3. Your character's name (what you'd like us to create you as):

Moore.

4. Your character's full name:

Gregory Edward Moore.

5. Your character's date of birth (pokemon can use generalities like old, young, adolescent, etc.): September 5th, 1972.

6. Your character's place of birth or hometown: Viridian City

7. What is your character like? What is their background? How did they become the person they are today? Let us know about relevant likes and dislikes (for example, if a person is claustrophobic because their brother locked them in a closet). If your character is a Rocket or PokeForcer, what led them to become one? This should be the bulk of your application.

Dimly, Moore shuffled through the papers on his cluttered desk for the umpteenth time. Outside, the rain caressed the fresh-waxed glass of his single window. If he bothered to look out, he would see the monolithic building that lurked opposite his own, smirking at his shabby twenty-sixth floor apartment-turned-office and unkempt appearance.

That goddamn rain.

It was his birthday, he realized. The thought did not help his mood. It had rained for his past six birthdays. Indeed, nasty precipitation had greeted him on the majority of his holidays, vacations, and otherwise anticipated occasions. Still, rain did not inconvenience him as much as it once had. He prepared for it now, expecting it around every turn, and consigning himself to wear his trademark canvas trenchcoat through foul and fair.

Behind him, somewhere, a clock chimed. It was six. Already, Saffron City was waking up and humming into action. Thousands of people were putting on their coats and walking to work, oblivious to both him and his puzzle.

This was a kidnapping, a particularly well-planned one, and he was not having an easy time of it. He was halfway into his ninth glass of spirits, and well into the fourth pot of coffee. Eventually he'd have to piss, which meant that he'd lose his place and he would need to mull through his notes yet again. Maybe he'd turn up something this time, but most likely not.

Moore sighed, stood, and gave into inevitability. He had just sat down again in his massive burgundy chair when the buzzer next to his door crackled. The mail was here.

He pulled himself out of his chair, slipped into his coat, sucked down the dregs of coffee that haunted the base of his souvenir Vermillion City mug, cursed loudly for the sake of it, and stretched. He needed to stretch his legs. Then, if nothing had occurred to him by the time that he had returned to his flat, he would sleep.

After arbitrarily shoving the most useful-looking documents into a folder and tucking it into his overcoat, he staggered across the rug-strewn floor and over to the door. Methodically, he flipped open the deadbolt and lurched into the hallway. Gregory clutched the knob for a moment to steady himself, then sagged against the grimy walls and sighed, wishing for a cigarette.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, he mused as he plodded down the twenty-five flights of stairs. He could have been rich; he could have been happy. He could have been married by now. But somehow, there was meaning in this gritty, miserable existence. He wasn't happy, not by a long shot, but he felt useful. That was something.

He nodded at the porter as he flipped open the gate of his little mailbox. Three letters that looked suspiciously like bills, a magazine addressed to someone else, and a small parcel. Moore grunted and slipped the box under his arm, then shut the cabinet. He'd deal with the rest later. He grinned sarcastically at the doorman and then stepped into the rain.

It felt like a blanket.

He joined the crowds that milled along the sidewalks, settling behind three students sharing an umbrella and adjacent to a grim-faced member of the proletariat in dirty overalls. He cleared his mind of the ambient noise, the sirens and the voices and the electric hum that pervaded everything in this damn town, and smelled the rain.

It was his birthday, he remembered again. He was thirty-three. He felt old.

The kids in front of him were talking about pokemon. They were getting close to the training age. All of them would probably go out into the world, at least for a little while. But sooner or later, they'd have to come back.

That was the crux of the problem. That was the quandary that he suspected haunted everyone else as much as it haunted him. As great as escape was, as thrilling as adventure could be, sooner or later you'd have to come home and pay the bills. Make something of yourself. Grow up.

He had been a pokemon trainer for four incredible years. He had left his hometown of Viridian behind and collected a team of five Normal-types, all quirky, all irreplaceable. He had gotten out from under the stares of his white-collar father and mother and been able to live.

And on his eighteenth birthday, his family had dragged him back and bundled him into college. That was fun, he supposed. He learned a lot. He made friends. After four years, he had gotten ready to jump free once again.

But was that enough? No. To Law school he was sent, where he developed both a fine head for facts and a severe drinking problem.

Slowly, it had dawned on him that all of life might be like this. He would push on through endless obstacles; most of them dreary, all of them finite. When one was over, another would arise. No matter what he did, he would just be a cog in the machine.

It was that thought that had prompted him to turn down his father's offer of a place in the firm and walk out of the Viridian mansion with nothing more than a suitcase and the Persian that had managed to outlive his education.

Moore paused on the edge of the sidewalk as the streetlights flashed red. He glanced down at the box. They did this every year. They always sent some sort of incentive--money, clothing, whatever--to try to lure him back. He had disappointed them, he knew. His father wanted him to be successful. His mother wanted him to be happy. He was neither.

He switched the box to the opposite elbow and sauntered through the crosswalk. There was a café up here somewhere; nice place, too. He'd get a sandwich and some espresso, maybe a newspaper. That would be nice. These crucial details confirmed, he settled back into his thoughts.

The last ten-odd years had been interesting, which was more than could be said for Law school. Following a pressing, somewhat naïve desire to help people, he had become a public defendant here in Saffron City. It was all right at first. He helped a few people who genuinely needed it; people who had nowhere else to turn. But after eighteen months of protecting pimps, rapists, and murderers, a good bit of his idealism had finally kicked off. So he opened a private detective agency, using his knowledge and experience in court to ferret out details. It wasn't much, but it paid the bills. Sometimes he yearned for a real job, a position of actual authority, but for now this worked for him.

Moore turned a corner and exhaled as he sighted his target--a private eatery sandwiched between a small park and the local PokeForce stationhouse. It was a well-kept establishment run by an elderly baker and his wife, and he always enjoyed his visits there.

The silvered bell over the door chirped as he swung it open. He beamed exhaustedly at the proprietor and took a booth underneath a large oil painting. It depicted a rather exuberant Lapras punching through too-blue waves. Moore liked the picture. It was like television, but without the noise.

He tossed the case-folder and the box onto the table and ordered a BLT and espresso. As the cook trotted back into the kitchen, Gregory drew his knife and sliced open the packing tape that held the rain-soaked cardboard together. The parcel fell open, revealing a garishly wrapped cube inside. Ribbon-bound to the top was a handwritten note.

My dear son, it read. Many happy returns! It has been too long since you have visited us. My thoughts and prayers are with you every day.

Your younger sister told me that Willow, your Persian, has passed away. I am very sorry to hear it. I know just how close you two were. Erin is doing quite well. She's entering her final year of Medical school, though I'm sure she has already told you.

Your father and I would like to see you before the year's end. Let me know ahead of time and I'll have your favorites made.

Happy birthday. Much love,

The signature at the end was immense and intricate. His mother was always fond of exaggerating her name; he hadn't the faintest idea why. She wrote too many goddamn letters; that was certain. How she found time for it was a mystery even he couldn't solve. Maybe by making them concise.

He was curious now. He tore open the bright paper and found a velvet-covered box roughly the size of his fist. Inside, a red-and-white pokeball rested on an indigo cushion. He took it in his hand. About twenty years too late, he thought. A smile crept across his face.

“Don't open that in here, Mr. Moore,” said the owner briskly, returning with his meal. “I'm baking a cake!” He set the plate down in front of his patron, then took the seat opposite him. His knowing eyes flicked down to the shredded foil. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Gregory muttered. They bantered as he ate, exchanging tidbits of news and political gossip. There was always plenty of it in this town.

It wasn't until he had returned to his apartment that he remembered his present. He pulled it out of his inner pocket and gazed at it for a moment. It had been a year since Willow passed. He still kept her ball somewhere. He sighed, then pressed the button. The sphere swelled to fill his hand, and he tossed it onto the ground. There was an all-too-bright flash, and then something jumped at his head.

He staggered back, feeling soft fur cover his face as he backed into his desk. There was a crash, and he found himself on his back staring into the dark eyes of a vaguely vulpine creature. Its body was mahogany, tail splashed with cream. It purred.

“Goddamn,” he said, and tried to lever himself up. His left hand slipped on a stack of papers, and he crashed back down. Grunting, he brought the scrap on top into his field of vision. It took a moment for the words to tilt into focus.

A second curse died in his mouth. This was it. This was what he needed. He had figured it out.

Satisfied, he let sleep claim him.

[Please note: This story takes place on his last birthday, approximately eleven months before current game time, hence the discrepancy between his age in the story and his age in the +finger.]

8. Write your character's profile as it should appear in +finger. This should be three to five lines long.

Trainer-turned-lawyer-turned-detective, Gregory C. Moore is a shining example of what thirty-four years of hard work and dedicated public service can do to a man. In other words, he's single, he's cynical, and his once-snappy hairline is beginning to run in an unfortunate direction. Still, as long as he's got his booze and his Eevee, Persephone, he's sure he'll end up all right.

9. Write your character's physical description. This should be at least five lines long. Remember to avoid telling the viewer that they feel or do something (for example, do not write, “When you look at Jane, you know that she's a genius.”).

Moore is largely shrouded in a battered, knee-length overcoat. The waxed, wine-colored canvas is punctuated with two decades of coffee stains and minor tears, but it manages to retain a tired dignity. Underneath, Moore is clothed in a tasteful but well-worn business suit. Coal-colored, it matches both the leather of his shoes and the fading blackness of his receding hairline. His pale skin has loosened somewhat over the last thirty-something years, giving him a mournful look exacerbated by the gathering stubble on his chin. Despite his bleary countenance, there is a neatness to him defined by the straightness of his collar, the crease in his trousers, and the ebony gloves carefully folded into his waistcoat pocket.