"Player 'Vegetable Ice Cream' has sent a friend request. Accept / Decline."
Luke declined without a second thought.
Please. Adding me just to flame me? Not happening.
Back in his younger, more naive days, Luke's go-to deck in Hearthstone had been Dirty Priest. Every time he crushed someone with it, he'd get a wave of friend requests afterward — and being an optimist about it, he'd figured people just wanted to talk deck-building.
One time, the request came from a guy who turned out to be from what might as well have been the most toxic server on the internet. The guy tore into him and blocked him within thirty seconds. Something along the lines of: "Play a real deck, coward," and "Pirate Warrior is the only real deck, learn to play."
Ever since, Luke had been extremely cautious about accepting friend requests.
To be fair, his playstyle really was dirty enough to justify some rage. Gold, for instance, had once gone three days without eating after Luke's Venusaur cleanly swept his entire team of six. Luke had seen this exact pattern play out more times than he could count.
Kid's still got a lot to learn.
He gave himself a mental thumbs-up for dodging the request — then, three seconds later, another message came through.
Vegetable Ice Cream: ?
You've got the nerve to send me a question mark after I declined you?
Luke grinned and typed back immediately.
Teacher Luke: My friend slots are pretty expensive, you know.
Vegetable Ice Cream: How much?
Teacher Luke: At least $150.
Vegetable Ice Cream: What's your card number?
Luke blinked. Wait. Are they actually about to send money?
Getting flamed after a loss was standard. Flaming your own teammates was basically a national pastime. But someone offering to pay the winner? That was new.
If you can't beat 'em... pay 'em? A whole new revenue stream seemed to shimmer into existence right in front of him.
Teacher Luke: No rush, let's break this down properly.
Teacher Luke: A friend slot gets you tactical coaching AND a free sparring partner. $150 really isn't much for that, right?
Vegetable Ice Cream: Very reasonable.
Teacher Luke: Plus, I'm ranked world #7. My schedule's packed. Another $75 on top feels fair.
Vegetable Ice Cream: Mm.
Teacher Luke: You know how prices are in the Orient region. Factoring in overhead, labor, all of it — let's call it a friendly $430 flat.
A pause on the other end.
Vegetable Ice Cream: ...Is that too little?
Cynthia had done the math from her own frame of reference — a two-hour League match ran about $280,000 in appearance fees. This player's Perish Song execution had been genuinely sharp. If he really could offer free sparring on top of coaching, veteran-level sparring sessions alone usually ran into the tens of thousands per hour. Given the skill on display, $430 wasn't just reasonable — it verged on insulting.
Teacher Luke: T-too little??
Luke choked on the water he'd just sipped. Wiping his mouth, hands shaking slightly, he typed back.
Teacher Luke: ...What would you consider fair, then?
Vegetable Ice Cream: I'll send $1,400 for the friend slot now. Whenever you're free, we'll play, and I'll settle up separately after that.
Vegetable Ice Cream: Heading offline. Send your account number. Talk soon.
Happiness this sudden left Luke a little dazed. Did I just... find a rich benefactor?
Not only did she not curse me out after losing — she paid me $1,400 for the privilege?
He accepted the friend request and, hands still trembling slightly, clicked into her profile, trying to piece together who she actually was. Between the ID and the Garchomp, Cynthia seemed like a strong possibility. Except — was the actual Sinnoh Champion really the type to have downtime for casual games, let alone running around as a chibi loli avatar?
Then again, Caitlin — the whole "legal loli" persona, blonde hair, close friend of Cynthia's — could just as easily be behind the account.
There was, of course, a third option: some large, unshaven man cosplaying as a cute chibi character purely for the bit.
Luke shuddered and shoved that thought as far away as possible.
"I'll just assume she's Cynthia," he muttered. "Gives me something nice to think about while we play."
Bzzt.
"Your account ending in ...XXX has received a transfer of $1,400. Current balance: $3,300.00."
"WOOO, we're taking off!"
Raising a Pokémon properly took real capital, and Luke figured he might as well be building up his war chest early. In a few days his stream and YouTube payouts would clear too — probably another $4,200 or so. For a broke college freshman with zero backing, that put him solidly ahead of the curve.
Against actual Trainer expenses, though, a few thousand dollars barely registered.
"This is exactly why I never wanted to be a Trainer," Luke sighed, then called over to Gastly, deep in its studies. "Hey, kiddo — Dad's taking you out for a real meal tonight!"
"Kojie!" Gastly shot halfway across the room before pausing mid-flight, a flicker of suspicion crossing its face. Wait. Why does this feel like I'm being used somehow.
Eh, whatever. Free food is free food.
______________________________
To treat himself, Luke took Gastly to a fine-dining spot along the Bund. He ordered a vegetable salad for Gastly as its "entrée," and a sirloin steak for himself.
"No point staring at me like that," Luke mumbled around a bite of steak. "This is literally the house special, made specifically for Pokémon."
"Screech~~~ (T^T)" Gastly's eyes dissolved into wavy lines of despair, chewing miserably through a mouthful of lettuce, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables.
Luke offered an apologetic smile to the table beside them, and the young woman there blushed instantly, whispering something to her friend.
"That's the Trainer from the Piplup Cup, right?"
"Has to be, he was even on the news."
Luke had always kept a low profile. But apparently talent had a way of leaking out regardless.
Right as he was quietly savoring that thought, Gastly lunged across the table and swallowed his entire steak whole.
"Kojie (⊙~⊙)!"*
"...You sure you're not going to choke on that?"
Luke took a moment to actually take in the restaurant. It leaned heavily into a Pokémon-themed concept — crystal chandeliers, warm amber lighting, a wooden bar centerpiece, a small stage set up with a piano, like it hosted live sets. The website had billed it as a branch of a restaurant run by Siebold, Kalos's top chef and its resident Water-type Elite — flagship location in Lumiose City, holding a three-Snorlax rating. This branch, here in Metro City, carried a respectable one-Snorlax rating of its own.
The click of heels on hardwood pulled his attention over.
Elena, in a sleeveless blue dress and sharp heels, offered a polite nod. "Luke."
She appeared to be with her parents — a well-dressed couple watching the exchange from a nearby table with visibly warm approval.
"Hey," Luke said, caught off guard. "Small world."
"I wanted to apologize again, for before," Elena said, hesitating slightly. "If you don't mind—"
A sharp screech of microphone feedback cut through the room, pulling every eye toward the stage. A waiter stepped up, smiling.
"Next up — Siebold Restaurant's signature event!"
"The Battle Restaurant segment!"