#trainerville

Habitats

Both categories of Ghosts are created out of a particular energy, ectoplasm. Ectoplasm seems to form in areas with a high concentration of emotional energy. This can include (but is not limited to): Historical battle sites, century-plus old buildings, locations of particularly violent deaths, graveyards and other burial sites, and churches and other places of worship.

Certain locations are popular with trainers to search for Ghost Pokémon (See: Trainer Tourism), such as the New Jersey Pinelands; Gettysburg National Battlefield; the Winchester Mystery House; the Lizzie Borden House; Smallville, Kansas; etc.

Care

Ghost type Pokémon are actually quite low maintenance in the physical sense!

They do not require physical conditioning for prolonged battles, they do not need to stay in locations with highly-concentrated ectoplasm (though occasional visits are good for them, particularly for breeding endeavors).

They require regular feedings of lifeforce (see Feeding below). Young Ghost types typically require two appropriately-sized feeder Pokémon a day, while older Ghosts may only need one large meal a week. Trainers are highly encouraged to follow a regular feeding schedule, or they may find themselves on the menu.

A well-fed Ghost can theoretically never die.

Feeding

As Ghost type Pokémon are comprised of energy, it therefore makes sense that they require energy to feed on. While Object Ghosts can consume solid food formulated for Pokémon (preferably formulated for Ghost types specifically), it can take them days to properly digest it, and therefore is not an efficient way to feed your Ghost type.

Ghost type Pokémon feed most efficiently on the life energy of living flora and fauna, though fauna is preferred.

Amorphous Ghost types seem to feed most efficiently by possession; this act is theorized to grant Ghost types direct access to human and Pokémon lifesource. They can feed, if somewhat less efficiently, by direct contact as well.

It is theorized Amorphous Ghosts possess the dead, despite it providing no sustenance, in order to get closer to living targets without arousing suspicion. This has given rise to legends of vampires, incubi, succubi, and others

Object Ghost types seem to feed most efficiently by direct physical contact, as they are unable to possess the living. They can also feed by proximity as well, however this method is slow.

Different species of Object Ghosts prefer different feeding methods.

Objects that would normally be held--such as Honedge, an ectoplasm-infect sword, or Mimikyu, an ectoplasm-infected toy Pikachu--prefer direct contact to feed. Mimikyu tend to target children, who believe it to be a real toy and carry it constantly for comfort. Honedge have a ribbon they wrap around the arm of their target, so they are unable to be put down.

Objects that would not be held--such as Litwick, an ectoplasm-infect candle--tend to prefer close proximity, and feed extremely slowly so as not to be noticed. In this case, Litwick keeps its candle flame burning, providing light to its target. Its target must keep it close to use the light and rarely notice the flame does not extinguish, allowing it to feed steadily.

Some Object Ghosts may use a type of hybrid effect. Noticeable here is the Sinistea line. People do not constantly hold teacups or teapots, and rarely keep them close; but the Sinistea line infects tea made or poured into it with its own ectoplasm, which is then drunk and seems to somehow funnel lifeforce back to the Pokémon that provided the ectoplasm. The exact methodology is unknown at this time.

Both of these categories of Ghosts can also feed on plant life indirectly, resulting in the plants in question rapidly withering.

Wild Ghost types are incredibly dangerous, because they target humans and other Pokémon indiscriminately. They do not care if their target dies or not.

A well-trained Ghost type can be taught to only feed on feeder Pokémon, and some have even been trained to only partially drain their target. As a word of caution, these Ghosts are older, have developed an extreme amount of control, and training to this point is a long and difficult process. If done incorrectly, the Ghost can lash out at its trainer, resulting in injury and even death. However, if done correctly, feeder Pokémon can be rotated and given time to recover their lifeforce with sleep and food.

Breeding

Amorphous Ghost type Pokémon require an environment high in ectoplasm to reproduce. While the exact method is unknown, they do produce eggs that will eventually be laid. In order to successfully hatch, they must remain in this environment.

Object Ghost type Pokémon reproduce through entirely unknown methods. The presence of eggs is theorized, but has never been conclusively proven; however, some witnesses have claimed to see Object Ghosts bringing relevant objects into their territory. There's a video of a wild Mimikyu dragging a stuffed Pikachu into a locally-known haunted house, but the video quality is so poor it cannot be verified.

Warnings

Hunting wild Ghost types specifically can result in prolonged exposure to ectoplasm. Prolonged exposure to ectoplasm can cause the following symptoms: Paleness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, loss of appetite, depression, anxiety, and paranoia.

These symptoms can also indicate a possession, but long-term or repeated possession (particularly noticeable in humans) can also result in: Changes in mood, demeanor, appearance, eye color, and voice.

Trainers that wish to capture and train a Ghost type should always keep a Dark type Pokémon on-hand, as Dark types are very adept in spotting possessed and influenced trainers and teammates.

Sweat makes Lionel's shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin as he dashes down the steps of the tenement he and his parents live in. Most everyone who doesn't have to be outside has already gone in to escape the sweltering heat, but he's stuck out here until his mother, Eliza, passes out. It's barely noon, but she's already been at her gin.

"Come back at dinner time," she had told him, words slurring but tone carrying a sharp, warning edge, and Lionel had scampered away before she could decide to use a more physical encouragement.

But he really only needs to stay gone for an hour or two. By then she'll have passed out on the couch, so as long as he's quiet coming in and doesn't wake her early, it'll be fine. Until then, it won't be terrible; he has the sandwich he managed to make before she decided he was too noisy, and there's a park nearby with a water fountain. He can find a patch of shade there.

He's a block away when hears a soft whimper in an alley and pauses. It stinks even just standing at the entrance from the piles of trash, two days away from collection and rotting fast from the heat. Going in would be stupid; he's seen a lot of guys get beat up for interrupting something they shouldn't. He should just keep going.

But he doesn't see anyone, and the whimper comes again, soft and inhuman, accompanied by a quiet scrape. Probably a Pokémon, he decides, listening closely. There's no talking, no yelling, no smacks of flesh hitting flesh, none of the indicators he's learned to recognize as warnings to stay away.

It's probably stuck. Probably only take a minute to let it loose, and then Lionel can be on his way again. Besides, no one deserves to be stuck in a garbage heap, so he darts in before he can change his mind, holding his breath to try to avoid the stink.

Halfway down the alley, Lionel finds the source: A tiny scrap of grey fur struggling its way out of a burlap sack. Another scrap lies unmoving next to it.

It takes a moment for him to identify it--a Poochyena, eyes still closed against the world.

He picks it up uncertainly, cradling it against his chest. He already knows he can't take it home--his family can't afford another mouth--but he can't leave it here, either.

"Great," he mutters. Probably another wild Ratatta, even though he's pretty sure his dad patched that gap the last one got into the house through.

That means he'll need to get either Ma or Pa to catch it and release it somewhere off the property. He edges carefully back toward the trapdoor--moving fast usually only antagonizes wild Pokémon--but only makes it a few inches before the flaps of the box pop apart, revealing a...Pikachu?

That can't be right, Clark thinks, frowning at it. It looks more like fabric than fur, dirty and frayed and patched, like a decades-old stuffed animal. Except this one has two holes on its belly, and stuffed animals don't pop out of boxes like a demented jack-in-the-box.

Logic says this must be a Pokémon, but it's not any species he even remembers hearing a vague description of. It could be a joke, maybe; his parents knew he was planning on coming up here, so it could've been like. On a timer, or something.

Has to be a prank, he decides, shuffling closer. His parents hadn't signed the permission form for him to take Smallville High's Trainer License Course, so they were probably trying to lighten the mood after the resulting argument.

He smiles at it. It is weirdly cute, in a creepy kind of way, like someone had made Pikachu into a Ghost Type. It's almost like a half-stuffed ragdoll, with floppy ears and head, and no arms or feet. And he wouldn't mind keeping it, either.

Keenly aware of how fragile and old it looks--one of Pa's old toys, maybe?--Clark picks it up, hands wrapped around the body and careful not to squeeze at all. It's cool as he sets it in his lap, like it has an ice pack inside; a pleasant surprise in the stifling heat of the attic. He brushes the fingers of one hand down its back while cradling it gently with the other.

It squeaks.

He freezes in place. The whole body of the "toy" shifts, head lolling back as the two holes on the front tilt up at him, and then it squeaks again.

"You're a Pokémon?!" he squeaks out, voice pitched nearly in the same range as the creature in his lap. It squeaks back, more demandingly this time, and butts its whole body against his hand. He hurriedly pets the fabric, because upsetting a wild Pokémon is just not a good idea. After a few minutes the body of the "toy" bulges out, like whatever's inside has curled into a ball.

But he can't stay up here forever, and whatever Pokémon this is, it isn't his. "Should I, uh, take you outside or something?" he asks it. Instead of responding with any kind of noise, a shadow slips out from under it, where its feet should be, and wraps around his free wrist like a cold rope. "I guess not, then..."

He totally should anyway, because it's really not a great idea to pet a random, unknown Pokémon like this. But part of him is too busy marveling at how this random, unknown Pokémon likes him enough to let him without mauling him for the offense. It usually takes strange Pokémon, even friendly ones, properly trained and socialized, a good while to warm up to him.

The Poochyena pup shivers against his chest as he darts forward, squeaking its protest at the sudden movement as loudly as it can. Which isn't much, but it draws the barkeep's attention. He squints at Lionel, then grins.

"'ey, I remember you! Didja change your mind?" He sets the wooden crate down on the edge of the truck he's been unloading. There's something painted on the side, the letters P-O-T- just legible, though the rest is smeared too much to read.

"Yeah. If you're still looking, anyway." He adjusts his grip carefully on the squirming pup.

"Yeah, we still are--whatcha got there?" The barkeep leans forward for a better look, and Lionel leans slightly back. The man only grins, though. "Yeah, I think Trish'll be interested in you. He'll be here in a bit." He grabs Lionel's shoulder, steering him into the bar. "In the meantime--hey, Trish! Trish, where you at?"

The side door leads into a hallway, and down one side Lionel can barely glimpse the bar itself. He isn't led that way, however; instead, he's guided down the opposite way, past an open door marked "storage" propped open with a couple crates, until they reach an office. It's small, a bit crowded from the filing cabinets along the back wall, and there's a harried-looking brown-haired girl sitting at a desk covered in papers.

"Can it wait, Will?" she asks without even looking up, pencil scribbling rapidly. Lionel can't see exactly what she's working on, but it has to be important. "I need to finish this before Uncle Donny gets here."

"Well, at least you'll have good news for him," the barkeep, Will, says cheerfully. He ushers Lionel forward with a hand between his shoulder blades.

She glances up, pencil stilling as her eyes flick over him--no, not him, he realizes when they rest on his hands. The Poochyena he found. "Whatever Pokémon that is, is too young for the arena. Don't waste my time."

"I'm not giving him to you, anyway," Lionel says mutinously, running one finger gently over the pup's fuzzy head.

"Weren't you complaining about needing a new errand boy still?" Will asks pointedly. He waves at Lionel. "Well, here you go!"

This time she focuses on Lionel himself, painted lips pursed in consideration. "He might do. Go finish getting the delivery inside."

"Yes, ma'am!" Will snaps a salute, lips twitching into a grin before he leaves, and Trish just sighs.

She sets her pencil down carefully. "Alright, kid, what's your name?"

"Lionel." He tries to straighten his shoulders, abruptly aware of how he's almost hunched over his tiny passenger.

"Let me guess. Parents said you can keep it if you pay for it?" she says, gesturing at the pup.

"Sorta, I guess." No need to get into all the details.

"You got a license? Pokémon that tiny typically need milk still, and you won't be able to buy it without one," she warns, and his heart sinks.

Then he scowls. "I'll figure something out."

"I bet," she snorts. She grabs a paper and scribbles something on it. "Alright, follow me."

This time, he is led to the bar. Most of the chairs are still put up, but there's a dark-haired boy a couple years older than him sitting at the counter, legs kicking as he sips something from a glass and looking completely bored. Sitting on the counter next to him is a tan-and-white ball of fur, and the only reason Lionel knows it's a Pokémon is because it's breathing. Trish leads Lionel over, and the boy turns to them.

"Lionel, this is Morgan. Morgan, Lionel is taking over your route."

The boy, Morgan, brightens immediately. "I'm moving up?"

"As long as Uncle Donny agrees. Which he will, if Lionel does well," she says pointedly. She hands him the paper. "Show him the route to the warehouse and pick this up from Millie." She turns to Lionel. "Millie will get you the supplies you need until your new friend is weaned. Until then, you'll run errands to pay us back. After, we'll see about keeping you on. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She makes a face. "Don't call me that, I'm not old enough to be a ma'am. Just stick with Trish."

"Yes, ma-um. Trish." It feels awkward to call a stranger by her first name, but she grins at him.

"Better. Now shoo, you'll need to be back before Uncle Donny gets in."

Morgan jumps down. "Alright, we're going." Then he peers down at the pup. "You should leave him here, he'll just slow us down."

"I don't know." He doesn't want to leave his new companion behind.

"Don't worry, Scout can watch him." He holds out his hands expectantly, and Lionel reluctantly passes the pup over. "Wow," Morgan breathes, "he really is tiny."

Then he turns and offers the little scrap to the pile of fur on the counter. It picks its head up, revealing the masked face of a Zigzagoon. It yawns, then sniffs curiously at the pup.

"What d'you think? Willing to babysit?" Morgan asks. With a soft grumble, the raccoon Pokémon lifts its tail, allowing its trainer to settle the Poochyena against its belly. Then it drops its tail again and sets its head back on its paws, eyes half-shut, and Lionel releases the breath he only just then realizes he's been holding.