Rain hit rusted metal roofs. Filthy water ran in streams along cracked roads, pooling in potholes. This was the city's forgotten belly — the part Vermilion didn't include in tourism brochures.
In a barely lit warehouse with broken windows and old Pokéball parts scattered on the floor, a meeting was in session.
The crowd: thirty or so grungy individuals. Runaways, ex-convicts, failed trainers. Some had weak Pokémon beside them — a battered Ekans, a nervous Machop, a lethargic Grimer.
The recruiter's voice echoed, smooth as oil.
"You think the League will ever care about people like you? Wrong. They don't even care what talent you got unless you're born rich, noble, or lucky."
A few heads nodded bitterly.
The speaker stepped forward — Thorne, a former Gym intern fired for stealing supplies. He had a Yellow-level Talent, but nothing useful in combat — only a photographic memory for terrain and tunnels.
Behind him stood a woman in a long coat. Her face was covered in a silver mask. Her Pokémon — a Seviper with glowing red eyes — hissed softly.
"You all want strength? Protection? Revenge?" Thorne's voice climbed. "You're in the right place."
⸻
The Group – "Crimson Fang"
This wasn't some grand Team Rocket-type threat. The Crimson Fang operated in the cracks of cities. They weren't hunting legendaries or building nukes.
They were smuggling Pokémon, robbing labs, and stealing Dungeon-entry passes.
"Here's the deal," Thorne continued. "You do jobs. You get paid. If you prove you're useful, the boss might even get you into a Green-tier dungeon. Maybe even offer you a talent stone if you live."
Someone in the back — a kid no older than 14 — raised a hand nervously. "But the League…?"
Thorne snorted. "The League doesn't come here. This city's underbelly belongs to us."
⸻
New Recruits
In the corner, a woman with greasy pink hair stared at her Rattata. She was White-Talent, with a Pokémon that could barely manage level 12.
"I want to fuse it," she muttered.
"With what?" someone asked.
"Doesn't matter. I just want it to be useful."
No one laughed.
Because here, the hunger for relevance wasn't a joke — it was all they had left.
⸻
Elsewhere… Watching
A hooded figure stood on a rooftop nearby, a Noctowl perched silently beside them. Their eyes glowed faintly with Aura perception.
They watched.
Not to intervene. Not yet.
"They're spreading," the observer muttered. "Like rot."
They noted Thorne's face.
Then disappeared into the night.