â [ ⢠] â Há´á´ÉŞĘÉŞá´á´ÉŞá´É´ is hardly a punishment Gil is equipped to endure, even if, by all accounts, he should be more than used to it by now.
Heâs never been much of a trainer. The ins-and-outs of PokĂŠmon battling are beyond the young breeder, and he doesnât quite have the mind for strategy. While other students his age have tried their hands at defeating the Elite Four, completed their adventures, and gone on to do great things, Gil has remained in the same place: running his familyâs daycare with the same old Marrill. He wonât even evolve her.
Itâs rare for Gil to venture out of his tiny Unovan village, even for a weekend trip; to be here for days on end, as part of a breeding convention...itâs outside of the young manâs comfort zone, surely. He came on a whim, a spur-of-the-moment decision to illuminate his familyâs name on a mass scale, and now, in some back alley of Castelia City, heâs gotten himself into far more trouble than he's worth.
    ( more trouble than heâll ever be worth. )
He doesnât know who these thugs are, or why theyâve taken it upon themselves to take Nevy hostage, but the poor Marrill is squealing something fierce, and through the ringing in his ears, and the dull, aching echo of a blow he sustained to one side of his face, Gil can make out one thing and one thing only:Â Ęá´á´?
   they want to make a wager? for what?
Gil has never been the gambling kind, not even remotely, and heâs trying to slur something out, some explanation, some excuse -- heâs just short of begging when he sees the figure silhouetted in the mouth of the alley. The stranger looks familiar. Famous, maybe. If only Gil could make him out through the haze in his brain.
All he can manage is to croak out a single string of words and phrases, half-choked:
âHelp me.â He somehow manages to swallow, though his throat is devoid of moisture. âPlease, Iâll...Iâll do anything.â
