Pokémon: Master of the Rain Team

Outside a seaside villa on the west side of the city, Reiji and Shun had no idea what was happening elsewhere. They lay on a grassy rise for over an hour before finally pushing up to their feet.

Their scouts slipped back: Spinarak from its recon sweep, Butterfree from dusting the grounds with Sleep Powder and Stun Spore. Time to move.

They pulled black face scarves up to their noses, tugged on their hoods, checked their knives, and walked toward the brightly lit villa. Around 4 a.m., Reiji had already sent Spinarak to map the place while Butterfree drifted behind, sowing powder. By now, everyone inside—humans and Pokémon—had breathed in plenty. Even if someone managed to wake, their body would be numb and useless. Easy pickings.

Lesson of the night: pick a fight with anyone you want—just don’t pick one with a patient schemer. Reiji could squat in the dark until sunrise if that’s what it took to drop a net on the whole house.

At the gate, Kingler snapped the lock clean off with a single claw. They slipped in, shut the door behind them.

”Spinarak—sting and numb the men, web them up and string them from the eaves. Empty their pockets. The women go to the living room couch—gently,” Reiji said.

”Butterfree, Pelipper: roof watch. If anyone so much as drifts near, warn us.”

Shun sent Wingull up with Pelipper to share the watch.

”Poliwhirl, drag anyone upstairs down here. If they wake, knock them back out,” Reiji added. Then to Shun: ”Grab their balls and return every Pokémon. Lock the balls.”

”Kingler, Farfetch’d, Croagunk—scour the place for valuables, especially spatial packs.”

Shun’s Poliwhirl and Breloom trotted upstairs to haul bodies while he gathered up the balls Spinarak had shaken loose, clicking each Pokémon back in and turning the safety locks.

The ambush was almost boring. Even the psychic users slept through Butterfree’s powder. Before long, four men hung cocooned beneath the eaves—among them the cash courier and his sleazy underling. Six women lay on the living room couches; Shun, feeling bad for them, draped one blanket across all six. They’d wake with headaches, nothing worse—humans here handled toxins far better than most places, and these weren’t lethal doses.

Ten Pokémon in total went into Shun’s pack: the courier’s four and two each from three subordinates. A tidy haul—easily worth over a million Pokédollars. The team also turned up four backpacks—one the courier’s, the rest belonging to his men.

In the basement, they found the rot: the whole foundation hollowed into cells. One glance at the starved faces and rags told Reiji enough—debtors the casino planned to ransom. He shut the door and went back up.

Killing those four quickly would’ve been too kind. He wanted them to understand why.

He snapped his fingers. ”Spinarak—wake them. Bite once and gag them.”

Spinarak’s fangs pricked four shoulders; black-purple blossomed under skin, and the men groaned awake into numb, hanging panic. Gags sealed their mouths.

”Mmmff! Mmmff—!”

”Long time no see,” Reiji said, palming a knife and then setting it down. ”You remember me.”

The courier’s eyes burned hot. Of course he remembered—the guy who’d cost him fifty thousand. Now he could only glare and shake with fury.

”Didn’t think you’d hand me such a neat chance,” Reiji went on. ”I expected a hard fight. Guess not.”

All eight eyes—four men—glittered murder at him.

Reiji slid photos off the table—mug shots he’d brought. He speared the sleaze’s picture with the blade, lifted it, and flicked it into a burn barrel. Flame took it in seconds.

”You were the one who sicced that drunk on us, right?”

The sleaze shook his head wildly, eyes wet, trying to beg. Useless.

Reiji held up the courier’s photo. The courier just stared back, unbending.

”You were the one who stabbed me in the back. If not for that drunk, I wouldn’t be here. I really did try to just make money and move on. Why make me choose the ugly way?”

A table knife snapped up from the dining set and darted for Reiji’s throat—yanked by invisible force. It hit his hood and bounced—caught by stab-resistant weave.

Reiji looked down at the fallen knife, tossed the courier’s photo into the fire, picked up the blade, and walked over. He set the tip on the man’s chest and pushed, slow and unblinking, until the hilt kissed ribs.

The courier howled through the gag, eyes bulging.

”Found your secret,” Reiji said, rinsing his hands at the pool edge. ”You’re a psychic. That explains Grumpig, Exeggutor, and Noctowl.”

Weak, though—barely enough telekinesis to tug a table knife. If this had been Sabrina, Reiji would be dead. Thank the hood.

Something clicked. He flinched back from the pool. ”Poliwhirl! Kingler! It’s in the water—don’t let it escape!”

A pale violet star burst from the pool and hurled a full-power Psychic—Starmie, snapping a trap they hadn’t seen.

Poliwhirl and Kingler didn’t counter—both threw up Protect in a flash. Twin green barriers caught the force, and Spinarak’s line yanked Reiji clean out of the strike zone.

Butterfree dove, spitting a net of crackling strands over Starmie, but its psychic burst popped the mesh. The burst drained it dry; the core dimmed.

Poliwhirl’s heel split tile; a straight piledriver smashed Starmie from midair into the wall. The sunken dent and the limp star said enough.

”Shun, return it,” Reiji said, brushing dust from his shoulder.

Shun, still a little shaken from nearly watching Reiji die twice in a minute, scribbled a note to himself—always, always open with a sneak attack—and started testing balls until one clicked Starmie inside.

”Spinarak,” Reiji said, voice flat now, ”dump them.”

Four bodies hit the pool. The backyard fell quiet.

Reiji fished the paper map the old man had given him from his pocket and fed it to the flames. That ”intel” had nearly gotten him killed. He’d be charging the old man ”emotional damages” tomorrow.

Another quiet vow: everyone learns Protect. Spinarak, Ditto—every last one. This move saves lives.

Shun finished with Starmie. The two of them stood a long moment, staring at the four figures sinking, eyes frozen wide open.

”Kingler, check their necks. Make sure,” Reiji said. Kingler slipped under, came back and nodded. Reiji returned Kingler, then Butterfree, Farfetch’d, and Croagunk. Only Pelipper, Spinarak on his shoulder, Ditto on his face, and Poliwhirl at his side remained.

They scrubbed the scene—Spinarak’s silk dissolved under Poliwhirl’s Water Gun, and morning sun would melt the residue. Most of the contraband—party junk, illegal tools—stayed. The basement told the real story.

”Call the police,” Reiji said.

”Huh? Call Officer Jenny?” Shun blinked.

”For the hostages. Or do you plan to drag them back yourself?” Reiji sighed. ”Use their phone.”

Shun made the call with a burner from the house, named the address, and reported a kidnapping. Then back out with packs and loot. Reiji climbed onto Pelipper, who gripped Shun by the shoulders; Shun hugged the bags. The wind off the sea carried them home.

They slept the second they hit the floor. Shun hadn’t slept at all earlier—too wired.

At dawn, Officer Jenny and a squad cracked the villa. Four bodies stared up from the pool. Six women slept on the couches and woke safely later. The basement cells held the debt-prisoners. The case wrote itself.

From the telltale strands around the eaves and yard, Jenny pegged the killers as the ”Spider Bandit.” The victims were scum, but law was law. The bulletin went up anyway: the Spider Bandit’s notice rose from a petty D-class thief to a C-class wanted felon with bodies on the sheet. Not B, not A—the dead were criminals who, by League law, would have served a long time and maybe shaved it down, but still—dead is dead.

The rescued debtors told anyone who’d listen that the Spider Bandit had saved them. Suddenly it wasn’t fashionable to chase the Spider Bandit; most folks looked the other way.

Every fake ”Spider Bandit” in town put their webs away. C-class bounty changed the game; real hunters would start caring, and the weak would get hauled in for pocket change.

[End of Chapter]

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