Chapitre 8: Chapter 8
The slum was divided into five wings: the center, where the Dusk Circuit and the market were located; the south, where Luka lived with Ms. Quaker, ruled by the Dune Rats; the north, ruled by the Iron Fangs; the east, controlled by the Ember Blades; and finally, the west wing, which belonged to the Shadow Veil.
Each wing had its own role, heavily restricted by the Dusk Circuit to prevent gang wars from breaking out. The reason Max wanted to tell Luka about the rumors and the Pokémon coming in from topside was because the Dune Rats were the ones pushing most of the contraband in the slums, including drugs and other illegal goods. If the Dusk Circuit blamed them for the appearance of these Pokémon, it could be detrimental to Max's safety.
The address was in the west wing, about a fifteen-minute walk across the slums. Eyes stared at Luka as he walked down the street, but he stared fearlessly back. People often shifted their gaze when met with his unflinching glare, not wanting to start any trouble.
The outer edges of the slums were far richer than the inner sections—everybody knew that. The buildings grew taller and more robust, reserved for people high up in the gangs, guards of the Dusk Circuit, or successful gamblers.
Luka arrived at the destination. Away from the larger buildings, down a secluded alleyway, stood an abandoned factory. The structure was probably older than Luka himself. Perhaps there was once industry here in the slums. Maybe, a long time ago, it wasn't as bad as it was now.
Luka approached the factory door and pounded on it heavily twice. No answer came from inside. He muttered to himself, wondering if Max had been wrong about the location.
He recalled Max mentioning this place before, speaking in hushed tones about a mad scientist who killed anyone who caused him trouble. Luka wasn't thrilled to involve himself with such a man, but the scientist's rumored connection to the Dusk Circuit made it worth the risk. It was also why Luka had given those cigarettes to Max's boss. Without that gesture, Max likely wouldn't have divulged anything so dangerous.
"Excuse me," Luka said, noticing the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The factory was cluttered with strange apparatuses, each filled with colorful liquids coursing through tubes. Luminescent droplets occasionally dripped onto the floor. On a large table to one side were vials and beakers holding liquids far too complex for someone like Luka, who could barely read, to understand.
"Hello?" Luka called out, stepping cautiously inside. He sighed after a few moments of silence, deciding the place was likely abandoned.
As he turned to leave, a foreign object was suddenly pointed at his head. Luka took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He studied the weapon—a long barrel, sleek and menacing. The stories he'd heard about these devices were true, then.
"God, a fellow can't even get some food anymore, for fuck's sake," came a gruff voice.
The man holding the weapon appeared to be in his early fifties, wiry and compact, with deep lines marking his face and a permanent furrow in his brow. His silver-streaked hair was unevenly cut, and his mismatched clothes—a patchwork of trousers, a threadbare sweater, and a long, faded green coat—reeked of rust and chemicals, even from a meter away.
The man's erratic gaze darted to his side, as though he were speaking to someone invisible. "Shut up! I don't care that he's just a kid. Somebody who looks like him tried to kill me the other day! No, I swear I wasn't imagining that!"
Luka watched the bizarre exchange, feeling awkward as the man ranted at his imaginary companion, his face contorting with anger. A mental disability? Luka thought, quickly using the scientist's distraction to his advantage.
In one swift motion, Luka shoved the barrel of the weapon away from his face, startling the man. He knocked the weapon to the ground and dived for it, fumbling to make sure it was out of reach. To his surprise, the scientist merely laughed.
"Kid, do you even know how to shoot the damn thing? Fuckin' kids these days. Back in my day—shut up, you dumb fuck!" The man's attention snapped back to the imaginary figure as Luka sighed in exasperation.
"Look, I'm here because of rumors about a scientist who has a contract with the Dusk Circuit. Is that you?" Luka asked, standing up.
The scientist looked around mockingly, then smirked. "What? Nah, of course not. I'm just a caretaker, duh." He rolled his eyes. "Of course, I'm the fucking scientist! Who else would live in a genius house like this?"
Luka snorted. "You're not wrong—it's a fucking state."
He put the weapon down and offered the man a hand. The scientist took it and stood up.
"Ho... a Pokéball, huh? Lemme see."
Luka clicked the Pokéball's button, releasing Trubbish. The Pokémon visibly shivered at the sight of the scientist, backing away nervously. Luka's hand instinctively moved back toward the weapon.
The scientist shrugged. "Relax, kid. I'm in charge of making sure the Pokémon are healthy when they come into the Dusk Circuit's possession. Blood tests, surgeries—I've done it all." His face grew somber. "I recognize this Trubbish. It came in a bad state. The surgery I performed on it... well, Pokémon don't respond to anesthesia like humans do. It was painful. But it didn't cry or budge. Just stared at me the whole time."
The man's expression darkened for a moment before he sighed and slumped into a wheelchair, spinning it like a child.
"So, what do you want from me?"
"I need tools to make Trubbish's training easier," Luka said humbly. "I'm lacking in resources and information about Pokémon training."
The scientist muttered to himself again, seeming to argue with his imaginary companion. But a spark of genius gleamed in his wild eyes as he turned to Trubbish.
"Sure, sure, I'll help. There's nobody topside who can match my genius. But... what do I get in return?"
Luka walked over and pulled out a sack of money, holding it toward the scientist. The man reached for it but suddenly swatted it away, sending it flying across the room.
The air grew cold.
"Who do you take me for, boy?" the scientist muttered, his green eyes narrowing. "Do you insult my intelligence by trying to bribe me with blood money? Do you think I'm like these bottom-feeders? No. Tell me why I should care about your sack of scraps."
Luka's shock faded as he steadied himself. His ideals burned fiercely in his cold blue eyes.
"I want to become strong enough to stop kids born here from becoming gamblers, drug dealers, and gang members. Trubbish and I... the world sees us as trash, no different from the garbage on the west bank. But I believe the potential we possess is worth far more than any investment you make in us."
The scientist's eyes widened slightly before he broke into slow applause.
"Bravo. But what if you fail? What if your dreams cost you the people closest to you?"
Luka's hands shook as he thought of Ms. Quaker hanging in an alley and Max lying dead with a knife in his heart. He took a deep breath.
"I'll keep going. That's all I can do. I'm not naive enough to think I can avoid sacrifice."
The scientist laughed, leaning back in his chair.
"Sacrifice? What does a kid like you know about sacrifice? You've barely begun. The blood on your hands will catch up to you, boy. And when it does, it'll consume everything you stand for. But... there's hope in your ideas. I'll help you. But the cost?"
Luka nodded. "Name it."
"First, I want data on Trubbish—and by extension, you. Pokémon are rare here. I want full access to study you both." He held up one finger.
"No problem, but Trubbish's trust comes first," Luka said firmly.
"Fair enough." The scientist raised a second finger. "Second, you'll run errands for me. Violent ones, sometimes. Materials, acquisitions, things like that."
Luka nodded.
Finally, the scientist grabbed Luka's hand with startling speed.
"And third? I want your pinkie." He grinned. "A clean wound, no infection. Prove to me your ideals aren't just talk."
Luka hesitated but exhaled deeply.
"I agree."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone