#frou frou

Wild Zone 7 had never been meant for this.

Normally, the barriers stayed up—controlled access, containing wild pokemone, and keeping the city’s denizens safe. Today, they were lowered, gates open wide enough to allow transport vehicles, temporary fencing, and clusters of people who knew exactly how to stand just far enough back to stay safe.

Corbeau adjusted his pace as he approached, eyes already cataloguing the scene.

Too many people. Some civilians. A few tourists. But mostly other handlers—he could tell by posture alone. The way they watched the field, not the Pokémon. The way their attention tracked footwork, timing, distance. Some wore club insignia from regions he recognized immediately. Others he filed away for later.

Unova, Kanto and Johto, Galar, and Alola. There were also a few Kalos clubs, lingering at the edges. Nationals qualifiers had a way of pulling gravity toward themselves, but this—this felt concentrated. Focused.

He spotted Philippe near the temporary boundary markers, tablet tucked under one arm, expression thoughtful rather than surprised.

“Why does it look like half the League decided to ignore their own training slots?” Corbeau asked quietly as he joined him.

Philippe glanced sideways, a corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s what I was hoping you’d come see for yourself.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Philippe agreed.

He gestured subtly toward the center of the zone. The barriers were fully down now, have been for a while now, the terrain open—uneven ground, broken stone, patches of grass and exposed earth meant to simulate urban spillover rather than wilderness. Men in large puffy suits were set up at intervals. Obstacles. Designated engagement zones marked in faint paint.

And at the heart of it was a club.

“Unova's ACWPC,” Philippe said. “Aspertia City Working Pokémon Club.”

Corbeau’s brow furrowed. “They’re early.”

“They booked the time slot for today. Fair and square.”

“That still doesn’t explain the audience, Philippe.”

Philippe exhaled, slow. “No. It doesn’t.”

He watched the field for another moment before continuing. “Apparently there’s a certain handler. A young woman. That’s who everyone’s here for.”

Corbeau followed his gaze—not to the Pokémon first, but to the human at the center of the movement.

“What do we know?” Corbeau asked.

“Only what I could gather without asking directly,” Philippe said. “She’s well-known in Unova circles. Not loud about it. Results speak for her.”

“And?”

“And she’s a phenomenal handler,” Philippe added. “And—before you ask—I mean that in the working sense. Not battle training. But what this sport calls for: controlled aggression. She trains with emotion.”

Corbeau’s attention sharpened. “Define that.”

“Connection-first methodology. Reads thresholds instead of forcing them. Builds compliance through engagement rather than pressure.” Philippe paused. “It’s controversial.”

“Of course it is.”

Philippe glanced at him. “She’s also a trainer.”

That earned a look. “You just said—”

“I know the distinction,” Philippe said mildly. “I’m using the word carefully. She understands Pokémon broadly. Not just in this discipline.”

Corbeau looked back to the field.

“She’s competing in in the PPL qualifiers?” he asked.

“Yes. I believe in all three levels.”

“And Lumiose didn’t flag her?”

Philippe’s smile was faint. “They’re starting to.”

The man in the field moved with the ease of someone who had long since stopped needing to think about where his feet went. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Accent that was something Corbeau was unfamiliar with. He rotated through the teams with a calm authority that didn’t rely on volume—short corrections, precise timing, a hand lifted here, a quiet word there. The handlers responded immediately. So did the Pokémon.

“That must be the helper,” Corbeau murmured.

“ACWPC’s training director,” Philippe corrected. “Brought in by Unova specifically. Reputation precedes him.”

Corbeau watched as the helper stepped in front of a Houndoom first—male, large, coal-dark coat gleaming under the afternoon light.

The pokemon…promptly ignored him. Instead, the Houndoom bounced sideways, tail sweeping the ground, attention drifting to a patch of disturbed dirt as if it had just remembered something very interesting lived there.

The handler flushed. “Ronin—no—”

The helper didn’t react right away. He watched the dog for a moment longer, head tilted slightly, then glanced back at the handler.

“This is your first national event, yes?” he asked, more to confirm than accuse.

The handler hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

The helper nodded too, as if that explained everything. “And he is still young.”

Ronin chose that moment to spin once in place, clearly pleased with himself.

The helper let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “This is good for him. And for you. Big place. Big feelings.”

He stepped back, opening space rather than closing it. “Don’t chase him. Let him come to you. You have food? Good.”

The handler swallowed, then relaxed his shoulders. He went still.

For a few seconds, Ronin sniffed, paced, flicked his ears—waiting for correction that didn’t come. Then, he glanced back.

The handler said nothing.

Ronin hesitated… then trotted closer, attention lifting just a little.

“Good,” the helper murmured. “Now wait.”

The dog shifted his weight, watching. Thinking. Another step closer.

Only then did the handler mark it, quiet and precise, and toss the Houndoom a piece of food.. They repeated the exercise—again and again. No pressure. No forcing. Just choice. And each time, Ronin checked in faster.

After a few reps, the helper nodded once. “Okay. Call him to heel position.”

“Ronin, heel!”

The Houndoom snapped into heel, sliding into position with more enthusiasm than precision, tail still wagging—but eyes finally where they should be. They heeled a short distance. Nothing fancy. Just forward motion, turns, a halt.

“Enough,” the helper said gently. “End on this.”

The handler recalled Ronin back into his pokemon, relief written plainly across his face.

Next, a Stoutland entered the space—massive, composed, posture impeccable, and heeling right next to its male handler. Before anything else, the handler ran him through a brief obedience sequence. Clean sit. Down in motion. A recall that snapped the line taut for half a second before the dog slid neatly into position at the handler’s side. The Stoutland’s tail was high, wagging slow and deliberate, eyes bright.

Drive without chaos.

The helper nodded once. “Okay. Wait for three seconds, and Send him.”

The handler squared his shoulders. Took a breath. Then gave the command.

The Stoutland sprinted and launched. The bite was decisive—full, confident grip. The dog drove forward, weight committed, paws digging into the ground as he held fast. The helper absorbed the impact smoothly, letting the dog work without fighting him, body language calm and controlled.

“Good,” the helper said, voice even. “Good pressure.”

When the handler gave the out, the Stoutland hesitated. Not a refusal. Not confusion. Just a heartbeat too long, jaws tightening imperceptibly as if the dog were savoring the moment. The helper called out to the handler.

“Out your pokemon.”

The handler corrected, voice firmer. “Out!”

Stoutland regripped, a low growl rumbling in its chest as it dug in deeper.

The helper lifted a hand. “Stop.” He shifted his position, angling his body slightly, changing the picture. Reduced the tension. Removed the conflict. Then he nodded.

“Try again.”

“Out!”

This time, the Stoutland released instantly, stepping back without protest, eyes flicking up to the handler as if checking for approval.

The helper disengaged fully, but maintain a position in case the pokemon tried to get dirty, as the handler walked up to his Stoutland and leashed it.

“You see?” the helper said calmly. “He’s not blowing you off. He just really likes the fight.”

The handler let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “I was worried I’d pushed him too far.”

“No,” the helper shook his head. “You didn’t push. He’s clear. He’s strong. He’s honest.” A pause, then a faint smile. “But this one—he wants to stay. That’s his personality.”

He bent over and tapped the Stoutland lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “We keep working the out. Different pictures. Different pressure. He’ll learn that letting go doesn’t end the game.”

The handler nodded, shoulders easing. “So…we’re still in good shape?”

“Yes,” the helper said simply. “You have a dog who loves the work. That’s not a problem. That’s something we shape. He'll learn.”

The Stoutland sat at the handler’s side again, woofing excitedly.

Corbeau watched the exchange closely. No blame. No sharp corrections. No panic. Just assessment. Adjustment. Forward motion. He found himself approving—quietly, instinctively—of both the dog and the people handling him.

Then, came the Frou Frou.

Corbeau’s brow lifted despite himself. The Frou Frou entered the space beside a female handler, coat trimmed neatly—but not excessively. No bows. No dyed accents. Nothing ornamental enough to undermine function. Still, the dog’s movement drew the eye.

The heeling was deliberate. The Frou Frou moved in close, head tipped upward, gaze locked on the handler’s armpit in a star-gazing focus that looked almost theatrical at first glance. Tight turns. Immediate halts. The dog mirrored every shift of her weight with uncanny precision, paws striking the ground in perfect rhythm.

Flashy, Corbeau thought. But not sloppy.

The helper watched the sequence without interrupting, then gave a short nod. “Okay. Send her.”

The handler gave the command and the Frou Frou exploded forward. There was no hesitation, no fluttering uncertainty. The bite was sharp and confident, grip clean. The helper drove into it with surprising force, the pokemon’s back legs digging in as he held steady.

The helper absorbed the impact and called out, “Out and guard.”

“Guard!”

The Frou Frou released instantly and snapped back, planting herself squarely in front of him. Then, she barked. Not the high-pitched yap Corbeau had unconsciously expected—but a deep, resonant bark that echoed against the stone and fencing, steady and rhythmic, front paws stamping into the ground with intent. A warning, not a frenzy. A confident bark with heart and soul.

The handler still stood where she sent her Frou Frou, silent, letting the dog work. After a moment, the helper nodded towards the handler, who walked until she was only a few feet from them, the Frou Frou not once breaking in it’s barking.

After what seemed like minutes—

“Beau, fuss!”

Corbeau smirked at the Frou Frou’s name.

Beau snapped out of guard, turned on a dime, and drove back to her handler, sliding neatly into heel position at her left side. Head lifted. Eyes locked. Body aligned as if the space between them didn’t exist at all.

Corbeau let out a quiet breath, impressed. “If half the Pokémon trainers I’ve dealt with had that kind of control,” he said, dryly, “We’d have a much shorter list of incident reports.”

Philippe huffed a soft laugh. “You’d be out of a job.”

Corbeau shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving the field. “No,” he said calmly. “As long as ill-intended people exist, Lumiose will need someone to deal with them.”

A pause.

“But it would be nice,” he added, dry as ever, “if fewer of them came with unnecessary damage.”

“It certainly would make the Battle Royale more interesting,” Philippe mused.

The handler rewarded her Frou Frou with a toy, the pokemon happily catching it as they made their way off of the field, intensity gone as thoroughly as it had arrived.

Corbeau watched them go, expression thoughtful. Whatever this league was teaching—it clearly wasn’t just how to start a problem.

An Arcanine stepped into the space—large even by the species’ standards, coat blazing, posture taut as a drawn wire. The moment the helper closed the distance, the Pokémon surged forward, aggression flaring hot and fast. Too fast.

The handler checked the lead immediately, boots digging in as the Arcanine hit the end of it with a low, frustrated growl. The pokemon’s focus narrowed—locked entirely on the helper, hackles raised, body coiled to launch, wanting to fight.

The helper didn’t retreat. Didn’t advance. Instead, he lifted a hand and spoke calmly. “Heel him past.”

The handler stiffened—just for a breath—then nodded.

He gathered the lead in close and stepped forward. The Arcanine resisted at first, muscles bunching, head craning toward the helper as they passed. The handler leaned his weight back, steady and controlled, voice low but firm as he guided the dog through the space.

Step by step, the Arcanine followed. Not calm—but contained.

By the time they’d cleared the helper, the dog’s breathing had slowed, the tension in its frame easing just enough to be workable. The handler halted and waited, letting the Pokémon gather itself before moving again.

Corbeau found himself watching the handler’s stance as much as the Pokémon.

“That thing could pull a transport cart,” Philippe murmured.

“Yes,” Corbeau agreed. “And he’s keeping it.”

The Arcanine shifted once, then settled, shoulders lowering as the handler exhaled.

That was when the murmurs behind them grew louder.

“She’s unreal,” someone nearby said, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice. “I’ve never seen anyone work dogs like that. It’s not just obedience—it’s communication.”

Corbeau glanced sideways.

Two handlers stood a few paces away. One wore the insignia of a Unovan club—mid-tier, competitive, loud. The other…also Unovan. Different colors. Sharper posture.

“You talking about her?” the second handler scoffed. “Please. All flash. And let’s not forget she’s dragging that unstable Mightyena around like it’s a badge of honor.”

Philippe slightly turned his head, not enough to show that he was eavesdropping, but enough to show Corbeau that he was tuning into the conversation.

The first handler turned on him. “You mean the Mightyena she pulled out of a nightmare? That Mightyena?”

“Oh, come on,” the other snapped. “Forced evolution or not, that Pokémon should’ve been put down years ago. It’s a liability. To her. To the public. To the League.”

Corbeau’s gaze narrowed.

“That Pokémon redirects,” the man continued. “Bites. Everyone knows it. You bring something like that into Nationals, you’re asking for disaster.”

“Or,” a third voice cut in quietly, “you’re asking whether every pokemon that bites should be put down.”

They all turned. The speaker hadn’t raised their voice. Hadn’t postured. Hadn’t stepped forward. They were simply there. A figure in a dark training jacket, hood pulled up, standing close enough that none of them could reasonably pretend they hadn’t noticed—except, apparently, they hadn’t.

Corbeau’s eyes flicked over you automatically. Build unassuming. Posture relaxed but alert. Hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket like you belonged exactly where you were.

The scoffing handler bristled. “If it’s a risk, yes.”

“And if it isn’t?” the voice pressed. “If the only person she’s ever bitten is the one who chose to take that risk? If she’s muzzled, managed, and never put in situations where she can hurt anyone else?”

A pause—measured, not defensive.

“Because the question isn’t whether she’s perfect,” the speaker continued. “It’s whether she’s controlled. And those are not the same thing.”

For half a second, no one spoke.

Then the second handler snapped.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The words came sharp, fed up, carrying the kind of irritation that comes from being challenged in public by someone who hadn’t bothered to announce themselves first.

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut across the field.

“Hey! You’re up next.” The helper’s tone was casual, expectant. Not calling out a stranger. Calling out someone he already knew.

You reached up and pushed your hood back, movement unhurried. Your face came into view—calm, composed, unmistakably familiar to anyone who had paid even passing attention to the qualifiers circuit. Recognition rippled through the nearby handlers in a quiet wave.

The arguing handler faltered mid-breath. Philippe blinked. Corbeau’s attention sharpened as several heads turned at once.

You met the other handler’s look—and smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough. Then, you turned away.

Corbeau watched as you crossed the distance to the helper with the same contained confidence he’d seen echoed in the pokemon on the field. No rush. No apology for the space you occupied.

The helper’s expression softened the moment you stopped in front of him.

“Who do you want to work?” he asked.

You tilted your head slightly, thinking. “Rush first,” you said. “She needs more problem-solving in confined spaces. Rooms with bad entries. I want her figuring it out instead of waiting for the picture to be obvious.”

The helper nodded, already reaching for his clipboard. “Yes. I remember that trial in Castelia,” he said, accent clipped and rounded, vowels soft rather than sharp. “She lost time in the room. Too much thinking.”

You gave a small nod in return. “She waited for the picture.”

“Exactly.” He tapped the board once with his pen. “She is honest. But she wants permission when the answer is not clear. We’ll fix that.”

He looked back toward the setup. “Okay. Who else?”

“Toast,” you added. “Call-offs. Level two scenario.”

“Good.” A pause. “Will you work Yena?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Corbeau noticed that.

You shook your head once. “Not today. She needs more time to decompress from the travel.”

As if to underscore the point, you shrugged out of your training jacket. The movement revealed your arm—wrapped carefully, professionally, bandaging thick beneath the compression. Not fresh…but not old, either.

The helper froze.

“…Fuck,” he said, all the color draining from his face. “What happened this time?”

You exhaled, already resigned to the conversation. “Couldn’t find her muzzle last night. Borrowed one from a club member.” A beat. “It wasn’t a good fit, obviously. She pulled it right off during an explosion.”

The helper dragged a hand down his face and shook his head, half frustration, half concern.

A silence fell between them—not judgmental. Just heavy.

Finally, he sighed. “You okay?”

You flexed your fingers once. “I will be. This isn’t my first rodeo with her, remember.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. We do Rush. We do Toast. Yena rests.”

Behind them, Corbeau realized he’d been holding still.

“That’s her,” Philippe murmured under his breath. “Isn’t it.”

“I assume so,” Corbeau said quietly.

He watched the helper clap his hands once, calling for the next setup. Watched you roll your shoulders, refocus, and step back onto the field as if nothing about the exchange had rattled you.

Two decoys stepped in from opposite sides, padding secured, movements already purposeful. The helper himself stayed back this time, posture relaxed, eyes sharp—no longer the picture, just the coach.

You released Toast from his Poké Ball.

The Houndoom materialized at your side without ceremony, body settling immediately, presence heavy and calm. You didn’t move right away. Didn’t rush him forward. Instead, you waited.

Toast shifted his weight, then lifted his head, eyes finding your face. His tail gave a slow, anticipatory wag.

You leaned slightly toward him. “Are you ready?”

Toast answered with a chain of barks—deep and resonant—front paws stamping the ground as he drove into you just enough to make contact, pressure controlled, intentional. It was exactly the picture that the Frou Frou had done with the helper, except it was done on you.

“Heel.”

The change was instant. Toast disengaged without sound and snapped into position at your side, head tipped up, mouth closed, focus absolute—as if the bark had never happened.

Corbeau felt something settle in his chest. Not alarm.

Recognition.

You heeled Toast into position: one decoy a few feet in front of you, the other yards away.

The helper nodded once. “Good. Decoys, go!”

The decoy nearest to you began shouting, making a big spectacle, and pointing to the other decoy down the field.

“Hey, that guy stole my wallet! That guy right there. Go get’em!”

The farther decoy began moving and yelling.

Toast ignore the closest decoy, but clocked the far decoy immediately. His mouth was closed, drool threatening to dribble as the pokemon concentrated, waiting for you cue.

“Toast, packen!”

Toast launched. The ground disappeared beneath him in powerful strides, body low, momentum clean and direct. The farther decoy shouted, presenting the correct presentation as Toast neared him. And you waited, breathing deeply.

Not early.

Not safe.

“TOAST, HEEL!”

Toast was close. Close enough that Corbeau felt his shoulders tense, close enough that instinct screamed there was no space left to stop.

Toast stopped anyway, nails digging in into the ground, skidding a half step as his drive cut cleanly, then pivoted without a sound and drove straight back to you. No hesitation. No vocalizing. No glance toward either decoy. He slid into heel at your side as if nothing had happened at all. Head up. Eyes on you. Tail still wagging—once, twice.

For a split second, there was silence—just long enough for everyone to register what they’d seen.

Then the field broke into sound.

Applause rippled outward, sharp and immediate. A few voices whooped openly—Unovan accents unmistakable—as members of your club grinned and called Toast’s name. Someone let out a low whistle. Even handlers from other regions nodded, impressed despite themselves.

Corbeau felt the reaction more than he heard it.

“…That was close,” Philippe murmured, half awe, half disbelief.

“Yes,” Corbeau said slowly.

You stepped forward, and Toast moved with you, perfectly synchronized, composure fully restored.

The helper gave a short, satisfied nod from the sideline. “Very good,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Want to give him a bite?”

You glanced down at Toast. The Houndoom stood at your side, tail still wagging, eyes bright, body humming with contained energy—but focused. Present. Perfectly where you’d asked him to be.

You huffed a quiet laugh and shook your head. “No. That was probably the best call-off he’s ever given me.”

The helper snorted. “Fair.”

“Let’s not tempt fate,” you added lightly. “I’d rather end on that.”

He studied Toast once more, then nodded, clearly approving. “Good choice.”

You recalled Toast back into his pokéball.

The field didn’t reset so much as shift. Barriers were dragged closer. Decoys repositioned. Someone turned up the ambient noise—raised voices, sharp claps, a rattling chain dragged briefly across stone. Chaos, on purpose. The kind meant to bleed into a dog’s head if there were any cracks to find.

You stepped back onto the field and released your next Pokémon.

A Growlithe. Not an Arcanine.

Corbeau’s gaze sharpened immediately.

The Growlithe shook once as she materialized, then settled at your side, compact and coiled, tail lifted, ears forward. Smaller than Toast. Lighter. Built for speed and heat rather than sheer force.

She moved into heel as you stepped off.

The star-gazing focus was there—but different. Not the long, floating elegance of Toast’s stride. Rush was tighter, quicker, her movements compact and precise, paws striking in sharp rhythm. Where Toast flowed, Rush snapped—each turn crisp, each halt immediate, eyes burning up at you with ferocious intent.

Noise rose around her. She didn’t flick an ear. Claps sounded. A decoy shouted suddenly from her blind side. Rush didn’t break.

Corbeau felt his attention narrow, the way it always did when something refused to fail where it should.

“…That’s a Growlithe,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Philippe nodded. “In the highest level this League offers.”

“Why hasn’t she evolved it? That other handler had an Arcanine.”

Before Philippe could answer, a handler nearby—one of the Unovans who’d spoken up earlier—leaned in.

“I don’t think she planned not to,” he said. “From what I heard, she wanted to wait. Let her mature. Physically. Mentally.”

They watched as Rush pivoted on a dime, matching you step for step through a tight pattern, distractions escalating around her.

“But by the time it would’ve made sense…” the handler added, a little awed, “…her Growlithe was already exceeding expectations. I imagined she didn’t see the point in evolving her then. Which makes sense, as Arcanines tend to have a little more aggression, which, if you’re not used to dealing with, can get dicey super fast.”

They remembered the Arcanine in question, but how the handler was able to reel his pokemon in instead of being dragged across the field.

“Though,” he admitted, “that might be a question better asked directly.”

On the field, Rush surged forward on cue, then snapped back into heel just as fast, barking out of arousal, tail wagging once—sharp and proud—before settling again, focus unbroken.

Corbeau realized something unsettling. The Growlithe wasn’t just keeping up with Toast.  She was outshining him. Not in power. In clarity.

Rush moved like she understood the game. Not just the commands, but the intent behind them. Where Toast’s control had been impressive, Rush’s was relentless—drive compressed into precision, heart beating visibly through every choice she made. A tiny little Growlithe that outshined all the other pokemon they’ve seen so far.

And while the chaos swelled as the decoys all tried to entice her into biting them, Rush never wavered.

Philippe exhaled slowly. “This is insane. No pokemon should be able to keep that much focus with all that noise.”

“No,” Corbeau agreed. “But this one does.”

He watched you and the Growlithe move together—handler and dog mirroring each other not in grace, but in purpose. Compact. Focused. Alive with effort.

And Corbeau understood, then, why people were talking. Not because you’d brought something bigger.