Condemned ║ Guzma & Gladion
The route leading to Po Town was just as desolate as the town itself. It was dark, grim, and cursed with unending rainfall. Puddles of stagnant water scattered the route as the saturated earth struggled to retain it. Mudslides were common: the rocky mountain path to the east yielded to the pelting downpour and sent many unsuspecting Trainers and Pokémon to their doom. Because of its dire weather, the route saw hardly any traffic. Guzma was just fine with that. The only people who needed to be there were members of his former crew and the island’s kahuna.
He’d liked the area, once. He’d reveled in the fact that Skull’s reputation preceded them, that they’d terrified the nearby residents enough that they steered clear of the town and Route 17 and left them well enough alone. Even the police force couldn’t touch them—they’d split along with the townspeople. All that left was Nanu, and he’d come later. But that was so long ago. Guzma shifted the umbrella as the rain changed directions, plunging his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
When his crew first ‘conquered’ Po Town, they’d made it their castle, using its massive, impenetrable walls to keep society out. And with his makeshift throne and his loyal followers, he was their king. It was his word that was law, and his word that made their lives better than it was before. Guzma led himself to believe that he belonged in Po Town. But being so close to it now, it didn’t feel like home anymore. It was a massive, hulking reminder of things he would rather forget.
Excess rain splattered on his stark-white sneakers. This rain had never been good for his threads. He knocked on the door, as politely as the old cop had told him to do, and waited. He stared at the door for what seemed like ten minutes, but an answer never came. Maybe he was in the back messing with his Meowth. Guzma frowned. “OI! Pops! S’rainin’ like shit out here, lemme in!” he shouted, pounding his free fist on the metal doors. He tugged on the door handles, but they were locked tight. Nanu wasn’t home. Guzma scowled, dissatisfied, and moved away. He told himself he hadn’t wanted to see the old kahuna that badly, anyway.
Guzma trudged down the path leading south, away from the looming walls of Po Town, his thoughts elsewhere. He made sure to keep out of the wall’s line of sight just in case he was seen. If any of his old crew still lived there, they’d be sure to go after him. The phone in his pants pocket vibrated, breaking Guzma out of his brooding. He knew who it was before he checked it. It bothered him that Plumeria kept messaging him in spite of his silence. In her message, she told him she wouldn’t quit on him. A small part of him wanted to reply back, to tell her that this was for her own good, but another part held him back. It was better to cut all ties, to rip it off quick like a Band-Aid, and get all the hurts done and over with before you had a chance to change your mind. Nanu had told him that.
He put his phone back in his pocket. She still didn’t get it. This wasn’t the first time she’d messaged him, nor was it the first time he’d ignored her. When he first disbanded Team Skull and left without looking back, she’d messaged him, confused. And when he didn’t reply, Plumeria messaged him again, cursing and angry and telling him that he had no right. It was her team as much as his. But as the days went on of more silence, she messaged him again, this time offering explanations. And the time after that, promises of continued friendship.
And now she tells him that she still waited for him, just like a few members of the old crew waited for him in Po Town. Guzma didn’t know what to think. The subject wrapped his stomach in iron chains, twisting it tighter and tighter until he was as mutilated as his own warped emotions. He’d rid himself of Skull—he’d once fancied himself destruction in human form, but it was his crew that destroyed him. The old cop had told him so. The branching, bloodred scars on his shoulders and neck twinged in response, almost in agreement with the thought.
Guzma rubbed his burning shoulder. She’d be better off without him. The weather cleared as he left Route 17 behind, transitioning from a dreary grey into brilliant, cheery sunshine. Ula’ula’s meadow welcomed him with the sweet scent of its blossoming red flowers. Guzma put his umbrella away and stashed it in the hollow at the base of a nearby tree. The hollow contained other items from his past visits, and others still from members of his crew who’d used it before him. He left them alone and continued on his way.
He knew his trip back to Melemele Island would be a long one. Guzma made it to Nanu’s house in record time—he traveled as fast as he could manage while still keeping his cool and nonchalant façade. Old man Hala would wait for him, and now that his visit was cut short, he had no reason to hurry back. He walked along the wooden bridge, slouching and keeping his eyes lowered as he passed people taking a tour around the meadow. Their gaze was prying and suspicious. Guzma shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and ignored their stares.
But there was one person who caught his attention. Standing at the edge of a bridge was a young man with blond hair looking over a small section of the meadow. Guzma didn’t notice anything of overwhelming importance there, just the same red flowers and wandering tourists searching desperately for the flamenco-dancing Oricorio. Guzma knew the kid by sight. There was no one, save for himself, who held such an intense stare.
Guzma’s memories were fuzzy of the day prior to his entering Ultra Space. What was said, what was done, they were scattered in bits and pieces, with some memories being hazier than others. He was certain he’d seen the kid outside of Aether’s base. An image flickered in his mind, one of anguish and one of maniacal laughter. He couldn’t remember what came next, but he remembered that Gladion was her son.
He clenched his jaw, images of her face popping into his mind, a waking nightmare. Inside his hoodie, Guzma clenched his hands, his fingernails digging into the scarred flesh of his palms. The bitch had a way of inciting him to do anything at her command—and even now, he was forced to suffer memories that he wished to forget. Guzma grit his teeth and drove them out.
He found himself staring at the kid’s torn sleeves. He moved closer, his hands deep in his pockets and his posture poor as ever. Reliving those moments took more out of him than he cared to admit.
“Ain’t nothin’ out that way, kid,” he said. His eyes flicked to the meadow and back to Gladion. Guzma didn’t know what compelled him to speak. He should have kept walking, but it was too late now. If he was lucky, the kid wouldn’t want to chat. “Them flowers ain’t gonna do you no good.”
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