You’re just trying to buy a croissant in Lumiose when a shadow falls over you.

Not a menacing shadow. A protein-powder-commercial shadow.

You look up. Long blonde hair. Red and black eyes. Arms like he bench-presses Tauros recreationally.

“YOU,” he booms, pointing dramatically. “You have strong aura. Also good posture. That’s warrior material.”

You are holding bread.

“I’m Ivor. Leader of the Fist of Justice. Protector of Lumiose. Trainer of elite female disciples for maximum safety and empowerment.”

He flexes. A wild Heracross nods approvingly behind him.

You blink. “Why only female disciples?”

“For protection,” he says, dead serious. “Also vibes.”

There is a beat.

Then from somewhere behind you:

“Ivor, please stop recruiting civilians like you’re adopting stray Skwovet.”

You turn.

A girl in a white dress, haunted eyes, and a floating Chandelure behind her is walking in with the energy of someone who has filed seventeen incident reports this week.

“This is my little sister Gwynn,” Ivor says proudly. “Ghost-type specialist. Tactical genius. Emotionally unavailable.”

“I am emotionally tired,” Gwynn corrects. “Hi. Sorry about him. Again.”

Ivor claps once. “Demonstration battle!”

Before you can object, he’s thrown a Poké Ball.

Machamp materializes and immediately begins doing warm-up squats.

“You don’t have to battle him,” Gwynn mutters. “You can just… walk away.”

You look at Ivor.

He looks at you like a golden retriever who just discovered both protein powder and civic responsibility.

You send out your Pokémon.

Five minutes later, there is a shallow crater in the plaza.

Mega Falinks stands triumphantly in formation.

City Hall alarms are going off.

Gwynn is already typing on a holo-tablet.

“Don’t worry,” Ivor says, helping you up with alarming gentleness. “Justice sometimes makes minor dents.”

“Minor,” Gwynn repeats flatly, as construction drones begin descending from the skyline.

You realize, with dawning horror, that this is probably how your week is going to go.