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Rotation battles were scarce on Kalos Routes—you know well from your experience as a Trainer, years ago. Even so, when a restaurant opened up in town with the promise of that battle format every course, you couldn’t resist. For memory of the old times.

Your reservation is eight sharp, but you take a quick stop to the Pokécenter to pull out the five remaining members of your team, five pokéballs which meant everything to you before you just stopped.

“It’s been a while since your last visit,” Nurse Joy states, as she brings the tray with pokéballs arranged in a perfect manner to the counter. “They might act a bit erratic, just from getting to see you again, but nothing too serious.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling guilty as you slide your team to the old belt you had as a Trainer. Perhaps, after your visit, you should let them out in the Safari Zone. They’d be in the open and in the wild, not locked up in boxes for months and months. And they’ll find new Trainers who will treat them with love everyday. Once outside, you smooth your hand over the six thick plastic shells, silent. An apology for them, for not being there, and a goodbye, for entrance of their future of being the next Champion’s favourite Pokémon. You give a sad little smile as you walk the memorised streets of Kalos, thinking of what could've been and what will never be.

You arrive there a few minutes early, but the host gladly lets you in. There’s a small table in a well lit corner, sitting below a grand painting, and you take it.

You flip through the menu for a few minutes, and call for the waiter after. He’s a older than you, but you still have more experience as a Trainer, and can beat him in the specified number of battle rounds.

As the night falls darker, the restaurant grows livelier, with battles in the middle of the hall’s centre. While waiting, you move your seat a bit to see the excitement. You’re about to ponder when is your turn as a Charmander faints, significating the end of that battle. And then the crowd disperses, leaving around three people for viewing.

“[Name], for second course meal,” your waiter calls as the battle finishes. You make your way there as he steps into the circle the small crowd has made, holding his pokéball out, giving a bow. As he positions his stance ready, you read the name on his tag for the first time. It’s written in cursive, it’s Dexio.

As the battle goes on, your mind isn’t on giving commands or the win condition—you’re thinking about the fact that he doesn’t remember you from your days as a Trainer. You were one of Sycamore’s top students, one who got pass Victory Road in a couple of months. But the building at the end of it wasn’t touched at all. You handed in your pokédex and said that’s it.

Dexio was there, at the professor’s side, as Sycamore cradled the device in his hands and looked up with slight tears in his eyes. The last thing he ever said to you was: “You’ll be always welcomed here, even if you’re lost.”

Well. You’ve been lost for years, but you didn’t ever need the League to find yourself again.

Then it’s over. Dexio sighs in defeat, taking his Musharna back away. But unlike when you started, more people are curved around your battle, cheering for your win. You bring up a hand to your forehead, and you find it’s wet from determination.

You fall back to your tiny table as Dexio carries your meal. “That was the best battle I had, ever since I was hired here.” He places it before you. “Reminds me of a Trainer I used to know. You’re really something.”

“Not really, but thank you,” you reply, but he’s already gone to be able to hear. You push that away, focusing on your meal.

Thirty minutes later, the third and final course is up, and you’re already standing before you can see who’s coming, pokéball in hand. “Wait a second,” you mumble, flipping through the last pages of the menu, just to have a look at the desserts.

The waiter clears his throat, so you have no choice to look up. But it isn’t the waiter standing there. It’s a man, dressed up in a chef's white uniform, staring you down with a gaze that makes you feel chilly. He clears his throat again.

“I am Siebold, member of the Elite Four, and the chef in this fine restaurant,” the man says, bowing. “I’ve been alerted to your battling style and would like to challenge you.”

Dexio’s eyes go wide. He leans up to Siebold, frantically whispering, “Sir, I will handle it—”

“No,” Siebold says, holding his hand out to the boy in a graceful but firm manner. “Let me challenge the lady.”

His pokéball is clutched firmly in his hand before you even unzip your bag.

“Let me see if you’re even more than what I expected years ago,” he says. And with that, he flicks his wrist, letting the pokéball go.

You throw out three Pokémon. Among them is Greninja, your starter from your days as a trainer. A small smile comes to your lips, as this is your last course and therefore last battle—at least their last memory of you would be giving it their all against one of the best in this region.

A few minutes in, he becomes much more emotional than you thought he was before, stoic and intimidating. His hair’s a mess, and he uses his gloved hand to keep it from trickling over his eyes.

You’re not sure why he’s getting like that—perhaps he’s just really into battling—but it comes clear soon enough.

“Give it your entire heart!” he yells, agitated at your half–hearted commands. “How can you call yourself a Trainer?”

You don’t reply, embarrassed, focusing on battle. But somehow, he reads your thoughts. “These Pokémon give their all for you in battle,” he states, “and you’re repaying them with not even a fraction of your dedication!”

“Stop it!” you yell, and he does. He freezes in place, and along with him is everyone else. The Pokémon in the centre cease their battle, sensing something is wrong. Everyone’s staring at you, wondering what’s wrong, and you just gulp and tell them the burden you’ve been holding for months and years.

“Don’t push me, please, I just came here to have a good time,” you look down at the floor near your shoes, not wanting to meet everyone’s gaze. “I’m not a Trainer and I never will be, ever again. So don’t expect me to do something that I wasn’t built for.”

It’s eerie, how this restaurant just a minute ago was full of excitement and laughter, became a place that almost felt as dark and silent as a cave.

And then someone takes a hammer and breaks the wall of unbearable silence. “Except that you were built for this,” Siebold says, and he earns the gaze of everyone. “The skill, the talent, it is all within you. And now you just need to conquer the determination.”

No, he’s wrong. You shake your head firmly and open your mouth to rebut him, but he speaks over you.

“[Name],” he says softly, his eyes softening into a look of not pity, but respect. “I believe you are, or, will be, the Trainer this region needs.”

You press your lips into a line, nodding. “If you say so.”

Siebold walks over to you and pulls your face up to join his gaze. His dark eyes look soft this close, contrary to his public image. “I mean it. And I want you say it like you, too, mean it.”

“I mean it,” you whisper, wiping a few tears forming in your eyes. “I am the Trainer this region needs.”

“You are, really,” he retreats back to his spot. “Now, back to battle!”

Soon, this place can hardly be called a restaurant anymore—all the customers have paused their meals, the waiters no longer moving between tables, in favour of watching your battle. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of your cheek; you wipe it off as you give a command to Greninja to turn center.

It surprises you, how you’re yelling moves, calculating strategies in your mind like this is your job. But you don’t want to stop.

And with the cry of his Barbaracle as it faints, the crowd bursts into applause, and you find yourself actually wishing that it wasn’t over.

Siebold keeps his pokéballs back in his apron, and raises his hands for silence. It must be his status as part of the Pokémon League, to have people listen to you right away.

“Good, good,” he nods his head in your direction. “Perhaps even the best.”

The crowd gasps as he says that. But there’s even a more shocking thing that follows; they nod in agreement straight after.

No, of course not. You give a false laugh. “Really? The best?”

“You have grace and skill—you truly treat battling as an artform, and that is a requirement must you aspire to be Champion.”

“Champion?” you shake your head. “No, I never really thought about it, ever—”

“The Kalos League should be left in the hands of a professional, since Diantha aspires to go worldwide. I do not believe in restraining people of what they want to do.” For one moment, you see the hard lines in his eyes go soft. “You’re the person whose battling that deserves the entire honour of Kalos most.”

He gives a bow and takes his leave. You sit back down again, stirring the rest of your tea with a slow rhythm, still pondering the possibility even when you’re walking out the restaurant.

And then you make a turn to Professor Sycamore’s lab.

-

Months later, you look at the Pokéball clutched tightly in your exhausted hand, tears forming in your eyes. It was a battle that lasted for an hour, and you feel like you could collapse any second. But it was worth it. It was all worth it.

As platform of coloured glass slowly ascends to the Hall of Fame, your mind is only on one thing—how bright his face was when he saw you enter the Water Chamber, how he said that he knew from the moment he saw you that you’d be the one. The gracefulness of his bow as he took back his last pokéball, muttering the words, “Thank you for the battle, my Champion.”

And he was right all along.