[h3][color=Khaki]Camden Montero[/color][/h3][hr][hr][i]U.S.  ||  Washington D.C.  ||  March 2nd[/i]

Camden liked Oliver. He was brief, concise, and unusually curt, wasting no time between videos and sometimes not even bothering to ask for a response before moving to the next clip. He frequently interrupted Camden with rehearsed lines and seem to give consideration to neither the frills nor witticisms Camden threw into his responses. In fact, sometimes he didn't even write anything down after hearing Camden's response, which would have been fine if not for the fact that Camden was sure that some of his comments should have warranted at least [i]some[/i] amount of amazement.

Okay, Camden hated Oliver and his stuck-up frown, his last-century glasses, and his suit that was a hideous shade of grey that definitely didn’t do anything to help the man’s pallid color, all of which came together in a bleached-looking presentation of a man who looked like he’d lived the past century in a bomb shelter and had only recently managed to find his way out. But that was all beside the point; Camden liked Oliver and would continue to tell himself so until he himself believed it because learning to like the interviewer would help him build rapport. So, of course, the only conclusion to draw from all of his targeted observations was that Oliver, however poorly-dressed, was, in fact, a man of great intellect—so much intellect, in fact, that earthly presentations were beneath him. 

[i]Not that I believe that for a second,[/i] Camden thought, a politely inquisitive look fixed firmly on his face as he took in a clip of a deer writing in a cloud of purple dust. 

[color=Khaki]“The poor deer,”[/color] Camden said, shaking his head. [color=Khaki]“If only it'd seen that Oddish camouflaged among the ferns.”[/color]

Oliver, as always, said and wrote nothing. However, instead of switching the laptop to the next video, he closed it.

“That’s all then, Mr. Montero,” he said, his voice—[i]unpleasantly nasally[/i]—echoing faintly in the small room. Camden nodded, making to rise from his seat, but Oliver interrupted him. “One more thing, though—”

“Holy—”

Camden let loose a string of expletives, stumbling back and nearly tripping over his chair as a large golden coffin rose out of the table in front of him, distorting the very air around it with swirling shadows that materialized into two ghostly arms. 

[i]Confagrigus,[/i] Camden recognized through his curses. It was another second before he cut himself off, remembering where he was and what he was doing. Righting his chair and calmly sitting down, he calmly met Oliver’s bespectacled eyes through the translucent ghost looming threateningly above him.

[color=Khaki]“You know, this would be more believable if you acted a bit surprised,”[/color] he said, figuring the game was up. The earlier interview was clearly just a ruse to relax him so the final test—the surprise appearance of a Pokemon—could play out properly. 

[i]No wonder he didn’t bother writing much down,[/i] Camden thought, grudgingly impressed. 

Oliver adjusted his glasses. “Becoming a trainer would mean that you’ll regularly come face-to-face with Pokemon who will be much less benevolent than our friend here. What makes you think you can handle it?”

[color=Khaki]“I know what I want,”[/color] Camden said, [color=Khaki]“so it’s just a matter of getting it. I overestimate myself, but when I do, I make sure to live up to my original expectations. I improve my shortcomings and I make certain that I don’t fail a second time. I look towards the future—run and meet it halfway.”[/color]

“You’ll run out and meet him,” Oliver said, indicating the Confagrigus, “halfway?”

“With a dark-type Pokemon at my side, yes,” Camden said. “I’m confident, not suicidal.” He glanced at the Confagrigus again, eyes scanning over the detailing on the ghost-type’s sarcophagus shell. 

[i]Egyptian-looking, and though a bit tarnished, it’d be stunning after a good polishing,[/i] he thought. 

In the background, Oliver had fallen silent, but Camden was too absorbed in the Confagrigus to mind. This was the first time he’d been so close to a Pokemon—a real, living Pokemon—and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to sit and let the sight sink in. 

[i]Only two hands on this one—hiding the other two in its coffin, perhaps?[/i] he wondered. 

The Confagrigus, as if just noticing his eyes, grinned wider, baring its teeth. Camden grinned back.

[color=Khaki]“You should consider using all four hands next time,”[/color] he said pleasantly. [color=Khaki]“It’d make you look bigger.”[/color]

The Confagrigus blinked, then uttered forth a few low, dusty screeches that seemed more to fade than echo in the small room. It took Camden a moment to realize that the Cofagrigus had chuckled.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Montero,” Oliver interrupted, his pen quick on his notepad as the Cofagrigus slid back down through the table with one last, slow blink at Camden. “You’ll receive word of your results next month.”

[color=Khaki]“Thank you as well,”[/color] Camden said, a bit disappointed that the Pokemon had gone. He probably wouldn’t see another up close until long after results were announced in April.

As he walked out of the building, Camden was neither confident nor dejected; rather, his thoughts were swirling, and he grinned with giddy anticipation for what the future held.

[i]A ghost-type with Will-O-Wisp or a dark-type with Dark Pulse? Which looks better?[/i] he wondered. [i]Should I get both? Or a dual-type, for greater versatility?[/i]

[hr][hr][i]April 11th, 20:46 Local Time  ||  U.S.  ||  Kensington, M.D.[/i]

The email’s arrival did not surprise Camden much, having awaited it since the first day of April, but he was a bit miffed when it finally arrived. Clearly, he wasn’t among the first trainers to be chosen, and though he wasn’t surprised since his testing experience hadn’t exactly instilled confidence in him, he was still a bit annoyed that he’d only just made the cut—likely falling, it seemed, around or below average at best.

[i]Well, all that digging away at things like mugwort and buchu better pay off,[/i] he thought, sending back a quick response. [i]They better not have encouraged me to memorize a bunch of plants for nothing.[/i]

He paused, glancing at the clock and sighing as he realized that he still had a few hours before he ought to sleep. Having decided on his independence, he’d chosen to stay in D.C.rather than going home, but the decision posed a few practical problems. Luckily, he’d been able to find a job at a corner flower shop in one of the suburbs around D.C., where a sympathetic widower was willing to let him live in the spare room in exchange for his help around the shop. His hours were on the longer side—eight in the morning to five in the afternoon, lunch breaks excluded—but Camden couldn’t complain. It was more than he could’ve asked for, and he was also frequently exposed to odd plants the owner brought in, which were usually throwaways from people who bought first and thought second about the work required. Most died quickly after they arrived, since people didn’t tend to realize that their plants were wasting away until it was too late, but those that recovered were moved into the owner’s private collection: a makeshift greenhouse on the balcony, where a small house of cooing pigeons lay, surrounded by a modest tropical garden. 

The widower himself was a kind, lonely old man, who regularly attended various clubs around town—book, poetry, and chess included. On Sunday, he would join a group of retirees and bus to the city to tour the free museums. A rough calculation—once a month for twenty-seven years—told Camden that he’d been to the Smithsonian museums over three hundred times, yet the man still claimed they worth visiting.

“They change every few months, those museums,” he’d say, laughing. “We always have a little competition to see who finds the new exhibit first. I’m pretty sharp-eyed for my age, if I do say so myself.”

Camden himself had toured the exhibits multiple times throughout the last month, but more to procrastinate from his gruelling tasks of memorizing the difference between this and that fern than out of interest in the museums themselves. However, he had found himself impressed by some of the exhibits, mostly around the art and history museums; history seemed to whisper up from the oil paintings, and though there was no dust to be found on the historical artifacts on display, their well-worn edges spoke of times past. 

Tonight, though, Camden found himself too put out to attempt to continue his studies. [i]No way am I looking at any more cactus concoctions,[/i] he thought, stretching before pulling out his 3DS. [i]Time for some more ‘research’ at the Contest Hall. I wonder when I’ll be allowed to actually catch my own Pokemon… [/i]

[hr][hr][i]May 4th, 14:07 Local Time  ||  Russia  ||  Norilsk Airport[/i]

Blinking blearily, Camden rolled his suitcase over to where the others were—gathered at the side of the nearby cargo van—before moving to board the bus. The plane ride over had done a number on him; Camden been uncomfortable with heights for as long as could remember, and when the captain turned on the seatbelt light, citing some “slight turbulence,” in the skies, he knew it wasn’t going to be smooth sailing.

[i]Never flying without Ambien again,[/i] he thought, rubbing his temples as he filed onto the bus. Once he was in, he sat down in a window seat near the front, pinching the bridge of his nose. [i]Think happy thoughts: you’re going to get a Pokemon soon, and there’s no flying required for that. Both feet firmly on the ground all the way…[/i]