"I'm never going back to that loony author again!" She hisses out while running a hand through her hair. Her other hand grips onto the paper with the published story. "How is he getting those crap stories publicized and getting a movie?!"

She had to deal with Crivain's ridiculous request a few times. They sounded entertaining when he told his stories to her aloud, but finally reading them in Lumiose Press was something else. She can't deny that he has a way with words, but his stories are just outrageous. And he's still using her Pokemon's nicknames.

"...is this how you get published in Kalos? Should I lower my standards?"

Old habits die hard. After stealing for a good chunk of his life, it's hard to shake the habit, to just take something and walk away as if nothing happened. For someone like him, it's far easier than it should be. Even when he's rusty, he can still manage to get away with it.

His Umbreon and Espeon aren't strangers to this. In Orre, you have to do what you need to in order to survive. Stealing some food isn't the worse thing that could be done there. To those who don't know him, he wouldn't admit to them being his partners in crime. Distractions are easy to pull off for his Pokemon.

Although this is the first time his Plusle has committed theft. Whether it's intentional or not...well, he doesn't know. He expected Duking's Pokemon to be a sweetheart, but perhaps she's learning a thing or two from him.

Finding Grusha on Glaseado Mountain isn't surprising. Despite his complaints about the cold, it's a place he's spent most of his life in. He's used to the snowy weather. Plus Cetoddle prefers the cold climate too.

With no aspiring young trainers around to take on his gym, he has to find something to do. Normally it's training his Pokemon or exploring the mountain just in case he finds a lost trainer. Today, he's doing neither of those things.

— — — The vending machine had exactly one job. Just one. She's crouched in front of the damn thing, hood up, gutting the payment panel with a multitool from her back pocket like it owes her money because it does. Two-fifty, to be exact.

"Don't look at me like that," she mutters, hissing as her tool slips. "It started it."