joker of crime

Meowth strokes his chin thoughtfully, pulling at a whisker. "Anyway, I dunno about bein' safe...I ain't exactly no fully-evolved Persian dat bested th' League or nothin'...but I got a place ta stay, even if it is some dusty underground chamber..."

Okay. So, not only has this stupid Pokemon scratched him — Gold immediately flinches away, hissing out an annoyed ‘What the hell?’ — but now he’s trying to act like he’s king of the hill, top of the roost, just because he has his hat. The look the kid is giving him right now is, well, sceptical: extremely sceptical, actually, with a dash of incredulity and a whole lot of irritation mixed right in.

That’s how the next couple of seconds go by, a wordless impasse between him and this glorified rat. Gold leans back, narrows his eyes — and his hand twitches, a sign of near-action. He could just… call his Pokemon out, sort this whole shebang out right now. It’s not the cool thing to do, the right thing to do — but for some reason, this thing is saying it’s part of Team Rocket, and that’s a problem. That’s also permission to play dirty, isn’t it? So…

… Gold’s hand raises, and then it falls, accompanied by an aggravated sigh. He glares at the stupid Pokemon, crossing his arms with clear distaste.

'Fine. How am I supposed to “persuade” you, exactly?’

"I dunno...dis is a pretty special hat. Don't think I can actually let it go fer such a simple thing as a price. What if we discussed my terms ova a nice dinner instead?"

"I think dat sounds pretty civilized, don'tcha agree? And we're all civilized here, ain't we? I can't imagine dat you'd start attackin' a poor, defenseless Pokemon in public fer no good reason. Imagine what dat would do ta ya Trainer's rep! Even th' brattiest twerps don't just go poundin' on Pokemon that ain't provokin' 'em somehow. It just ain't right. Goes against all dose millenia-old legends 'n' tales about the reason we Pokemon even humor you Trainers at all!"

He swishes his tail, whiskers flicking with amusement.

But just as he opens his mouth to dig in, he hears a sound. A gulp. He pauses, turning his gaze to the source of the sound—a monster? Who evidently had just taken some of his food! Kirby was upset—but as long as the creature hadn’t eaten something really important, he wouldn’t be angry.

"Poyo…"

The food's inhaled and Meowth finds himself literally sucked in with it all--he lets out a great caterwaul of terror, flailing around with his legs kicking in the air before he manages to mercifully extract himself from the creature's mouth. He sits there, dazed, realizing he probably only escaped because the puffball let him. Spit out. Like a hairball!

"I’m 11, sir. I’ve been a Trainer since I was 10." Wally shifts carefully across the bench, allowing Meowth ample room to sit should the mood strike him. "It may not sound like I know too much, since I’m from Hoenn… But this city is different. It’s not like back home." His shoulders hunch defensively. "Some of the people here will try to hurt you for no reason. It’s not like Pokémon battling, or sparring — they really mean it."

He glances downwards, thinking back on the recent outcropping of widespread violence. The idea of leaving a Meowth here to fend for itself makes his stomach churn.

"A year! A whole year as a Trainer," he says snidely, paws fluttering against one another thoughtfully. "And whatcha got ta show fer it, huh? Trainin' ain't gonna getcha no where in a place like dis! What ya need is street-smarts--they're essential ta a good life!" 

Since the offer's silently made, he hops up beside the kid, just because he's got nothing better to do. His ears quiver in shock at the words coming out of this kid's mouth.

"Dem's some tough breaks! Might hafta start bein' a bit more careful after all...what's dis world comin' to?" A sad shake of the head. "Sounds like ya went 'n' got yerself in a bad scrape, and nows you're all scared 'n cautious! Thanks fer th' offer, but I've already got a place o' my own, 'n' it don't require no acrobatics ta get ta."

He leans in and acquires a conspiratorial tone.

Was.

One second it’s in front of his face, inches away, and the next second it’s not. In the next second, he finds himself skidding to a stop, features twisting in some strange parody of confusion at the sight before him. His hat was missing, but now it’s been found… by a talking Meowth, who is currently posing with it like he’s just gotten a new suit. For just one second, Gold can’t say anything.

So this is probably a big deal, a Meowth that can talk. He should probably be concerned.

But that is his hat, and he’s not about to give it up.

'S'mine,' the boy says curtly, extending his hand out abruptly. Give it back, the gesture says, and keep your grubby little paws off my stuff. ‘It flew off. It’s not yours.’

And, testily, he frowns, unextending and extending his fingers in conflicted annoyance.

"Watch it, pal! Don'tcha know th' rules? It's finders-keepers, 'n' Team Rocket finds it all!"

He hops up onto a trash can so he's on roughly equal height with the other boy, baring his teeth and bouncing with obvious indignation. It's like you spat in his coffee and insulted his mama, Gold, and he's not putting up with it!

"I've rocked worse things den dis hat before, 'n' as far as I'm concerned, I'm gonna make it work! It's th' first bit o' good luck I've had all day! What's wit' twerps 'n' their stupid hats, anyway? Why don'tcha finally do somethin' 'bout dat bedhead o' yers instead?"

He folds his arms and lifts his chin, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"AAAGHHH! Cut it out!! What is it with the cats here in this place!?” Barry attempted to shake off his attacker, but froze as soon as he got a better look at it. 

"Hold it, hold it! Yer one a' those twerps that used ta follow th' main twerp around! Or were ya afta his gal pal, th' twerpette? It don't matter much anyways!"

Finally hopping back to his feet, he bristled and shook a paw up at him.

He might be a tiny bit concerned. Maybe. That comment just really drives the nail in.

Wally brightens despite being scolded so enthusiastically, a slow smile breaking out over his face. He’d always dreamed of having conversations with Gallade… What would his teammates say, if they could speak his language? Would they have similar attitudes to this Meowth? He’s too fascinated to be worried about the Normal-type’s threats, instead reaching down to rummage through his bag without any urgency.

"I’m really sorry for stepping on you, sir." A Pokémon is still a ‘sir,’ right? "Here… Um, I don’t have much, but you can have this." He withdraws a clear plastic container full of diced chicken — leftovers from his salad — and offers it to the angry cat. "Does that help at all?"

"Well, it'd be betta' wit' crackers or somethin', but I guess I'll let it slide." He twitches his nose with a great amount of dignity, drawing himself up to his very unimpressive full height. Food makes everything better. This is a fact.

"It's a start! The fact dat ya at least recognized me fer what I am--dat's an improvement ova' half th' city already! Say, you're pretty shrimpy fer a Pokemon Trainer, aren'tcha? Maybe you're a Coordinator or somethin'?"

It’s… A Pokémon. A Meowth, to be specific… But it’s speaking.

...Nah. 

Meowth folds his paws on his hips and glares daggers at the boy, his tail lashing behind him like a cut electric wire.

He is.

Is he gonna make a fuss over it?

Nah.

Meowth's seen so many legendaries at this point--courtesy of that brat and his Pikachu--nothing's surprising anymore. It'd be more shocking at this rate for him not to see any of 'em. He folds his arms and flicks his ears.