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On the way home, David made a quick detour to the pharmacy.
Not for cold medicine. Not for vitamins. No, no.
He bought laxatives. Every. Single. Box.
He stood at the counter like a man on a mission—one that involved gastrointestinal warfare. The poor cashier didn't even ask questions. Just silently rang up the stack like she was trying to suppress her fight-or-flight response.
"All of them, please," David said, dead serious.
"All of them?" she blinked.
"Every last one."
"…Planning a party?"
David smirked. "You could say that."
In truth, the laxatives were crucial. Not for him, of course. He wasn't about to prank someone's punch bowl—although, let's be honest, that would've been on-brand. No, this was strictly business.
Laxatives were, believe it or not, part of a key ingredient in his secret energy cube formula. Yes, the same stuff that ruins a Sunday morning was also the secret sauce to supercharging Pokémon.
If the League knew about this, they'd probably pass a law. Or three.
Thankfully, this world had a very clear price divide: anything related to Pokémon? Crazy expensive. Berries, machines, Poké Balls—wallet annihilators. But human stuff? Pocket change.
David cleared out the store for less than 5,000 Alliance coins.
He skipped out of the pharmacy with a bag full of bowel-blasters and a sense of smug satisfaction. Who knew explosive digestion could be so cost-effective?
By the time he got home, his house looked peaceful—almost suspiciously so.
Inside, the two freeloaders were still fast asleep.
Pikachu was sprawled out on his back like he'd just finished a buffet, tiny legs twitching as he dreamed of electric donuts or whatever powered his lazy little brain.
And Ralts?
Ralts was curled up into a ball, snoring ever so softly, with a shimmering string of baby drool glistening at the corner of her mouth like some sort of Sleep Olympics gold medal.
David crouched down and stared at them.
"Wow," he whispered. "You two really earn your food, huh?"
Neither moved.
Honestly, David wasn't surprised. Ralts was still just a baby—new to the world, still adjusting to existing. She rarely did much aside from cuddling, sleeping, and occasionally shooting out a psychic blast when startled. Like a toddler with superpowers.
And Pikachu? Yeah, he'd stopped pretending to be useful days ago. His daily schedule was pretty much: wake up, snack, nap, fake stretch, eat again, nap harder.
David decided not to disturb their holy ritual of sleep-slacking.
Instead, he tiptoed around like a dad trying not to wake the baby during nap time—except the babies in this house were a yellow couch gremlin and a psychic marshmallow.
He gently set the bag of laxatives down on the kitchen counter, like it was a sacred treasure.
Now all that was left… was to wait.
The berries from the Breeder house would be arriving soon, and when they did?
It would be time to cook up something legendary.
Or mildly dangerous.
Or both.
Either way, David leaned back, cracked his knuckles, and grinned.
Showtime was coming.
Although David had just shamelessly bamboozled the shopkeeper out of a hefty discount—complete with fake innocence, live dog impressions, and Olympic-level bargaining—the Breeder house didn't skimp on service. To his surprise, within half an hour, a delivery truck pulled up to his door like some sort of fruity Amazon Prime.
Out came boxes upon boxes of berries. All types, all sizes. Some were soft and squishy, others looked like they could double as medieval weapons. The delivery guy gave David a nod, wheeled the crates inside, and left without a word—probably afraid of making eye contact with the man who somehow turned barking into currency.
David stood at the doorway, hands on his hips, admiring the mountain of fruit like a villain about to mix up a potion of chaos.
"Perfect," he grinned. "Time to cook."
Yes. It was energy cube time.
The moment he'd been waiting for.
He had the berries. He had the secret ingredient: industrial-strength laxatives. And he had absolutely zero shame.
David strolled into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and dramatically pulled out a tiny blender like it was Excalibur.
Time to blend science, strategy, and questionable morals.
Now, technically, he'd promised the Breeder house owner that if he had any "high-quality intermediate cubes," he'd sell them through their shop.
But see… there was a tiny problem.
The cubes David was making were not your standard energy cubes. These were Jet Black Cubes: small, nutrient-packed, and laced with enough laxative to clear a Wailord's system.
Selling these things in a legit Breeder shop? Yeah, that would be career suicide.
Because the moment a trainer gave one to their beloved Growlithe and the poor thing sprinted into the bushes like a rocket-propelled sausage? The complaints would start pouring in.
Lawsuits. Pitchforks. Maybe even a local news segment: "Energy Cube or Biohazard?"
No, thank you.
David wasn't dumb. He might be morally flexible, but he had self-preservation instincts. So instead of going legit, he decided to go where laws were more of a suggestion:
The black market.
His prior trip to the black market—where he'd picked up that mysterious egg which eventually hatched into his adorable, sleepy Ralts—was still fresh in his mind. That salon owner with the Gardevoir obsession had bought the egg off the grid, and that was when David first got a taste of how things worked behind the scenes.
Thanks to the grumbles and half-explanations from Inspector Nakamura during one of their run-ins, David had managed to put together a mental blueprint of the black market scene.
First: no ID checks.
That meant David could sell his products without anyone knowing his name, address, or... dietary sabotage tendencies.
Second: the black market sold all sorts of things the Pokémon League strictly banned. Banned evolution stones. Mystery eggs. Even those knockoff Poké Balls that exploded if you threw them too hard.
It was practically designed for David and his culinary chaos cubes.
And so, with a devilish glint in his eye, he stared at his soon-to-be Jet Black Cubes and nodded to himself.
Time to hit the shadows.
David proudly dragged out his prized possession: a semi-automatic energy cube manufacturing machine. It looked like a microwave had a baby with a cement mixer. It made strange humming noises, had flashing lights that served no clear purpose, and probably violated several electrical safety codes. But to David? It was beautiful.
He peeled the fruit with the enthusiasm of a five-star chef preparing a signature dish—if that chef had no clue what he was doing and just threw random ingredients into a pot like a chaotic wizard. Bright-colored berries were being chopped, squashed, and tossed in like popcorn at a movie theater.
The pièce de résistance? A comically oversized metal cauldron, because of course David was using a cauldron. Inside it was a thick, burbling liquid—a deep, disturbing shade of blackish-red that looked like it was plotting something evil. It hissed and gurgled like it was alive. David stirred it slowly with a soup ladle roughly the size of a canoe paddle, wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Chef (He Might Poison You)."
In his mind, he was an artist. In reality, it looked like Halloween threw up in his kitchen.
Meanwhile, across the living room, two sleepy Pokémon twitched their noses. Pikachu and Ralts had been deep in a peaceful nap, drooling slightly on the couch like tiny fuzzy burritos. But the second that unholy aroma hit their nostrils, their eyes snapped open like someone had hit the panic button.
They blinked. Sniffed again.
Oh no.
The scent was… delicious. Sinfully delicious. Dangerously delicious.
They peered around the doorframe, trembling as they caught sight of David—who, from their perspective, now resembled a mad warlock stirring his latest potion of doom. The cauldron hissed. The ladle twirled. A strange glow came from the liquid, and there might've been a faint sound of whispering.
David looked up with an innocent smile, totally oblivious to the terror he was instilling in his tiny companions.
"Hey! You two are up!" he chirped. "Perfect timing! Wanna try some? It's a brand-new batch—extra rich in flavor!"
He held out a small cup of the suspicious concoction like it was a fine wine.
Pikachu and Ralts froze like deer caught in the headlights of a freight train full of regret. A memory hit them—hard. The last time they had tried one of David's "special cubes," they had spent three hours doing cardio at light speed, followed by eight hours of what could only be described as spiritual vomiting.
Nope.
Never again.
Without a single sound, they looked at each other, gave the tiniest, synchronized shake of the head, and vanished into their Poké Balls faster than David could say, "Bon appétit."
Ding! went the system in David's head, like a slot machine paying out in emotional trauma:
[Pikachu -300 Negative Emotion]
[Ralts -20 Negative Emotion]
[Pikachu -300 Negative Emotion]
[Ralts -20 Negative Emotion]
David blinked. Then snorted with laughter.
"Wow," he muttered. "They really have PTSD from last time, huh?"
He turned back to his potion—sorry, cube mixture—with a proud grin. Using his finger, he dipped into the bubbling sludge and gave it a taste.
"Mmm… yep! That's the good stuff. I'm a genius."
In truth, he hadn't even added the laxatives or the negative emotion extract yet. Right now, it was just flavored with "delicious powder," a highly addictive substance that made anything smell irresistible. Basically, it was the Pokémon equivalent of stuffing brownies with bacon and cheese.
Still, David couldn't help but be amused by how traumatized his Pokémon were. The reaction had been so extreme, it was almost flattering.
"Relax, guys," he said to the Poké Balls on the shelf. "This batch is still poison-free… for now."
He stirred the cauldron again, the bubbling growing louder.
Yeah. This was going to sell like crazy. On the black market, obviously.
After whipping up his full batch of "Jet Cubes"—his highly suspicious, legally questionable, absolutely-shouldn't-be-ingested energy cubes—David moved into packaging mode like he was running a candy cartel. He quickly stuffed the sinister little things into small zip-lock bags, carefully sealing in that dangerously enticing aroma of Delicious Powder before it could seduce the neighbors or make the local stray Meowths start scratching at his windows.
He sat back and looked at the towering pile of finished cubes with the same energy as someone admiring a stack of counterfeit bills fresh from the printer.
"Behold," David muttered dramatically, "my babies."
His eyes sparkled with pride. Then immediately watered with financial pain.
He'd blown through every single berry from today's haul—every single one. Not to mention two whole bottles of Delicious Powder, which were not cheap. That stuff was basically the truffle oil of the Pokémon world. Expensive, potent, and likely illegal in several countries.
All those berries, all that powder… It wasn't just fruit juice and spice in those cubes—it was negative emotion points,pure ambition, and every last Alliance coin from his wallet.
Now came the risky part.
David packed up the Jet Cubes carefully, wrapped them in cloth, tucked them in a plain black duffle bag, and turned his attention to a more... theatrical task: his disguise.
If he was going to sell questionably safe performance-enhancing snack bars on the black market, he couldn't exactly show up in his Pikachu hoodie and slippers.
So, he put on a musty trench coat that looked like it belonged to a retired private detective, slapped on some fake stubble using coffee grounds (it smelled awful), and messed up his hair until he resembled a man who hadn't paid taxes in fifteen years.
The finishing touch?
A pair of old sunglasses and an expression that said, "I've seen things and will definitely yell at a cashier if provoked."
He checked himself in the mirror and blinked.
"Who the hell is that?" he muttered, then grinned. "Perfect."
Even he couldn't recognize himself. That meant the disguise was either brilliant or deeply concerning.
Feeling ready for business, David scooped up his bag and turned to his Pokémon.
"Alright, only Pikachu's coming with me this time," he whispered like a spy. "No hat. Too iconic. People might connect the dots."
Pikachu gave a small nod of understanding, hopping onto his shoulder with minimal fuss. The electric mouse looked slightly offended at the "no hat" clause but chose not to argue.
Ralts, however, was staying behind in her Poké Ball. The black market wasn't exactly known for its wholesome family values, and shiny Ralts were so rare they might as well be walking lottery tickets. No way was he risking someone seeing her and yelling "I CHOOSE YOU!" like a deranged collector.
Luckily, Ralts didn't seem to mind. She had powerful psychic senses and could still feel everything going on outside from the comfort of her spherical home. Probably more relaxing, honestly.
David hailed a cab and gave the driver vague directions to a nearby alley, just shy of the actual black market location. No need to spell it out.
The ride only took about twenty minutes. Not far, but far enough to make him question his life choices in the backseat while clutching a duffel bag full of weaponized fruit snacks.
Everyone who'd been around the block knew the black market was real. Sure, the League didn't endorse it, but they weren't exactly cracking down on it either. It was a treasure trove of rare items, strange Pokémon, banned gear, and definitely suspicious potions.
Of course, for every useful item there was also a 500% chance of being scammed, robbed, or sold a Magikarp dressed as a Gyarados.
High risk. High reward.
Just how David liked it.