Chapter Seventy-Seven – Walking Behind a Storm
The trail curled east under a canopy of crooked pines, and by the time I spotted her again, it was already late morning. She was ahead of me, crouched near a stream, letting her flask fill from the clear flow. Same black coat. Same long blond hair half-tucked behind one ear. Same unreadable silhouette that looked like she belonged here more than the trees did.
I stopped, not hiding. She didn't glance up, but I saw the way her shoulders shifted slightly—aware. Acknowledging. But uninterested.
I stepped closer.
"You always scout water like it owes you something?" I asked.
She capped her flask and stood. "You always talk like you want to be left alone but don't know how?"
"Fair."
Luxio padded beside me and sniffed cautiously toward her before deciding she wasn't worth the energy. Smart.
She didn't move aside or offer space. Just stood there, watching the current. Her expression didn't change.
I crouched and filled my own bottle. "I'm not following you."
She shrugged. "It's a trail. Not my fault if you're on it too."
"Yeah, but you don't exactly scream 'company welcome.'"
"I don't scream anything," she said. "That's the point."
We stood in silence for a bit. The wind shifted through the leaves. Her Gible's Poké Ball was half-visible under her coat, clipped low on her belt—not hidden, just guarded.
"You don't let him out often," I said.
"I don't need to."
"Not worried about trust?"
"He doesn't trust people. He doesn't need to. We work."
I didn't argue.
"Orion," I said, in case she'd forgotten.
"I didn't forget," she replied. "Cynthia."
We started walking again, no invitation exchanged. Just parallel movement. I kept pace a little behind, not out of submission—just respect for space. She didn't fill silence with nonsense. I could appreciate that.
Eventually, I asked, "You aiming for Hearthome too?"
"I'm heading that way."
"Badge?"
"Eventually."
"Not in a rush?"
"I don't take orders from timelines," she said.
Neither did I.
The sun shifted overhead. We passed a stretch of low brush where a rustling hinted at a wild Pokémon stalking prey. Cynthia didn't turn to look. I didn't either.
We stopped beneath an overhang around midday. I pulled out the last of my jerky. She unwrapped something dried and salted I didn't recognize. We didn't share.
After a while, she said, "You know how to move. Most people crash through the wild like they're waiting to be rescued."
"Maybe I've just been out here too long."
"Or maybe you're used to no one coming."
I shrugged. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Cynthia didn't answer. But something about her expression said she understood.
I took that in, chewing slowly.
"What about you?" I asked.
Cynthia stared off into the distance, jaw tight. "I've won every match I've been in. But winning isn't the same as control."
That caught my attention.
"Yeah," I said. "That's the part they don't tell you about. Everyone talks about victory. No one talks about how little it means if you didn't own the outcome."
She nodded, just once.
"That why you're here?" she asked. "Control?"
I wiped my hands on my pants. "Freedom. Strength. Not having to count on anyone else to not screw things up."
Cynthia's mouth twitched like something about that made sense.
We packed up. Walked in silence again. The path turned steeper, cutting across an eroded slope. She moved like she already knew the terrain. I followed without comment.
At a ridgeline, she stopped. Looked out across the valley.
"You planning to go far?" she asked.
"Far enough I don't end up where I started."
She considered that. Then turned and kept moving.
We made camp before dusk. She set her gear with the precision of someone who's done it a hundred times in the rain and snow and worse. I built the fire. Luxio stayed close.
Neither of us talked while cooking. We didn't have to.
Later, sitting by the flames, she asked, "You ever think about how many people will just stay weak their whole lives?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"And I don't plan on being one of them."
She stared into the fire. "Good."
That was it.
When we turned in for the night, our campsites were ten feet apart. Not close. Not hostile. Just distant enough for sleep.
Cynthia didn't scare me. She wasn't a threat. Just another traveler carving her way forward with sharp edges and silence.
I wasn't chasing her.
But I was going the same direction.