Jack Sparrow would never have guessed that the greatest logistical problem in his life would not involve Pokémon migrations, black-market deals, raids on his shipments, or the ever-present risk of accidentally angering the wrong regional authority.
No, it turned out to be women.
Specifically, it was the sight of himself sitting at a reinforced table with Palm Guy—the Pokémon science fellow whose real name Jack continued to forget out of spite—while three exceptionally beautiful women argued in increasingly sharp tones around them, each radiating a different kind of danger, entitlement, and patience stretched thin.
Palm Guy adjusted his glasses for the fifth time in a minute, sweat beginning to bead at his temple as if his body instinctively understood that this was not a situation solvable by data, charts, or evolutionary projections. He kept glancing toward the exit, then toward Jack, then back to his notes, as though hoping one of those things might transform into a lifeboat if stared at hard enough.
Jack, for his part, leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, expression unreadable, eyes flicking lazily from face to face while his brain quietly screamed that this was a mutiny forming right in his own galley.
Mai Zenin stood closest to him, posture immaculate and utterly infuriating in how effortlessly composed she looked. She wore a pearl necklace that caught the light just enough to draw attention without seeming ostentatious, paired with a sleek one-piece outfit and the same white fur coat she favored whenever she wanted to remind the world that she was both expensive and untouchable. Jack found himself wondering—again—how she afforded any of it.
It wasn't like she had brought luggage when she moved in.
When the Zenin Clan had sold her off—reassigned, they'd called it—she'd arrived with nothing more than a single case of documents, a few personal effects, and an expression that suggested she'd already processed the betrayal and filed it under "expected disappointments." Jack had never seen her shopping, never seen deliveries, never seen accounts linked to her name, and yet she existed in a constant state of quiet luxury, as though money simply obeyed her out of habit.
She hadn't had much cursed energy to begin with, not compared to the monsters her clan liked to elevate and parade, but what little she had once possessed had been hers, something she could feel humming beneath her skin like a second pulse, something that made the world sharper, more responsive, more obedient when she pushed back against it. Losing it hadn't broken her. It hadn't even slowed her, not in any way the Zenin elders cared to measure.
But there were moments like this—standing in the same room as women who looked at Jack Sparrow the way predators looked at territory—when she felt the absence like a missing limb she could still sense itching.
If she still had cursed aura, she wouldn't need words.
The pressure alone would have been enough.
Mai adjusted the pearl necklace at her throat with deliberate grace, fingers cool and steady, her posture relaxed in a way that made it very clear she was not threatened, even if her thoughts were sharpening into something far less polite.
Harlots, she thought without guilt, watching Ellen Joe's tail flick with barely restrained irritation. Every last one of them circling him like he's prey instead of the liability he actually is.
What Jack did not know—what no one had bothered to explain to him at the time—was that buried deep within the contract he hadn't read, a document he had signed with the same casual confidence he reserved for bar tabs and docking permits, was a clause binding him not just to Mai Zenin, but to her sister as well.
He had married both Mai and Maki Zenin.
Maki, for her part, had reacted to the revelation with surprising calm, accepting it with a shrug and a half-smile that suggested she viewed the arrangement less as romance and more as a long-term investment. She had set one condition, however, delivered with the blunt certainty of someone who knew her own worth: she would refrain from any claim, physical or otherwise, until she reached at least Elite Four level strength.
Ellen stood a short distance away, arms crossed beneath her chest, shark tail swaying behind her with restrained irritation as she watched the scene unfold. Her pale gaze lingered on Mai longer than necessary, expression flat but unmistakably hostile, as though she were cataloging every movement, every breath, every subtle territorial cue.
In Ellen's eyes, Mai Zenin was not a woman.
She was a complication.
A rival asset.
A problem that should not have been allowed to exist so close to something Ellen had already been told was hers.
The Joe family did not share.
They did not compete openly, either. They claimed, and then they removed obstacles quietly, efficiently, and without sentiment. Ellen had been raised with that certainty baked into her bones, reinforced through deep-sea rites, crushing-pressure drills, and a culture that treated possession as responsibility rather than indulgence.
Jack Sparrow, whether he understood it or not, had already been marked.
"I need to talk to Jack right now!"
The voice cut through the room like a thrown bottle, sharp and furious and vibrating with the kind of emotional force that made even people who didn't know the speaker flinch on instinct. It came from the doorway, loud enough to override the ongoing tension without even trying, carrying the unmistakable sound of someone who had already decided she was right and was now merely arriving to enforce that decision.
Jack didn't say a thing.
Palm Guy nearly jumped out of his chair.
Belle pushed off the pillar and stepped forward, boots echoing faintly against the stone floor of the temple as she closed the distance, her eyes never leaving his face. Whatever jealousy she was feeling had already burned past the messy stage and settled into something colder, more focused, the kind that didn't rant so much as catalogue offenses for later use.
Her gaze flicked sideways then, slow and deliberate, taking in Mai first—pearls, fur, composure like a blade kept in velvet—and then Ellen, with her crossed arms, coiled tail, and barely restrained hostility.
Belle's lip curled.
"And since we're apparently pretending this is normal," she added, voice dry with contempt, "are you two always this close to other people's men, or did I just pick a special day?"
The insult landed heavier than shouting ever could, sharpened by the fact that Belle wasn't posturing. She was territorial, yes, but more than that, she was angry, the kind of angry that came from feeling blindsided rather than insecure.
Mai turned her head slowly, eyes settling on Belle with the calm of someone who refused to acknowledge provocation as anything but tedious noise.
"You should mind your tone," Mai said evenly. "You're in a sacred space."
Belle laughed under her breath, sharp and humorless. "Oh, spare me. Temples don't make men faithful."
Ellen shifted her weight then, tail swaying once, her voice low when she spoke. "You're loud for someone without standing."
Belle's eyes snapped to her instantly. "And you're awfully confident for someone who just arrived and already thinks she owns the place."
Palm Guy made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a prayer.
Jack raised a hand finally, not standing, but not lounging anymore either, his posture subtly changed, attention sharpened as he looked from Belle to the other two women now circling him in different ways.
"Now hold on," Jack said carefully, pirate cadence slipping in as it always did when he was trying to regain control of a situation. "No one's claimed ownership of anythin'."
Belle turned on him immediately.
"Don't," she said flatly. "Don't do that thing where you pretend this is casual."
Jack inhaled slowly through his nose, the way he did when he realized charm alone wasn't going to carry him through the next few minutes, then straightened in his chair and finally decided to do the thing he should have done several escalating hostilities ago.
"Right," he said, clapping his hands together once, the sound echoing faintly through the temple hall and drawing every eye back to him whether they liked it or not. "Introductions, then, before someone starts throwin' hands or contracts."
He gestured first toward Ellen, open-palmed, careful, as if indicating a loaded weapon rather than a person.
"Ellen Joe," Jack said, voice steady, pirate cadence smoothing the tension just enough to keep it from snapping. "Miner blood, deep-sea folk, shark tail, carries enough steel on her back to qualify as a mobile armory, and currently under the impression that she owns me."
Ellen didn't deny it. She merely lifted her chin a fraction, eyes never leaving Mai.
Jack then turned slightly, angling his hand toward Mai without touching her, instinctively aware that proximity itself was a statement.
"And this," he continued, "is Mai Zenin. My lawyer."
Mai inclined her head politely, pearls glinting as she did, the gesture refined enough to be unimpeachable and dismissive at the same time.
"Legal representative," Mai corrected calmly. "Manager of contracts, compliance, and damage control."
Ellen's tail flicked once, sharper this time.
Jack didn't pause.
"Mai," he added, shifting his gaze briefly toward her, "this is Belle."
He turned fully then, nodding toward the woman who had been standing her ground with arms crossed and eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"My proxy," Jack said. "She's here because the lass refused to take free money."
Belle scoffed immediately, her glare snapping back to him with enough force that Jack could practically feel it bounce off his skull.
"I don't take charity," Belle said, every word clipped and deliberate, the kind of emphasis that came from pride rather than volume. "And I'm very, very glad you're paying my brother's hospital bills, Jack, I really am—but I told you already, I'll work for it. I don't want favors hanging over my head like chains."
The words didn't come out as an accusation so much as a boundary drawn in ink, firm and non-negotiable, and Jack felt the familiar knot of irritation and reluctant respect twist together in his chest the way it always did when Belle dug her heels in like this.
He let out a long, suffering groan and leaned back in his chair, tipping his head toward the ceiling as if the carved stone gods above might take pity on him or at least pretend not to be entertained.
"Of all the stubborn women fate's decided to lash to my mast," Jack muttered, rubbing his face with one hand, "ye somehow manage to be the only one who refuses free money on principle."
He dropped his hand and glanced sideways at her again, expression torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness.
"Most people," he continued, voice dry, "would've taken the credits, thanked me politely, and then vanished into a better life without a second thought."
Belle's jaw tightened. "I'm not 'most people.'"
"Aye," Jack replied without hesitation. "That be the problem."
Mai watched the exchange in silence, her expression carefully neutral even as her thoughts sharpened, cataloging the way Jack's tone softened just a fraction when he spoke to Belle, the way his irritation lacked the bite it carried when directed at others.
So she matters, Mai noted privately, fingers tightening briefly at her side before she forced them to relax. Not that it matter in the long run.
Ellen noticed it too.
Jack exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, like a man already out of patience and fresh out of rum.
"Mate," he said at last, voice roughened with irritation and that rolling cadence that made everything sound half like a joke and half like a threat, "release the Pokémon options so I can be gone from here before someone starts draftin' vows or curses."
"Jack—""Jack…""Jack!"
The three voices overlapped in a familiar, grating chorus, equal parts complaint and warning, but he didn't even look at them. He was done. Entirely done. The argument had circled itself into nonsense, his flask was empty, and the temple air was starting to feel like a bad port where everyone wanted something and no one was honest about the price.
Palm Guy saw his opening like a man spotting daylight through a collapsing tunnel.
The senior Pokémon researcher straightened immediately, grateful beyond words for a reason to reclaim control of his own temple, because as Head of the Geo City Pokémon Research Institute—an institution technically under Viridian City's territorial authority—he was very much not paid enough to referee romantic, political, or marital disputes.
"Of course," Palm said quickly, already moving, glasses catching the light as he activated the containment seals. "Yes. Absolutely. Let's proceed."
"As Head of the Geo City Pokémon Research Institute," Palm said quickly, slipping into professional cadence like a man grabbing a lifeline, "it is my responsibility to distribute starter Pokémon to qualifying trainers."
Geo City sat on one of the richest convergence zones in the Kanto region, third highest population, layered with naturally dense Rock, Bug, Ground, and Steel-type energy, the kind of land where the soil itself grow crops year round.
It was expensive.The waiting list was long.And Jack Sparrow had bulldozed his way to the front.
Palm lifted his hand and activated the release seals.
Three containment lights bloomed into the air.
Then they solidified.
A Drilbur surfaced first, claws immediately biting into the stone floor, eyes sharp and alert as it tested the ground beneath it like it already owned the place.
A Rhyhorn followed, massive even by normal standards, its hide gleaming with that unmistakable metallic sheen that made Belle inhale sharply and Ellen's breath hitch before she could stop herself. Shiny. And not sickly shiny either, but strong, clean, well-fed.
Then a Phanpy, compact and sturdy, ears twitching as it sniffed the air, body radiating steady, balanced energy that spoke of careful breeding and patient handling.
The room went quiet.
Even Mai stopped thinking long enough to actually look.
Drilbur was common in Unova but rare as hell in Kanto, and this one was calm, focused, already attuned to the surrounding elemental flow. Rhyhorns were infamous for killing the dreams of inexperienced trainers, but this one stood like a disciplined siege engine, heavy, grounded, waiting. Phanpy shouldn't have been here at all; Johto stock almost never made it this far west, and never this pure.
Palm cleared his throat.
"Miss Joe," he said, nodding toward Ellen, "Drilbur originates primarily from European and American-aligned regions. Pure Ground-type. Its evolved form, Excadrill, is Ground and Steel, extremely fast, extremely powerful when raised correctly."
He gestured to the others. "Rhyhorn and Phanpy need little explanation. Native lines. Exceptional endurance. High compatibility with sand-based environments."
Mai and Belle exchanged a glance.
Neither of them had any intention of becoming trainers, but even they could tell these weren't normal starters.
Drilbur was common in Unova, yes, but in Kanto it was a rarity, and even rarer still was one this calm, this responsive to ambient ground energy. Rhyhorns were notoriously difficult to train, stubborn to the point of disaster, but this one stood steady, eyes clear, posture disciplined like it had already accepted a rider that hadn't arrived yet. Phanpy, native to Johto, was practically unheard of this far west, and its aura pulsed warm and even, a sign of excellent early conditioning.
Palm cleared his throat, voice settling into lecture mode out of long habit.
"Our temple's main research focus," Palm continued, gaining confidence now that he was back on familiar ground, "is ground-type application in agriculture, ruin excavation, and subterranean exploration. The Pokémon raised here are significantly higher quality than what you'd find through standard care facilities."
His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Jack.
"Mr. Sparrow was… very persuasive," Palm added diplomatically. "He requested—forcefully—the top three available candidates. He believes you have the potential to become a Master-level sandstorm trainer."
He'd also promised a ground-type habitat design for the temple complex, one so stable and saturated with clean elemental flow that Palm had moved his name to the top of the list so fast the clerks nearly got whiplash.
Ellen's head was buzzing.
Sandstorm trainer.
She'd wanted that since she was a kid watching miners command shifting earth and screaming winds like it was nothing more than breathing. How Jack knew that, she didn't know, but she suspected Auntie Kelly's fingerprints were all over it.
She had wanted that since she was a kid, watching miners and elite trainers command shifting terrain and screaming winds like they were extensions of their own bodies, seeing how sandstorms weren't just weather but territory, denial, control. A good sandstorm didn't just damage the enemy; it erased their footing, their rhythm, their confidence, leaving only endurance and will behind.
Drilbur pulled at her attention first.
It was fast. Too fast. Even standing still, there was coiled violence in its posture, the kind that promised acceleration rather than raw power. Excadrill, its evolution, was Ground and Steel, a nightmare in sandstorm teams when raised correctly, capable of tearing through formations and armored opponents alike. And if it were raised inside one of Jack's absurdly over-engineered habitats, saturated with clean elemental energy instead of polluted city runoff, it could become something terrifying.
Too terrifying, maybe.
Rhyhorn was next, and the sheer presence of it made her swallow.
Most trainers couldn't raise a Rhyhorn to save their lives. They were stubborn, temperamental, and demanded discipline in return for loyalty. This one, though, stood like a siege engine waiting for a signal, its aura dense, heavy, and unwavering. In a sandstorm, a properly trained Rhyperior could become an unstoppable wall, a moving catastrophe that advanced no matter what stood in front of it.
Power like that demanded responsibility.
Then there was Phanpy.
Johto-born. Rare this far west. Balanced in a way the other two weren't, its energy even and patient, suggesting long-term growth rather than explosive dominance. Donphan didn't scream power the way Excadrill or Rhyperior did, but in sandstorms it was relentless, enduring, capable of fighting long after others collapsed from exhaustion.
Ellen's jaw tightened.
There was no wrong choice.
That, somehow, made it worse.
Ellen didn't reach out yet.
Instead, she drew her hand back, fingers curling slightly at her side as if she needed to ground herself before committing to anything irreversible, and lifted her chin just enough to look past the three Pokémon and toward the man who actually knew what he was doing here.
"Can I have details on the Pokémon, please," Ellen said, her voice steady but careful, the way someone spoke when they knew this choice would echo for the rest of their life.
Palm Guy nearly sagged with relief.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he said quickly, straightening his coat and stepping forward with visible gratitude that someone, finally, was asking the correct question.
"His abilities are Sand Force and Mold Breaker, with an Adamant nature," Palm said, enunciating each term carefully, not for Ellen's benefit alone but because he respected the gravity of what he was describing. "That combination means his muscle density is already above average for his species, his growth curve favors physical power over speed or special output, and when operating under sandstorm conditions his attacks gain a significant boost without compromising control."
Drilbur shifted as if in response to the attention, claws scraping softly against stone as his body coiled with barely restrained energy, the thick forearms and shoulders already more developed than they had any right to be at his age.
"As for his current move set," Palm continued, swiping once more, "he knows Rapid Spin, which allows him to clear hazards and reposition efficiently; Metal Claw, a reliable Steel-type attack that already shows an unusually high reinforcement response; Mud-Slap, primarily used for battlefield control and accuracy disruption; and Fury Swipes, which he uses instinctively during close-quarters engagements."
Palm paused, then added, his tone shifting subtly from academic to cautionary, "He also displays an early aptitude for Dig, though we have restricted its use indoors for obvious reasons."
He gestured toward the Rhyhorn, his tone changing almost imperceptibly, becoming slower, heavier, as if the Pokémon itself demanded a different cadence.
"This Rhyhorn is female," Palm said. "Eleven months old. Born here, raised here, and conditioned under sustained high-density ground-type exposure from the moment she could stand."
Rhyhorn lowered her head slightly, not in submission, but in awareness, her heavy frame settling into a stance that spoke of balance rather than aggression. Up close, the metallic sheen of her hide was unmistakable, the light catching along the ridges of her armor-like skin in a way that made it clear this wasn't cosmetic luck but a true shiny manifestation, stable and fully integrated.
"She possesses the abilities Rock Head, Reckless, and Lightning Rod, " Palm continued. "Rock Head allows her to use high-impact charge attacks without suffering recoil damage, which is essential for long engagements and siege-style combat. Lightning Rod, while situational, provides electrical immunity and allows her to draw hostile attention in mixed-type encounters. Reckless increases the power of recoil moves by 20%. By extension, this means the amount of recoil damage taken will increase as more damage is dealt."
He tapped his tablet once.
"Her nature is Impish. She favors defense and physical resilience over speed, and her bone density is already well above species average. This is not a Pokémon that rushes. This is a Pokémon that advances."
Rhyhorn snorted softly, the sound deep and resonant, vibrating faintly through the stone floor.
"As for her current moves," Palm said, "she knows Horn Attack, Tackle, Dragon Rush, Rock Polish, Bulldoze, Rock Blast, and Protect. We've deliberately emphasized stability and battlefield control over raw damage at this stage."
Palm's eyes flicked briefly to Ellen.
"Most trainers fail Rhyhorn lines because they attempt dominance instead of partnership," he said again, more pointed this time. "This one responds to presence, structure, and consistency. If raised properly, her evolved forms—Rhydon and eventually Rhyperior—become living fortifications. In sandstorm environments, she will not be displaced. Ever."
Ellen felt the weight of that statement settle into her spine.
A wall, she thought again.Not flashy. Not fast. But unmovable.
Palm shifted then, letting the gravity of Rhyhorn's presence linger just long enough before turning toward the smallest of the three.
The Phanpy.
Compared to the others, she looked almost gentle, her compact body sturdy rather than imposing, her ears twitching as she watched Ellen with open curiosity rather than guarded assessment. When Palm gestured toward her, Phanpy lifted her trunk and let out a soft, questioning sound, as if politely acknowledging the attention.
"This Phanpy is female," Palm said. "Johto-born, transferred under special permit. She possesses the abilities Pickup and Sand Veil, with a Careful nature."
Phanpy shuffled her feet slightly, then settled again, comfortable, grounded.
"Careful nature indicates higher special resistance and strong emotional regulation," Palm explained. "She does not panic under pressure. She adapts."
He brought up her data.
"She currently knows Rollout, Defense Curl, Endure, and Rapid Spin. Her training emphasizes stamina, positioning, and recovery rather than immediate dominance."
Palm's voice softened, just a little.
"When evolved into Donphan, she becomes a Ground-type specialist in prolonged engagements. Not the fastest, not the heaviest, but exceptionally reliable. In sandstorm conditions, Sand Veil grants her increased evasion, making her difficult to pin down while she grinds opponents down through attrition."
Phanpy took a few tentative steps forward, stopped just short of Ellen's boots, and tilted her head up, eyes bright and unafraid.
"Phanpy lines form strong bonds," Palm said simply. "They fight for their trainer first. Strategy follows naturally."
The temple grew quiet again.
Three futures stood in front of Ellen Joe.
Speed and relentless offense.Endurance and unstoppable advance.Balance, loyalty, and survival through the long fight.
Behind her, Jack remained silent, which in itself was a statement, his presence steady but non-intrusive, as if he understood that this choice couldn't be hurried or guided without cheapening it.
Ellen breathed in slowly, then out again, eyes moving from Drilbur to Rhyhorn to Phanpy, the weight of each path settling into her chest.
There were no wrong answers here.
Only different kinds of storms.
And whichever she chose would change her life the moment she reached out.