Chapter 14

You feel like your skull’s been scoured out by steel wool dipped in acid. You try to open your eyes. One of them is gummed shut, and the other gets to half mast before you decide the world’s too bright and let it fall closed again.

“So you’re awake.”

You hurt too much to turn towards the voice, but at least you can smile, a bit. The inside of your mouth is dry and furry and tastes like something incontinent died in it.

“Absol.” It takes two tries to get the word out.

“What did I tell you about dragging that human along?”

You open your eye again and blink until the world comes into focus. From where you’re lying all you can see is the side of one of Absol’s paws, some of her leg. You don’t try to get a better look; you’re certain your head will explode if you move it. Besides, you can tell how furious Absol is from the sound of her voice.

“Dangerous.” The word comes out scratchy and labored. Hopefully Absol doesn’t expect real conversation out of you.

“Dangerous. Yes, dangerous. And foolish. And unnecessary. You didn’t listen.”

You flex your fingers a little, digging them into cool, loamy earth. You’re still damp, and you’re so dirty you itch. It looks like you’re going to find out for sure if you can’t get sick. After all that rolling around in the mud, you’re bound to end up a big ball of infection otherwise.

“Do you see now what I meant? Humans are dangerous, child. You cannot underestimate them.”

You grit your teeth, both in preparation for moving and against the angry words that burn at the back of your parched throat. In one motion you get your hands under you and shove yourself into a sitting position, pain flaring all up and down your spine. You sit with your head hanging for a few seconds, eyes squeezed closed against the throbbing in your temples. At last you collect yourself and say, “I know that, Absol. I was careful. I was watching him the entire time.”

How did he do it? How did he arrange an ambush when he didn’t get five minutes to himself? How did he convince Team Rocket to help him, even though they wanted him dead?

You’ll ask him. Right before you make sure he never double-crosses anyone ever again.

“Apparently you weren’t careful enough. And now here we are.”

You reach up to investigate your stuck-closed eye and find a dead leaf plastered over that side of your face. You peel it off and rub the back of your hand in your eye’s orbit, trying to clean it out but probably only making it worse. With both eyes open you have an excellent binocular view of Absol’s disdain.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Yes, Absol,” you say gloomily, plucking a couple of darts that are still sticking out of your flesh. “You’re right. You’re always right. I should have listened to you in the first place.”

“What you should have done was think. Playing at being a trainer had nothing to do with your goal, but you jeopardized all for it anyway. There are more important things than that human silliness right now.”

“If you knew it was such a bad idea, you should have stopped me.” You suck in a deep breath, brace yourself, and change. A sheet of pain passes over you as your armor merges back into your skin and scales shrink to nothing. You shed the last vestiges of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s form, happy to be leaving that hated human’s body, and shrink down to a more comfortable size. You are the child once again.

The child starts peeling off the limp tatters of its clothing. Its shirt comes off in three ragged pieces, and it balls them up and tosses them away. They land with a heavy splatting noise.

Absol goes on with her lecture while the child struggles out of split and peeling boots. “It is not up to me to make decisions for you. I can only help you figure out what the best choice is. It is up to you to make it. I will not interfere.”

The child feels a bit better without the clammy garments sticking to it, but not by much. At least changing size shed a bit of grime, leaving strips of cleanish skin showing here and there. The child reaches up and picks at the crust of mud and vomit and pine needles clinging to one cheek. It wants a bath. It hates baths, but it wants one anyway.

When it becomes clear that the child would rather sulk than talk, Absol turns and walks to a hiking pack lying a few feet away. The child stops fussing and watches, suddenly alert. Absol grabs a strap between her teeth and drags the bag over. “I brought supplies to replace the ones you lost. But remember that if you eat or drink too much, you will make yourself sick.”

Oh, right. The child’s pack is gone. Maybe it tossed it away in some now-forgotten moment, wanting to unburden itself for the fight. Maybe the bag got ripped off at some point during the battle. Doesn’t matter. There was nothing important in there anyway.

The child reaches down and runs its fingers over the pokéballs on its belt. They’re barely recognizable under a layer of mud, but they’re there, all six of them. It relaxes and reaches for the backpack.

The water first. It tastes stale and sour, but the child couldn’t care less, downing about half a bottle in a single go. Sensing Absol’s gaze, the child puts the cap back on, very deliberately, and sets it aside.

The pack’s fabric gives easily under the child’s fingers, and it doesn’t bother with the zippers, just tears a hole in the half-rotted fabric and reaches in to rummage. Absol must have dragged this pack through the dark ways to get here–not terribly far, since it’s still in one piece, but far enough that it’s aged beyond usefulness.

Inside the child is delighted to find some packs of string cheese. They look decent enough, and the child crams a few sticks into its mouth before settling down to peel the rest apart in curling, sticky strips, pulling more items out of the bag as it goes. Nothing exciting here–no money, at least, which is what it’d really been hoping for. Now that the great Nathaniel Morgan’s stolen its pokédex, the financial tables have been turned.

“I’m going to kill him,” the child announces with mouth full, pulling out a super potion and inspecting it. There’s liquid sloshing around inside the bottle, but is it any good? Probably best not to chance it.

“The human?”

“Yes.” Hmm. Soap. It’s green and in the shape of a bulbasaur.

Absol gives the child a reproachful look, and it stops digging a moment to frown back. “After I’m done with the mission.”

“After?”

“Yes, after. I know it’s the most important thing. I know I can’t get distracted, you don’t have to tell me.”

Absol stares off into the trees, lost in thought. “I suppose anything is possible.”

“He deserves it,” the child snarls. “Do you know what he was going to do? He was going to catch me, Absol. He was going to let the Rockets have me, and study me, and take me down into their laboratory, and…” It has to stop, swallowing hard. “And who would have helped Mew then?” the child asks, voice gone high and trembling. “Who would have helped me?”

Absol moves to stand next to it, the tips of her silky coat just brushing its shoulder. “It didn’t happen,” she says.

“No, but it almost did! And it was him, he made it happen. He’s the only way they could have known. I hate him! I hate him and I’m going to kill him. I can’t just… I can’t just let him…”

The child puts its head down between its arms and draws itself into a tight ball against the wet and the chill of lengthening shadows, trying not to shiver.

It hates him. It thinks that, over and over, until it can forget it was ever afraid. There’s no reason to fear. He’s only human. He doesn’t stand a chance against the child.

As its thoughts clear it realizes sitting like this is actually really comfortable. Its head it feels all wobbly and off-balance, and the child’s afraid to lift it, since it feels like it’s it’s going to fall off and roll away with the slightest movement. But when it stays still, just rests its forehead on its arms, even the headache fades to a low pulsing.

In the end it’s the insects that get the child moving again. They settle in the big smear of blood down the back of its neck, humming on tiny wings, and the child swears it can feel their little feet prickling on its flesh. It swats at them, then reaches up and prods the base of its skull. Its hair’s gummy and matted with drying blood, and the spot where the marowak’s bone struck is tender under the child’s probing fingers. The wound’s closed, though. It’s nearly healed.

The child unfolds itself with deliberate slowness and reaches for the bag again. “The human took his pokédex with him,” it says as it digs around in the pack, finding a much-folded piece of paper way down at the bottom. It brings the note out and smooths it flat.

It’s a letter written on light blue stationery with little cartoon squirtle in the corners. The child scans the text. Hi Hon, Thought I’d pack a little surprise for the first day of your journey. There’s stained-glass cookies in the bag, and I added some socks since you never pack enough…

The child tosses the note aside and tries to recall what it was talking about. Right. “He took the pokédex. I need to go back and get mine.”

“Why?”

“I need it. I need it so I can be somebody.”

“You are in no condition to travel that far,” Absol says. “You need rest, and there is not much time left to get to the Plateau. If you teleport back to the house, you will tire yourself out so much that you will need extra time to recover. There is no reason to risk such a delay.”

“But I need it!”

“You do not. I told you, you can go to the Plateau as someone imaginary. If you do not take part in the battles, you do not need to have an official identity. You can just play pretend.”

Play pretend. The child used to do that with Absol, half a game and half a way to practice its abilities. Now I’m an astronaut. I’m a famous scientist from Mossdeep, and I’m going to go to the moon! Now I’m a pirate! Now I’m a lawyer from Celadon City! I’ll make all the bad guys go to jail! Change and change and change again. Do it faster, be more accurate. Come up with different names, different features–be someone new. Now I’m a fighter pilot with the Unovan air force. Now I’m the princess of a tiny region no one’s ever heard of. Now I’m, umm… now I’m Red, the champion of the Kanto region. And you can be Pikachu! Come on, use thunder!

“I don’t want to play pretend,” the child says. “Absol, I want to be somebody real. I want to be a real person.”

“You already are a real person.”

“No I’m not!” The child practically shouts the words, and Absol moves aside a step, her gaze reproachful. The child clutches the sides of its aching head as it goes on, regretting the yell. “I’m somebody who’s supposed to be dead. I don’t even have a name, Absol.”

“You can have any name you want. All you have to do is pick one.”

“No! It’s not the same. You know it’s not the same.” The child bares its teeth and shivers, tears welling at the corners of its eyes, maybe from anger, or maybe… not. “Even that stupid Rocket is a person. It’s not fair. Why should he get to be one when I’m not?”

Absol watches as the child buries its face in its arms again. After a while she starts licking its ear where it shows over the edge of its arm. The child pulls its head down farther so Absol can’t reach, but she’s persistent, moving over to attack its forehead instead. The child tries to shove her away, recoiling from the sandpapery feeling of her tongue. “Eww. Absol, stop.”

“If you don’t let me clean you up, you’ll have to do it yourself,” she observes, stepping back a pace. “You’ve had a hard day, and it is getting late. There will be time to worry about your identity later. For now, you will feel better if you eat and drink some more. Soon you will have to move, unless you want to be sitting on the ground without any clothes on when the night comes. It will get cold.”

She’s right, of course. Absol’s always right. The child digs out some more cheese, but the effort of not crying has ratcheted its headache up tenfold and turned its stomach sour. It chews with a listless sense of duty, staring at the dirt.

“You know I would come for you.” Absol has been pacing just out of reach, staring into the forest, but now she stops and looks at the child. “If you were captured by Team Rocket, I would come for you.”

The child grimaces and swallows, feeling the lump move all the way down its throat. “How? You wouldn’t know where I was as long as they kept me alive. That’s the whole problem with finding Mew.”

“I would find you eventually. I do not have to be told where something is to find it.” She snorts and turns away. “Besides, I don’t know how concerned they’d be with keeping you alive. How do you think I found you so quickly today? They shot you with too many of those darts. If you hadn’t gotten away when you did, they would have hit you with more, and I doubt you would have been able to heal fast enough to survive.”

The child pulls its knees in tighter under its chin and suppresses another shiver. “Oh.” Mortal peril.

“Yes.” Absol looks back at the child again. “This is why they are dangerous. You are not invincible.”

“I know I’m not.” The child’s heart is racing again, its breath hitching in its throat. It didn’t happen, the child reminds itself. It didn’t happen, it won’t happen, the child won’t let it happen. Next time the child will win, and then it won’t have to worry any more.

“Thank you, Absol,” it says at last.

“Of course.” She stalks past the child, close enough to brush against its arm. It notices dimly that it’s still holding a piece of cheese, which seems completely unappetizing now. “The champion will arrive at the Plateau soon, but you have some time to rest. The day is nearly over.”

Yes, the sun falls golden-slantwise between the trees, and crickets sing from deepening shade. For want of anything better to do the child spends a few minutes chewing away at its piece of cheese.

It’s stupid, though, sitting here feeling bad. There’s no reason to. The child gathers its strength and changes, changes so it doesn’t feel anything at all. It stuffs the rest of the cheese into its mouth and goes back to rooting through the pack. The day is fading, and there’s still work to be done. The least it can do is get some dry clothes on.

---

Somehow this leads to having an argument about fashion with a giant rat.

“I like this sweater. It has a charmander on it.” Your current attire comes from the hiking pack, and you designed your new body to fit it. The sweater’s a bit threadbare, but it should hold up well enough for a couple of days.

“Boss, I’m saying, you like whatever you like and stuff, but aren’t you kinda not supposed to be yourself right now? Like, maybe you think lumpy homemade sweaters are adorable, but what about what’s-his-face, you know?”

“I like this sweater, so I say Keenan likes it too. I made him up, so I get to decide what he likes. That’s how it works.”

“So you decided he likes crazy tattoos and adorable charmander sweaters, huh?”

“Yes. Tattoos are cool. Besides, the sweater is the warmest thing I have.” Even in summer, there’s a bite to the Plateau’s restless winds. They’re gusting stronger than usual this evening, and you walk hunched over against their sting, a bag of take-out clutched against your chest.

“Hey, whatever, that’s cool. I’m just saying you’re a little better at the whole ‘blending in’ thing when you’re pretending to be someone who’s got fashion sense.”

“I wanted to be a real person, but Absol wouldn’t let me go back and get my pokédex. She says I don’t need a real identity if I’m not going to be in the tournament.” In a way you’re grateful to her. Even after a couple days’ rest and easy travel, you’re only just starting to feel back to normal. Your head still hurts a bit if you move it too fast.

You’ll never admit to Absol that she was right, of course. She already thinks too highly of her opinions.

“Oh, what? Tats McSweaterson isn’t going to be making his glorious debut? That’s a shame. I wanted to see the look on his face when he got disqualified for trying to pull some stupid trick.”

It takes you a couple of seconds to puzzle out what she means. “Is this about what happened in the gym battle? Are you still mad about that?”

“Yes. Yes I’m still mad about that. What tipped you off?”

“You were talking about me getting kicked out of the tournament for cheating, so I figured you were thinking of the gym battle. Anyway, I said I was sorry, Rats. What more do you want me to do?”

“Look, whatever. I don’t want to talk about it,” Rats mutters. She kicks a pebble lying near the middle of the path and watches it bounce and skip off under a shelf of rock.

“You’ve been complaining about this ever since Viridian City. Either tell me what’s wrong or stop bugging me about it.”

“Ooh, sorry my feelings annoyed you, your highness.”

“Why are you calling me that? I’m not a king.” Keenan could be, though. Why not? He can be whoever you want.

Rats is giving you a flat look. “Okay, fine. I’ll say I’m sorry again. I’m sorry. There. Now I’ve done everything I can do, twice, and if you’re not going to tell me what you want, then–”

“I want you to think about someone other than yourself for two goddamn minutes!” Rats yells, bristling. “I want you to stop using this whole ‘mission’ thing as an excuse to be an ass all the time!”

“Think about someone other than me?” You stop and turn to her. “You think this is about what I want? It’s not about me! It’s about Mew! She’s more important than anything else!”

“Oh, Mew, huh? Yeah, it’s totally Mew who’s making you go around threatening to off people at the drop of a hat! It’s because of Mew you go and cheat in some stupid battle that doesn’t even matter!”

“I’m doing what I have to. I know you don’t like it. I don’t like it, either. But I do it because it’s what I have to do, and saving Mew is more important that what I want.” How can she not understand this?

“Bullshit! You didn’t have to do that! You don’t have to do anything, especially not you with your–your–” she waves her paws in exasperated circles “–your crazy power thing. You can do whatever you want! There’s always another way.”

“Rats…”

“I’m not done! And the worst part about it is you act like it’s all because of your goddamn mission. Which it’s not. Admit it, you just wanted to do the gym challenge real badly, so you made out like oh, you totally had to, like it wasn’t completely obvious you were just in it for yourself. You can’t justify whatever the hell you want by saying it’s part of your ‘mission,’ Boss.”

“Rats! You’re not listen–”

“It’s so goddamn stupid. You don’t want to do the right thing, you want to do the easy thing. It’s easy to just steamroll everybody. Hell, it’s even easy to kill someone because you don’t like their face or whatever. Because working things out with people is hard, isn’t it? Who has the patience to try and consider someone else–”

“You’re going on about the great Nathaniel Morgan, is that it? You think I should have treated him differently?”

“Oh yeah, I really wanted to talk more about the raging hate-on you have for Third Rocket from the Left. I definitely haven’t gotten enough of that to last a lifetime. No, actually, I–”

“He almost killed me. Did you know that?”

Rats breaks off and stares at you. “Huh? When did–?”

“Team Rocket didn’t just beat us in a battle. They were after me. They wanted to catch me, so they shot me full of tranquilizer darts. Except they used too many.” You bend down to put your face right in front of hers. “I almost died, Rats.”

She shrinks back a bit, fidgeting with her paws. “Well gee, Boss, I had no idea–”

“So go on, tell me more about how I wasn’t considerate enough. I only saved his life, after all, and spared him all those times he provoked me. But that wasn’t enough, was it? I guess I should’ve just let the great Nathaniel Morgan do whatever he wanted, huh? Maybe I should have just laid down and let the Rockets catch me. After all, that would have made him happy, and his feelings are obviously so damn important.”

“What? No! Come on, Boss, that’s not–”

“So in the end he sold me out to Team Rocket. That is the thanks I get for not killing someone who deserved to die,” you say. “That is what I get for not doing the easy thing.” You straighten up, crushing the food hard against your chest in your anger. “You’re mad because I’m not being nice. Well, ‘nice’ isn’t going to save Mew. It’s too bad if you don’t like it, but that’s just the way it is.”

Rats looks at you for a long moment, then shakes her head, slowly, whiskers adroop. “You didn’t used to be like this.”

“What?” It takes you a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. “You mean when I was human? You liked me better when I was human?” Rats glances up at you, then starts to look away. But she pauses mid-turn, then gives a slow, deliberate nod.

There’s a moment of surprise, but no more than that, before your anger comes flooding back in. “So that’s it, then? You liked me better when I was just some weak, frightened child? When I couldn’t do anything, when I was too pathetic to save anyone?”

“At least you weren’t a total dick,” Rats mutters.

“I am what I have to be!” you snarl. “I’m better than when I was human. I’m strong enough to do what I have to do.”

“It’s not about strength, Boss. I guess it’s kind of cool that you can like bench cars now and stuff, but I don’t care one way or the other. I’d be fine with it if you were still you.”

You clutch the bags tighter and stare at Rats, shaking with anger. You want to scream and hit something, but instead you say, “I told you your trainer was dead back at the beginning.”

“Yeah.”

“Then I don’t see what you’re complaining about. I’m a different person. I can’t ever be like that human was.”

“I guess not.”

The silence stretches out between you until you catch a whiff of wood smoke on the breeze. You’re not far from your campsite, and Titan must have started a fire. He’ll be hungry. They’ll all be hungry, and the food’s getting cold. You can’t go on just yet, though. There’s still one thing you have to know.

“So you don’t like me,” you say. Rats twitches her whiskers at you, a raticate shrug. “Are you going to go back on your promise?”

Another twitch. “It’s the same deal as always, Boss. You make dinner, you make the rules. I’m not going anywhere.”

You glance down at the take-out in your arms, then back at Rats, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I didn’t make it. I bought it. But it still counts.”

She lets out a small sigh. “Yeah, Boss, it counts.”

“Good.” You look down the path towards where the others are waiting. “I’ve said everything I wanted to say. We are already late. Now keep up.”

“I’m just saying, Boss,” Rats says as you turn away, “remember that you need us. Supposedly. Maybe you ought to start acting like it.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you can be all, ‘I am the hero, this is what I must do for the sake of my mission,’ but if we haven’t got your back, you’re screwed. Maybe you ought to consider how we feel about things, you know? I mean, look at Titan. The guy would take a bullet for you, idiot that he is, but even he–”

“He won’t have to. I’m not afraid of bullets.”

“Missing the point, Boss.”

“Well, I don’t like your point. It sounds like a threat to me. I don’t like threats.” It’s getting colder as the sun sets, and you hunch your shoulders against the wind. You mean to turn around and start walking, but you find yourself saying something else instead. It’s not what you intend to say, it’s not even what you’re thinking, but it’s what comes out of your mouth, somehow. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

She doesn’t meet your eyes. “You’re supposed to be mine.”

“I’m done listening to you,” you say, and now you really do leave. You don’t look back to see if Rats is following.

“I just want you to remember, Boss,” she says from behind you. “We’re just trying to help you.”

You grit your teeth. Not helpful! No one could call this ‘helping.’ You walk faster, hurrying through growing shadows, walk until the warm circle of firelight takes you in. You manage a face-tightening smile at the enthusiasm that greets the arrival of food. The team digs in, all save one. You think you’re the only one who notices that, for the first time in her life, Rats is late for dinner.

---

“Are you ready to go?”

The child starts as Absol steps out of the shadows, casual as ever. It has to strain its ears to hear the whisper of her footsteps over the rocky ground.

“Yes. Just a minute.” The child hurries to bank the fire, then glances around, hoping to find something else to do. But there’s nothing it needs to bring, and its friends slumber in an untidy pile, enjoying a night of relaxation while their trainer goes off to confront one of the most powerful pokémon in existence. Not that there’s any reason to worry, of course. Mewtwo wants the same things it does, after all. He’ll have no quarrel with the child.

Absol ghosts to the child’s side and says, “We don’t have much time.” The child nods and takes a deep breath, then steps forward before it can think of doing otherwise, summoning darkness to push back against the corrosive shadows. It lays a hand on Absol’s head, and together they set out.

It’s a short plunge, like ducking through the freezing curtain of a waterfall. There’s the briefest glimpse of the dark world’s weird, shifting landscape, and then light appears ahead of them. The child rushes forward, stumbling back into the living world’s warmth. Absol follows with none of its eagerness.

It’s dark here too, but just regular dark, velvety and barred by faint moonlight. The child trips over a dusty old footstool and knocks a carved ursaring off a low shelf, then stands quaking at the arm of a moldy-smelling sofa, eyes wide in the gloom, trying to calm itself. There’s no reason to be scared. It’s just jumpy, that’s all. Jumpy whenever it thinks about why it’s really here…

Mewtwo’s nowhere in sight. The place is all quiet-dark, its big stone fireplace cold and still. This isn’t quite the mansion the child was imagining for the Champion’s accommodations. It looks around, trying to find some indication of the Champion’s presence among all the lived-in, battered old clutter, but there’s nothing, no personal touch at all.

“There.” Absol tilts her head, scythe pointing towards a coffee table. There’s a pack of playing cards in one corner and a scatter of books across its surface, and in the center a metal stand squats like a tiny alien landing craft, its mushroom top clutching a single pokéball. A master ball.

“I’m going to keep watch,” Absol says. “I’ll return if we must leave. You know what you need to do. It would be best not to delay.”

The child nods, but it’s rooted to the spot, too awestruck to approach the plinth. Absol steps back into darkness and is gone, leaving the child alone with its racing heart. It waits a moment longer, gathering its courage, and then one, two careful steps and it stands beside the table, looking down. The legendary master ball sits next to a water-browned copy of Johto Journeys and a couple well-thumbed fishing magazines.

The child smiles to itself and takes the master ball from its holder, then nearly drops it as buzzing springs up inside its skull, a low hum of psychic pressure setting the air asimmer. The child puts the master ball back in its stand, and the feeling vanishes. Picks it up again, and the buzzing pops back, making the child’s teeth vibrate. It stares at the ball in its hand. It’s never heard of a psychic strong enough to project its power while in a pokéball, never mind a master ball, which has the strongest containment field of all.

So this is why the Champion left Mewtwo here alone. He usually goes everywhere with his pokémon, but anyone with the faintest psychic sensitivity would feel the brush of Mewtwo’s mind against their own as the Champion passed them by. The clone’s power is a constant nagging itch, like a bug bite in a spot impossible to reach. It’s not really the sort of thing you want to take out in public. It’s not really the sort of thing you want to experience yourself.

The child rolls the ball into a two-handed grip, fingers tented loosely, then blows out its cheeks in a long sigh. Best to just get this over with. “Go,” it says, tipping the master ball onto the carpet.

Its first impression, as Mewtwo stretches up out of pure energy, is of how big he’s gotten. The child almost has to lean back to look up at him, stepping away without even realizing it. Is this as tall as he’ll get, or is he still growing? It’s completely unfair that he keeps getting bigger while the child is stuck the same way forever.

The psychic pressure that only nagged when the clone was in his ball is suffocating now, tightening the muscles in the child’s neck and setting its eyes to watering. Mewtwo isn’t doing it on purpose, not as far as the child can tell. He stands where he was released, looking slowly around the room. His face is expressionless; if he’s surprised to find the Champion absent, someone new in charge of his master ball, not a ripple of it disturbs his mental projections.

“Mewtwo, umm…” His purple eyes lock on the child, and it stutters to a halt, beating back old memories and embarrassment alike, acutely aware that the clone is party to every bit of its nervousness.

When seconds pass and it fails to find its voice, Mewtwo finally speaks. Well?

“Umm, Mewtwo, I’m here because, I’m here because, umm… Do you remember me?”

The clone’s gaze goes back to wandering the room. The child wonders, abruptly, if he’s ever seen the place before. Mewtwo’s tail gives a slow side-to-side lash. And why should I remember you?

“Umm, no, that was wrong. I guess you wouldn’t. But, umm, I was there when, you know, at the lab when you were…” It rehearsed this conversation so carefully, went over it so many times. But it forgot what it’s like to be in the clone’s presence, how the sheer force of his mind makes it difficult to think.

Mewtwo glances back at the child, and it coughs to stifle a giggle as a tremor of mirth passes through the psychic field. Go on.

“Well, it’s not important. What I meant to say was, what I meant to say was, is, you know Mew…? You know what happened to her…?”

If you have something to say, you had better hurry up and say it. I don’t think you have much time, little thief.

“Right. What I’m trying to say is, I’m trying to find out what happened to Mew, and I wanted to ask you for your–”

Yes.

The child stammers as it tries to crawl out of the wreckage of its train of thought. “What? You mean yes–?”

Yes, I will go with you and help you find my mother.

“Just like that? You’re not going to even ask me if–?”

What do you think you could tell me that I don’t already know? There is a distinct strain of impatience running through the clone’s mind now. The child opens its mouth to answer and, Yes. I see. Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?

Feeling sheepish, the child changes what it was about to say, tripping over its words. “Oh, umm, good? Good, yes. Thank you.” It takes a moment just to breathe, then stammers out a question. “I was just wondering about the master ball, if I take it, is there–?”

Yes. Open it. The child stops mid-word, mouth half open, then hits the button on the master ball. It jumps back in surprise as Mewtwo bends down to look inside.

Don’t look at me, look at the ball. I need your eyes. The child swallows a painful lump in its throat and stares into the inner workings. It can see well in the dark, of course, but even with the best night vision the master ball’s insides are a confusing tangle of wire and circuitry, and without any color to speak of…

The child yelps in surprise as lights come on all around the room, one lamp toppling with a crash as something invisible bumps it. The child catches a faint flicker of irritation from Mewtwo, but the clone doesn’t acknowledge the child’s surprise, doesn’t even look at it. Instead he reaches into the master ball with one finger. Here. Here. Here. Remove those chips. Do not disturb anything else.

“Remove? But why don’t I just–?” Its fingers tighten on the ball, and it starts to pull it away from the clone.

Don’t! The child jumps, heart hammering. This is not an ordinary master ball. If you destroy it, you destroy me as well. The humans have seen to that. Remove only the pieces I told you about to disable the tracking.

The child’s hands shake as it tucks its fingers into the ball’s inside curve. Already it feels like it’s forgotten the things Mewtwo pointed at. “Maybe I ought to… Maybe I ought to…”

Whatever you decide, decide it quickly.

“Quit rushing me! The Champion isn’t supposed to be back for an hour at least. We don’t have to hurry so much.”

The clone’s purple eyes regard it calmly. What reason do you have to delay?

“I just need to think, okay? I’m trying to figure out what to do.”

The child quails before a tidal surge of anger. It remembers this, maybe this better than anything–someone else’s emotions etched into its neurons.

But though the clone feels angry, no expression crosses his face. There’s not the faintest tension in him. He doesn’t need body language when he’s spraying his mood into the heads of every thinking thing around. One of the disadvantages of being psychic–the only way for him to hide his feelings from someone is to contract his psychic field until it excludes them. But do that, and he can no longer read from nor speak to that person.

I have told you what must be done, Mewtwo says, the words neutral in tone but floating on a dark wave of malice. There is no need for you to think any further than that.

The child looks down at the master ball again, blocking out the sight of Mewtwo’s impassive face but does nothing to shield it from the clone’s anger. It tries to be fascinated by the inner workings of the device, which are just the faintest shade off those in an ordinary pokéball. There’s a strange webbing here, too, a cage of metal strips that sits over the interior of the ball. The little black boxes Mewtwo indicated are half-hidden under the rims of mirrors, tucked away in nests of wires.

The child grows claws out of the fingers on its right hand, long and very thin, and runs them around the edge of the ball. The protective liner comes away all in one piece, and the child sets it aside on the floor.

Now the tricky part. The child tilts the ball so it can edge its claws in under a mirror, pressing down on the wires with one finger so it can slide the others past without getting them tangled. It seizes the chip between two needle-thin claws and levers it up. Then the child turns the ball upside-down and shakes, the chip skipping soundlessly across the floor.

The child wipes sweat off its brow and frowns down into the master ball, rotating it until the next chip is near the top. It reaches in again, moving delicately, trying to keep its hand steady. But one claw catches on a wire, slips, just nicks the weird cage overlaying the inner workings.

The child’s hand jerks as a stab of pain hits it square between the eyes. The involuntary movement makes its claws scrape up against the cage again, and another burst of agony shoots down the length of its spine. The master ball falls from the child’s hands as it clutches at its stomach, groaning.

I told you to be careful! Mewtwo roars, and there’s as much fear in his mind as there is anger. The child swallows down bile and looks up, and then it realizes that the pain must have come from the clone. Mewtwo’s backed up against a couch, teeth bared and muscles tensed all down his wiry frame.

The child looks down at the master ball and thinks it doesn’t want to pick it up again. “W-what–?”

The ball is designed with insurance against tampering. Damage it, and I will suffer; destroy it, and I will almost surely die–and you as well, if you’re in range of my mind.

The child pokes the master ball with a claw, tilting it enough to see inside. The net of wire is webbed with glowing red veins like inflamed nerves only just now fading to invisibility. The second chip falls out as the ball rocks–the child’s accidental twitch must have popped it free. The child stares at the little black box lying on the carpet and knows it doesn’t want to try going for the third.

Unless all of the chips are removed, the entire League will know exactly where that master ball is. And I cannot leave it behind. The pain will come if I venture too far from it. If I am to go with you–if I am to go anywhere at all without my master’s express approval–then you must remove all three.

“So you do it then!” The child swallows hard, forcing back tears and still shaking from the unexpected burst of pain. “If you’re just going to stand there and yell at me, why don’t you do it?”

Idiot. And how am I supposed to do it? I can’t manipulate something that small with my mind. I’m not happy to put my life in the hands of a monkey like you, but this is the sort of thing that makes those clever little hands of yours useful. So use them.

The child peers into the master ball and swallows again, wanting to say–no, no point, Mewtwo knows what it’s thinking anyway. It’s no good sitting here, a ball of nerves and doubts. It’s silly to let its emotions get the better of it. After all, this is really just a simple job.

The child closes its eyes and changes. Surprise radiates throughout Mewtwo’s mind, but the child ignores it, bringing the master ball closer to its face and sliding claws inside.

That’s very interesting. How do you manage it?

“You told me to get this done quickly. Don’t distract me.” The clone can’t hide his rippling curiosity as the child goes to work. With a few quick movements the job is done. The child flicks the final chip away, then snaps the master ball shut.

How did you do that?

“I just did what you told me.”

No, I mean how did you change your thoughts? Their composition is completely different now than it was a couple of minutes ago.

“I can change. You know, shapeshift. The brain is an organ like any other. It’s as easy to change as my skin. And if I change my brain’s structure, I change how I think.” The child gets to its feet. “Now we’ll go to my camp. We can talk more once we’re there.”

Fascinating. Mewtwo looks the child over with purple-glowing eyes. So you alter how you perceive the world.

“That’s what I said.” The child shakes its head. The air feels thicker somehow. It child starts to raise its arm, reaching out for Mewtwo, but the gesture jerks to a halt halfway through. “Come… come here. I need to teleport…” Its tongue is swollen and clumsy.

Mewtwo does come forward, bent low to look the child in the eye. You are more interesting than I expected. He puts his hand on the child’s face, fingers splayed. The child had expected his touch to be cold and clammy, the pale purplish cast of his skin reminding it of corpses, but instead his hand is warm and smothering. Underneath it all, the child supposes Mewtwo is but a cousin to mammals.

The calluses on the clone’s palm are rough against the bridge of the child’s nose and it wonders, in a vague, distracted way, why someone who can lift buildings with his mind would ever bother to use his hands.

The child tries to teleport now that they’re touching, but somehow it can’t muster the energy. It tries to say something but forgets how halfway through, lets out a sigh of air instead. Mewtwo’s hand presses down, and the weight on the child’s mind grows heavier.

You’re certainly different than I recall. Because of course I remember you, little thief–one who would have stolen Mother.

It takes the child a second to work out the implication, fighting against the fog of interference blanketing its brain. It’s a second it might not have needed if it had left its thoughts alone. Perhaps with the aid of its intuition it would have realized earlier; perhaps fear would have raised the alarm. As it is the child grasps for dark energy too late, much too weak to fight against the power of Mewtwo’s mind. The clone’s hand forces downwards as the child struggles, twitching in useless little movements. His eyes glow brilliant as he presses the child down, down, to the floor and into the dark of unconsciousness.