her blood steadily dripped onto the pavement, the same color as the paint she used. “Stop hitting me!” Stanley thought he heard a tremor in her voice.

I’ve only hit you twice, Stanley thought. “Just come with me,” is what came out of his mouth. “You’re under arrest.”

She sniffled pitifully, trying to staunch the flow. All of her rage had been drained away by the sight of blood, and the Kecleon now resembled nothing more than a scared teenage girl. With a twinge of sympathy, Stanley took out the canteen and rag again, trickling some water on the cloth. “Here,” he said, offering it to her.

The Kecleon accepted it gracefully, wiping her nose with it. Stanley heard footsteps behind him, and turned. A Hypno, wearing the uniform of an Aetherian guard, was looming over the pair. 

“Excuse me, you two. I heard a high-pitched screeching from here. Sir, did you assault this girl?”

“What?” The charge seemed preposterous. He had just spent half his night trying to chase down this villain and bring her to justice, and now HE was being accused?

“If I may be so bold, you have mud on your face and blood on your hands.” The Hypno gestured to his paws. Stanley looked himself down. He was slathered in dark mud, save his paws, which was still matted with red paint. Perhaps he did look suspicious. No—not perhaps, almost certainly. 

“No, no, no. I know what it—” 

“Assault and battery…” The guard ripped off a piece of parchment and scribbled a bit on it. He folded it neatly and started digging around in a bag. Stanley sputtered with outrage—he was a crime-catcher, not a criminal, and this was a huge misunderstanding. The Hypno paid no heed.

“I advise you two to both come with me.” He drew two pairs of leather bindings. The guard deftly cuffed both of them; while the Kecleon meekly acquiesced, Stanley never stopped talking. They started marching down the street.

“Mistake. It’s a mistake. I’m a bounty hunter. She’s a bounty. Vandalism. Kecleon, female. Suspected high-class from Artiphron.” He rattled off the same list he had given Farrokh at the infirmary, and the guard stopped. Stanley saw a glimmer of hope. “I have the poster.”

“Do you, now?” The Hypno took his satchel and started to frisk through it. He frowned at the Seed Bombs, but said nothing of them, tucking them away. Stanley inwardly cursed. At length, the Hypno found the warrant, and compared the artist’s rendering to the miscreant in front of him. There was a pause. 

“Ah. I see, then. Quite right,” The guard looked sheepish. He stepped towards him and freed him from his bindings. Stanley stretched out his paws gratefully, feeling the circulation come back to his wrists. The Hypno passed him his satchel and Seed Bombs back.

“My mistake, sir. Under the circumstances…” he trailed off, looking at Stanley for understanding. He nodded curtly.

“I suppose I’ll take this youth down to the cells. Very good capture. To whom should I give the credit of this bounty?” The Hypno cocked his head at him. The Kecleon sniffled once more. She still held the wet rag, dabbing her nose with it gingerly. Stanley debated asking for it back, but decided that he just wanted to get this over with.

“Stanley. Galen. Happy to help.” He bowed to the guard, and packing away the bombs in his satchel, scurried away into the night. First things first, he needed a bath before another guard mistook him. One criminal was enough for today; no need to get cozy with more in the cells.