Chapter 15

Titan’s wing membranes thrum against the air as he banks, swinging around towards the column of flying pokémon that marks the impact site.

Breaking news, the television in the Indigo Pokémon Center had blared–the Pokémon Center, open all hours, ever accommodating to a sleepy-eyed trainer in need of both food and news. This one had slumped over a bowl of cereal and squinted blurrily at the television, still rattled from waking to a missing wall and the wail of approaching sirens. We’re bringing you an update on the story of Mewtwo’s escape.

You ease the charizard in between fliers carrying camera crews and join the curious who circle outside the police’s aerial cordon. Fliers with badges or officers on their backs stare back at you, moving in their own slow spirals.

Mewtwo escaped from his trainer earlier tonight and flew east from Indigo. Shaky, blurred camera footage showed nothing more than a blazing purple streak across the sky, the clone a comet of psychic energy. Reports from traveling trainers put him over Viridian Forest around eleven o’clock, and twenty minutes ago we received word that he had reached the outskirts of Viridian City.

Floodlights illuminate the scene below. You direct Titan into a low, slow flight around the edge of the site and peer down into the chaos, strengthening your eyes until you can pick out the faces of the people below.

We can now confirm that Mewtwo has touched down near the edge of the city, in the old manufacturing district. Reports indicate that he circled the area for several minutes before diving through the roof of a building, which subsequently collapsed. The picture showed a crater that was once a building, a nonsense jumble of splintered boards, wires, and shingles throwing tall, jagged shadows against surrounding buildings. All the debris swirled inward as though the building did not fall so much as it was pulled into the clone’s wake, imploded somehow by the force of his mind.

You scan the activity below, half anxious, half excited, and yes, there he is, a calm eye in the raging storm of activity. And there’s Blue, too, talking with him–at him, really; the Champion doesn’t talk these days. You squint and watch their conversation for a moment and decide that Blue looks no worse for wear after your gym battle.

Casualty numbers are unknown at this time. Police are evacuating the area but waiting to investigate the premises until a League task force can be gathered, on the recommendation of Champion Red himself. Shots showed humans and pokémon picking through the wreckage, psychic-types levitating away debris and dust-covered machoke lifting fallen beams. The camera followed Elite Four Karen as she arrived on the scene, disappearing into the roil of police activity. A curfew is currently in effect for all of Viridian City, and citizens are instructed to remain indoors until the all-clear is given. Traveling trainers are advised to seek out the Pokémon Center or leave the city immediately.

You notice a police-pidgeot keeping an eye on you, following Titan’s circling progress at a higher altitude. You tell the charizard to bank away, and the bird peels off as you leave the vicinity of the crime scene. You direct Titan to the roof of a building a couple blocks away and slide off his back. The charizard stands folding and unfolding his wings, craning his neck as though longing to leap back into the air.

We still don’t know how Mewtwo escaped or what purpose he might have in Viridian. However, local police have identified the building he demolished as the office of a suspected Team Rocket front business. The receptionist on duty looked up in surprise as the trainer barged out of the Center at top speed. If she’d cared to pursue, perhaps to complain about the half-eaten bowl of cereal left to grow soggy in front of the television, she would have found him vanished, utterly gone.

Now that trainer steps up to the edge of the roof, looking down on the crash site. The charizard does the same, and you reach up to scratch the scales around the base of his neck. “Nice work, Titan. Did you enjoy flying?”

“I could have flown the whole way,” the charizard huffs.

“I know. We just had to get here really fast, that’s all.” You say that, but you’re still standing and looking.

“So Mewtwo went down there? That’s where you’re going?”

“Yes.” At least the clone’s getting straight down to the business of finding Mew. Still, you can’t believe he just up and left without you, that he actually knocked you out so you wouldn’t be able to follow. You’re supposed to be on the same side. You’re supposed to be helping each other.

Titan glances at you, catching some hint of your mood. “Be careful,” he says.

“I’ll be fine, Titan,” you say, patting him on the shoulder. “Return?”

He gives a brief, worried nod, then vanishes in a cloud of red light. You clip the ball back to your belt and take a last look at the crime scene. Police on the ground, police in the air, police all around–only one way for you to go, then.

You take the stairs down from the roof, all the way down to the apartment complex’s basement, and break down the laundry room door. You’re sure the police will come investigate the tunnel from this building’s basement to the nearby Rocket base, but you’ll be long gone by then. You’ll be someone else. And this is much less conspicuous than tearing a hole in the street.

Your hands grow huge and slablike, fingers merging and hardening into flat claws and muscles rippling down your arms and back. You pick a likely piece of floor, off in a corner behind some washing machines, and dig in, ripping through concrete to the earth beneath. You dig down and down and over, under water lines and electricity, below sewers and subway tunnels, turning in the direction of the impact crater.

You dig until you hit concrete again, then tear through it, shredding through wires and insulation until, finally, you breach the great metal sheet that serves as the inner wall of the base and emerge into fluorescent glare. You wriggle through the hole, then pause a moment to see whether the noise will draw any guards.

It doesn’t. You shake off a bit of dirt and shrink back to normal human proportions as you take a look around. To your left the hall is filled with debris, the fallen foundations of the building that used to stand over the entrance. To your right, stairs slope downward into the base proper. You turn and begin your descent.

There are guards lying sprawled on the staircase, sporting only minor injuries but unquestionably dead. Convenient. You search their pockets. No pokédex on either of them, but they have identification in their wallets. Mel Gladstone and Tony Flores. You decide you’ll be Tony, since his body lies a bit closer to hand.

You close your eyes and concentrate, burning spreading throughout your body as you grow taller and thicker. Your face shifts, your hair lengthens, and then you open your eyes again and you are Tony Flores. Sex: M. Height: 5’10”. Eyes: BRN. Organ donor. When you were nineteen years old, you died. Quite suddenly, at a guess–Mewtwo probably did something to your brain, took care of you in seconds. The kind of thing you could never see coming. And now you: slip the ID back into the wallet, then bend down and strip the body, completing your disguise with the corpse’s clothing. You spend a moment checking yourself over, growing accustomed to the little scars and imperfections pocking your new skin and getting comfortable in your form. Not stalling, of course.

You shake your head and step forward to put a bit of distance between yourself and the bodies, then kneel down, bending forward until your nose nearly brushes the corrugated metal of the floor. You close your eyes, then sneeze as tingling sweeps up through your sinuses, cells proliferating, nerves branching and synapsing.

Now sniffing the floor treats you to a rich tapestry of scents layered on scents, a record that stretches back through time, containing traces of all who’ve passed this way. You change your mind a little to better process the burst of sensory information, input a human brain doesn’t usually receive.

Mewtwo looms large and recent, overlaying all the other smells. He’s got the same sweaty odor as most things warm and furry, mixed with the earthy smell of rock dust from his time spent in the mountains. You swing your head back and forth, looking for a trail, trying to figure out which way the clone went.

It’s hard to concentrate on Mewtwo’s scent, despite its strength. Just underneath is the smell of a human who passes this way often, male, late teens, suffering from some kind of virus in recent weeks. He’s probably the one who gave it to his girlfriend, who also comes and goes, someone who spends a lot of time around poison-type pokémon and loves Sinnohan cuisine. Here too a nidorina carrying on her the scent of her rival, their blood mixing before your nose, the tale of their one-upmanship and spite layered day by day in the scent catalog lying bare before you. You could sit here for hours, sifting little dramas out of the floor, stories of people whose faces you do not know but whose lives you peer into through the traces of scent they leave behind.

Except there is someone you know. Your eyes pop open, and you stare off down the hall, fingers digging shallow grooves in metal as you flex them against the floor. He’s here.

You swallow deliberately and try to clear your mind. You’re here on business, and you haven’t got much time. You can’t let your grudge get in the way of that. Now you’re going to straighten up, yes, and you’re going to walk down the hall Mewtwo took, just like this. You’re not going to fly off on some personal vendetta.

Besides, the great Nathaniel Morgan was going the same way as Mewtwo. Maybe you’ll get to kill two birds with one stone.

Mewtwo himself has killed many birds, and the hallway is littered with human corpses. Most show no sign of injury, might be sleeping if not for their utter stillness and the blank stares of horror-widened eyes. But some met a violent end: here one with nothing but mess above the neck, skull crumpled like a crushed pop can; here one lying in a great slick of blood and glistening exposed organs; here one nothing more than a mess of wrong angles and jutting bone. There are pokémon scattered here and there, too–unconscious, not dead.

You find yourself walking quickly, trying not to look too close. You can’t be lingering, after all. There’s every reason to hurry.

It’s dead quiet outside the ring of your footsteps on the metal floor. Video screens are set into the wall at intervals, all displaying the same message: “BASE COMPROMISED EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY” in glaring red on white. Underneath in smaller text: “Emergency protocol 17.” You wonder what protocol could possibly guard against Mewtwo’s arrival.

At first you pause at each intersection to sharpen your senses, your enhanced nose too sensitive to the smell of curdling fluids to keep with you all the time, and find Mewtwo’s scent again. As the carnage grows denser, you rarely have to bother–just crane your neck out, look both ways, and spy which path is decked with corpses. And then you don’t stop at all, as you realize where the clone is headed.

You pick up speed without even realizing it until you’re sprinting down corridors and hurtling dead bodies. Signs posted at each junction guide you deeper. “Lab Level: Take Elevator C to B2F.” You don’t know if Mewtwo can read, but he can read minds, and after getting this far he must have been able to pluck directions from some brain or other.

In fact, you don’t realize how fast you’re going until you slam to a sudden halt just shy of another corner. You stumble into the wall to keep yourself from falling, almost tripping on the outstretched arm of a corpse. As the echoes of your booming footsteps fade, you strain to hear over the hammering of your heart. After a few adrenaline-burned seconds it comes again: a faint scratching, the swish of something soft over metal, now and again a mysterious pattering.

You listen for a while. It’s the first sign of life you’ve heard since entering the base, and you have no idea what it could be. No idea whatsoever. But you’re sure the scratching can’t be the sound of newly-dead fingers clutching at the floor, nor the brushing sound tattered, bloodied clothing against metal as the creature drags itself forward. Sightless eyes stare, a slack jaw gapes as it pulls itself towards the smell of life, fighting ruined joints and leaving behind a trail of bile and shredded membrane rent from the gaping hole through its torso.

The hair on the back of your neck prickles. And all those bodies you passed without a second glance… All those side doors you never opened, never thought to check… There’s the brush of air against the back of your neck, a gentle breeze in this place of complete stillness, movement at your back, the expiration of air from dead lungs, and after all your worry about what might lie ahead you never even considered an attack from behind, you fool, you fool–but no, that’s stupid.

You jerk around, primed to run, but of course there’s nothing there. Dead eyes watch accusingly from the floor, and not a single thing moves. You knew that, of course. They’re dead. They’re all dead. They can’t hurt you now.

Still noises come from up ahead. You take a deep breath, cupping one hand around a growing spark of energy that radiates warmth through your fingers. Stupid brain. There’s nothing to be scared of, and you know that. You stand with the aura sphere swirling in your palm, blue glow dancing reflected in the metal of the wall, then push away from the wall in one abrupt motion, leaving a sweaty handprint behind. You step out around the corner, ready to fire.

Ahead the corridor widens into a sort of lobby, one whose ceiling has been brought down in a huge pile of rubble topped with jutting spires of rebar and fractured concrete. There was resistance here, blood pinking the dust. One pidgey escaped being crushed, and flutters around a hand protruding from the rubble. She drags at the debris pinning it to the floor, but they hardly shift.

The aura sphere hits her and smashes her against the block she’s trying to move, knocking her unconscious in a burst of blue light. Silence settles back around you as you take in the scene. The hole in the ceiling leads up to some dark emptiness–the basement of a building, you guess. High up on the wall is a sign that reads “VATOR” in thick, square letters, just visible behind a leaning metal beam. So Mewtwo’s blocked the elevator.

That’s okay. You’re strong. You can clear a path, and then you can keep going. You’ll have a choice: you could go up. Up is back to the world above, where it’s light and lively. You could go down, where Mewtwo is, where there’s more quiet and death. Where your mother is, maybe. You just have to clear a path through this rubble, rubble and the crushed remains of the people caught underneath it…

Long strips of skin hang gauzy from the hand the pidgey was trying to exhume. It’s cut to bone where the pidgey tore at it, gentle at first, then ever more violent as it tried to rouse a response, tried to pull the human from underneath the rubble. You turn and stare at the wall and cross your arms over your chest to stop them shaking.

Honestly. They’re just dead people. There’s no reason to get so worked up. They’re dead. They can’t hurt you. They’re dead.

It’s not fair. You stomp your foot, and a metallic boom drives back the silence. You shouldn’t even be here. You’re only here because Mewtwo decided he was going to fly off and pulverize a bunch of Rockets without you.

Another stomp leaves a deep dent in the floor. Well he’d better watch out, because when you find him you’re going to give him a piece of your mind. Doesn’t he realize he can’t just go around murdering people, not if he doesn’t want the League to come after him?

You force your foot clear through the metal, then bend over and peel it back, exposing a layer of concrete. You stand again and hammer on it with your foot, putting all your anger and resentment into each blow. It’s not fair, it’s not right, you should–not–even–be–here–

The floor gives way. You tumble down to the next level in a shower of debris, landing with an echoing clang that’s probably audible throughout the entire base, square in the middle of a bunch of Rockets.

Before you can even start getting up you find yourself surrounded by hostile pokémon and gun barrels alike. “Did you just come through the fucking ceiling?” one of the Rockets demands. You don’t bother answering, taking a moment to get your bearings.

There’s a thin psychic charge to the air. It’s barely more than you felt when you held Mewtwo’s master ball, but it’s definitely there. The clone can’t be far away.

Behind the ring of Rockets is a ragtag bunch of pokémon hard at work on a pile of rubble that here, as above, blocks access to the elevator. There are more humans, too, standing in a huddle up against one wall. They’re wearing some kind of ID badges, but as you squint to try and make them out, the Rocket speaks up again.

“Hey! I’m talking to you! Who are you? Where’s the rest of your squad?” A poliwag repeats the question, bouncing up and down and frothing with angry bubbles. You spare the water-type a glance of disdain before answering.

“I am Tony Flores,” you say, focusing your attention on the Rocket before you. She’s scowling, but most of the others look more nervous than anything, glancing over their shoulders and shifting uneasily. “The floor up above was broken. I… fell through.”

“That so? Then I’ll bet you saw whatever it was that was banging on the ceiling there, what, about two seconds before you showed up, huh?”

“Umm, yes. It was… a rhydon. Trying to clear the block by the elevator. That is how the floor got cracked.”

“Oh, really?” The Rocket lowers her gun and takes a couple steps forward, tilting her head sideways to try and see up through the hole. “Hey! Anybody up there?”

You consider the odds. If it comes to a fight you can probably take down this group without much trouble, but it might be better to save your strength. You don’t know what Mewtwo’s up to or what else the base might have in store.

“Marilyn, I don’t think we have time to–” one of the other Rockets starts.

“No,” she says, straightening up. “Looks clear. Bogart, get over here. The rest of you get back to work.” A hitmonlee lopes over from helping clear the rubble while the Rockets and their pokémon disperse, moving back towards the elevator. Only one remains, a manectric that stays by the commander’s side. Neither of them moves to help you as you get to your feet, brushing dust and bits of concrete from your clothing.

“You lot,” the Rocket goes on, turning to the little knot of humans. “Single file. Line up here. Bogart’ll take you up. Once you’re up there, you wait, you understand me? There’ll be no one to help you if you go running off. Bogart, make sure the coast is clear.”

“Of course,” the hitmonlee says in a cave-hollow voice. With one spectacular leap he grabs the edge of the hole and hoists himself up on his spindly arms, peering around the lobby above.

“And you.” You turn back to the commander. “Over there. Stay out of the way, and don’t try anything funny. Jordan, watch him.”

You shuffle over to the wall, the manectric pacing after. “You’re going up to the first floor?”

“Hell yes we are. And so are you, once everyone else is out.”

“Why?”

“Why?” The Rocket gives you an incredulous look while, behind her, the hitmonlee drops lightly down again, springy legs easily absorbing the shock of landing. “All the porters down here are gone. The bastard went and attacked them first. There’s supposed to be an outlet on the first floor, though, so that’s where we’re headed. Haven’t you been paying any attention to the comm channel?”

You’d like to ask what she means by “porters,” but the hitmonlee announces his presence with a low, “There is. You can get into the subway up above.”

“We good?” the Rocket asks him, and he inclines his body briefly, a kind of neckless nod. “No ‘rhydon’ around?”

Bogart twists his body side to side and spreads empty hands. “Good. Let’s go, then. One at a time, now. No pushing.” She pulls out a pokénav and thumbs a shortcut key. “Green squad to gold squad, green squad to gold squad. You there, Elliot…?”

The armed Rockets lurk around the edge of the operation, keeping watch for Mewtwo, you guess. In the background, the other pokémon are still shifting hunks of rubble. “Watch it!” one of the Rockets snaps as a doduo’s overenthusiastic kick starts a miniature rock slide, a slurry of debris tumbling down the side of the pile and beating a loud tattoo on the metal floor. “Keep it down, or that psychic bastard’s going to find us and kill us all.”

“It does not matter,” you say. “Mewtwo already knows where you are. If he wanted to kill you, you would already be dead.”

The Rocket turns towards you, a stricken look on his face. His companions do the same. “What?”

Their commander is still talking into her pokénav with a finger jammed in her free ear and a frown on her face. “…clear it out, so if anybody else manages to work their way over here, they ought to be able to use the elevator. Don’t know about any hole up on One yet, but we’ll check it out as soon as we can. But listen, the name ‘Tony Flores’ ring any bells to you…?”

Her hitmonlee bends down, wrapping his arms snugly around a skinny middle-aged woman who looks absolutely terrified.

“I said Mewtwo already knows where you are,” you say to the watching Rockets. “Can’t you feel it?” You point to your forehead. “He can see you.”

The Rocket who yelled backs away from you, eyes widening. “What?”

The hitmonlee takes off with a powerful kick of his legs, and the woman he’s carrying lets out a shriek as they rocket into the air. You expect the fighting-type to go shooting through the hole as easily as he did before, despite his ungainly cargo, but instead something snatches him out of the air. He tumbles sideways and away, landing hard on the floor with his springy legs whipping in a dangerous, boneless spread. The woman in the hitmonlee’s arms lets out another scream, and all the Rockets whip around, searching for the source of the attack. The commander lowers her pokénav. “Bogart! What the hell?”

The psychic pressure spikes, and you draw darkness to yourself to ward it off, watching calmly as the humans finally notice the force of Mewtwo’s mind. “Shit, my head,” moans one of the nearest Rockets, taking a hand off his gun to rub the sweat out of his eyes. All around you weapons are wavering, humans swaying or collapsing. A couple are sick, and more still, mostly among the unarmed group, are scrambling blindly down the corridor, clutching at the walls and each other for support.

The pokémon aren’t faring much better. Excavation of the elevator comes to a halt as the rock-breakers hunker down in a pointless effort to shield themselves from an attack that comes from everywhere at once. A couple of them, a nidorino and a mankey, are already out cold. The manectric at your side quavers with pain, but her snout stays trained on you.

“Fall back!” the commander yells. “Fall back slowly! Scientists at the rear. Agents, guns ready. Get your pokémon over here!”

The group retreats in a surprisingly coordinated shuffle. The pokémon turn tail and rejoin their trainers, no more eager to face what’s coming than the humans. People flow past you like a receding tide, slow at first, then faster as the psychic pressure increases. Even the manectrc turns and runs, following the sound of her trainer’s voice.

There’s movement out of the corner of your eye, and you can’t help but jump when you turn to find the barrel of a gun two inches from your face. One of the Rockets has fetched up beside you. “How come you ain’t runnin’?” the agent growls through gritted teeth. Her short blonde hair is darkened by sweat, and one eye is slicked-red blind from a burst blood vessel. “It’s you, ain’t it? It’s you brought him here.”

You turn away from the trembling end of the gun and look off down the corridor, where you know Mewtwo is waiting, just out of sight. “Lydia!” the commander yells from somewhere behind you. “I said fall back, goddammit! Leave him!”

The psychic field redoubles again, and the air is filled with a high ringing note, the kind to shiver glass. The Rocket threatening you drops, clutching at her hip. You look back over your shoulder to find agents stumbling, falling, bloodstains blossoming around waists and pockets, wherever they keep their pokéballs. One woman who’d been wearing them on a necklace is fatally wounded, blood pulsing around shrapnel bits of metal embedded in her neck and face. You reach down, momentarily terrified that your own pokéballs have met the same fate and shock’s stopped you noticing the pain, but they’re still there, smooth and whole under your fingers.

By now the pokémon are starting to realize what’s happened. One spearow laughs as he turns, claws open and flashing, and latches onto a Rocket’s face, tearing with his beak. “Not so high and mighty now, are we?” the bird crows, nearly drowned out by the man’s shrieks.

“Don’t you dare!” the manectric barks as a slugma turns her eyes on her trainer, viscous body bubbling and steaming as she prepares an attack. The pokémon fall into confusion, some attacking the humans, others moving to defend them. The guns turn on them too, terrified Rockets sending bullets into the fray despite their captain’s yells.

You’re probably the first to notice Mewtwo’s arrival. The clone advances at a leisurely pace, eyes aglow, moving with a fluid, low-gravity grace. He has his master ball with him, bobbing just over his head on a cushion of psychic power. The clone clears the rubble in a single, floating bound–he must be using his powers to augment his movement. And now, at last, the Rockets notice.

A sweep of Mewtwo’s arm scatters the pokémon that rush to intercept him, hurling them unconscious across the hallway, knocked out with a single blast of psychic power. A purple shield of energy flicks into place in front of him as the Rockets unload the rest of their ammunition. The surface of the forcefield ripples and dances as the bullets strike it, and spent ammunition clatters to the floor at Mewtwo’s feet as it is robbed of its momentum. The clone does not even slow.

You find yourself in an unenviable position between the Rockets and their target, surrounded by zipping bullets. You discreetly draw up a wonder guard, then relax, curious more than anything about what’s going to happen next.

Mewtwo draws level with you. Are you just going to stand there and watch?

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. And no, you guess not, but you don’t want to get involved without understanding the situation.

What’s there to understand? They’re Rockets. Kill them.

They’re also quite able to hear what Mewtwo’s saying. Now most of the bullets headed your way are actually intended for you, not that it makes any difference. They disintegrate against your wonder guard as you raise a hand and fire a thunderbolt at the Rocket captain, dropping her in a heap. Meanwhile, Mewtwo continues his steadfast forward march, wading in amongst the humans without pause.

It’s the same as you saw on the first floor. Most of the Rockets simply drop like puppets cut from their strings. Here and there, though, Mewtwo pays more cruel attention to a particular individual, crushing or flaying with no more apparent effort than it takes him to snuff out the others.

The Rockets’ stand is brief and bloodily ended, the remaining humans fleeing in an untidy rush now that there’s no one to marshal them. Mewtwo doesn’t hurry to catch up, instead cutting them down at a distance. He chooses his targets carefully so they fall and tangle in the others’ legs, bringing the whole lot down in a mess of screams and struggles. Still the clone walks on, heeding neither plea nor curse.

You realize you’ve just been standing there, frozen. In a few seconds you’ve been rendered alone, the only one standing amidst a litter of human corpses and unconscious pokémon and lurid bursts of gore. And Mewtwo is leaving you behind.

“Mewtwo! Wait! Stop, Mewtwo! Mewtwo!” You take off after the clone, stumbling over bodies in your haste to catch up. “Mewtwo, stop!”

He doesn’t stop, or wait, or even turn to look at you, following a last couple survivors at the same leisurely pace as always. You put on a burst of speed and dash around him, stopping square in the middle of the corridor and holding up your arms. “Stop!”

He stops. What?

The clone’s reflected irritation only deepens your own. “Mewtwo, you have to get out of here! The League’s coming. They know you’re here.”

The League? What do you mean, ‘the League?’

“Red and Blue and Karen and more people, I don’t know, but they’re coming. You have to get out of here!”

Do I? Mewtwo asks. Three humans? You’re telling me I should run away because of three humans? His mental voice is flat and confident, but you feel a tremor of uncertainty run through his mind. He can feel you feel it, and nervousness sinks into sour resentment.

“Mewtwo, these aren’t just any humans. You know that. Come on, you can come back later. I can sneak you in, and you can finish… what are you even doing here, anyway?”

What does it look like I’m doing? The clone spreads his hands. He’s spattered with blood, almost none of it his own. He wears cuts and grazes here and there, weird discolorations of the skin where he’s been hit by energy attacks. There’s a deep puncture in one hip, crusted with gore. And all around him lie the dead.

“I don’t know, killing Rockets? You can do that any time. If you have a plan, I sure don’t know what it is because you decided to leave me behind. We were supposed to work something out together.”

Why would I bring you along? the clone asks, and the anger that makes you bristle isn’t entirely secondhand. What would you possibly do besides get in my way? As you are doing now, I might add. Is there some reason we can’t have this conversation while walking?

“I’m not going anywhere until you either tell me what’s going on or agree to leave! Mewtwo, you can’t–” There’s movement down the corridor. The captain is stirring, picking herself up off the bloodied floor. She sways, eyes wide and glassy as she takes in the carnage around her. Her fingers fumble for something in her pocket, and you barely register the gleam of the knife before she throws herself at Mewtwo’s back. You start to raise your arm, words of warning forming at the back of your throat.

Mewtwo stays where he is, staring at you, but his tail whips sideways just as the woman gets close. It slams her into the wall with a wet crunch, and she slides to the floor gurgling and choking as she struggles to draw breath into her compacted chest.

Throughout it all Mewtwo remains utterly composed, looking you in the face while your own gaze goes to the Rocket woman slowly drowning in her own blood. Move!

You move. Mewtwo sweeps past, adopting that same patient, easy pace.

You consider letting him go. You warned him, and he didn’t listen, so it’s on him if he ends up getting recaptured by the League.

But you can’t. After how far you’ve come, you can’t just stand by and let him–

Just go. They will not catch me, and I will not leave without the information I need.

“What information?” You hurry after him, drawing level and half-jogging to keep up with his long, brisk strides. “If you told me what you were looking for, I could help.”

What do you think? The air fairly crackles with his derision. I am looking for Mother. I am looking for someone who knows where she is. I am looking for someone who knows someone who knows where she is. I am trying to find out what happened to her, and why.

“By killing people without even talking to them?”

I don’t need to talk to them. I was listening to that group’s thoughts before you decided to break in and offer them a way out. The rocks would have kept them busy for another ten minutes at least.

He answers your questions before you can even speak them. It’s no concern of yours. I’ll handle it. You will stay out of the way, or leave if you are so worried by these coming humans. And yes, I cut off their means of escape first. I’m going to interrogate the useful ones, then wipe them out; I don’t want them running.

“But there’s a big hole right up–”

I didn’t realize there was a subway tunnel running above that part of the base, Mewtwo snaps. But while the atmosphere around you is clouded by his irritation, his pace never falters. He strides down the corridor with the bored nonchalance of someone who knows this place like the back of his hand. And he does, you suppose, leveraging a familiarity that isn’t his.

Mewtwo sweeps on through a set of electronic doors, looking neither left nor right as he advances. On the other hand, you fall behind, staring into the glass-walled rooms to either side. You’ve found the lab area, and it’s as eerily quiet as the first floor. There are no humans to be seen, dead or alive, but here and there machines are still whirring, computer screens scrolling through reams of numbers as though people have only just fled their work. You crane your neck, trying to get a better view as memories stir in your mind. There’s comfort here, an old familiarity, the half-forgotten names of strange equipment. But there are other memories, too, of beeping machines and clear liquids the sour rankle of fear. You stare in at the empty labs in a confusion of reassurance and terror.

You’re so absorbed in your own thoughts that you nearly bowl right into Mewtwo when he stops. The clone stands peering into a lab that is, as far as you can tell, just like all the others. His tail lashes as he oozes pleasure.

You stare through the glass at long tables cluttered with racks and tubes and petri dishes, groaning high shelves laden with jars and jugs and boxes, and sinks stacked with glass dishes and beakers in all manner of confounding shapes. What surfaces aren’t covered in junk are pasted over with scraps of paper, napkins, sticky notes covered in faded and messy handwriting. You examine the mess and wonder what Mewtwo could possibly have noticed here.

The clone’s hand twitches, and the front wall of the lab blows out, scattering glass over buckets of ice and open notebooks. The shards skitter away from Mewtwo’s feet as he steps across the new threshold, his eyes lit with psychic energy. It’s no good trying to hide from me, he says. Your thoughts betray you.

The clone extends an arm, and a tall set of shelves on the center island creaks, then begins ponderously to tip. Jars fall and smash, and a rain of boxes and electronic equipment forces the humans hiding behind the island to throw themselves into the open. They huddle, exposed, before Mewtwo’s dispassionate gaze. Five people altogether, men and women, one of the older ones clutching some kind of needle-like device like she plans to stab the clone with it.

The silence is broken only by the clatter of plastic tubes scattering to parts unknown and a faint hiss as spilled liquid starts to eat the tiles. Then the unsound of Mewtwo’s voice invades the mind. That’s better. You humans consider it polite to look someone in the eye when they’re talking to you, don’t you?

A twitch of mirth tells you Mewtwo’s laughing at his own joke, but all he gets from the humans are dumb stares. The clone goes on. Well, then. I’m just stopping by to ask directions. Which of you knows where I can find records on– another little spike of laughter, and one of the scientists lets out a desperate giggle –the “Mewtwo Project?” And please don’t bother lying. I can see right through you, you know.

They make noises of negation, shake their heads, voice denials. You clench your hands as Mewtwo’s irritation rises. Then where are the records kept? Who has access to them? Even before the response comes, you can feel him growing angrier. No? And how is it that a bunch of scientists working at HQ know nothing about Rocket’s greatest accomplishment? Where is that information? Who would know?

“This isn’t headquarters,” one of the scientists says, then quails as Mewtwo’s gaze swings to fix on her.

No? Not Viridian City, home of Giovanni? This is not the primary Rocket base?

“No,” another of the humans says. “Team Rocket is older than Giovanni. It started in Saffron, and that’s where headquarters has always been.”

I see, is all the clone says, and his outward demeanor is blank as ever, but inside he simmers. The same acid bubbling of fury churns in your own stomach, and you can see the humans sweating, tense and fidgeting with nerves as they try to resist foreign emotions hammering against their own. Then who knows how to find those records? Who has access to the computer network?

“They’re not on the network. If they still exist at all, it’s probably on some closed-access computer somewhere. Nobody here is going to be able to… to find them.”

She trails off into stammering as Mewtwo’s anger roils the air around you. In irritation you snap, “Come on, Mewtwo! They obviously don’t know anything. They’re not even real scientists!”

He’s turning to you before you can even finish the sentence. What?

“None of them are wearing–”

Should they be?

You stare at the clone, at a loss for words, and he stares back. You’ve never caught him off guard before, but now he’s honestly confused. Of course he reads your consternation, your surprise at his ignorance, and his shock bleeds back into sullen resentment. “Scientists wear lab coats, Mewtwo. Haven’t you ever seen any movies?”

One of the humans lets out a desperate giggle, then clamps a hand over his mouth. He looks up at Mewtwo in shivering terror, but he’s not the target of the clone’s wrath. I am trying to work here. If you are going to get in the way, you had better leave before I have to make you.

“Why? I’m help–”

Quiet! The clone turns his attention back to the humans. So. None of you knows anything. None of you even knows where I might find someone who–

“Saffron! They’re bound have someone who knows where those records are held!”

“Have you tried Cinnabar? They found those old notebooks there. Maybe there’s–”

Speculation is no use to me, the clone announces, and his anger dissolves before a wave of cruel anticipation. He raises a hand.

“Please!” one of the older humans chokes. “I’m not a Rocket! I’m not even supposed to be here! They have–”

Do you think I care? Mewtwo says as pleading voices rise.

Pain flares deep in your sinuses as the pressure around you increases, but it’s nothing like the epicenter of the attack, the lab itself. Viewscreens crack and instruments collapse into crumples of plastic and spitting wires, beakers implode with popping crashes, and cracks spiderweb even the heavy tabletops as Mewtwo exercises the fullness of his strength. The air is filled with the sounds of breaking glass and crackling plastic and the deep-voiced creaking of instruments on the verge of failure. And the humans… You try not to pay attention to the humans. At least they don’t make any noise.

Mewtwo lets his hand fall, and everything snaps back to normal. You relax and let out a long breath, rubbing your face and wiping a trickle of blood away from your nose. From inside the lab comes the sound of dripping liquid as fluid runs out of containers shattered by the psychic attack, and spreading puddles mix with fanning tendrils of blood. Mewtwo surveys his handiwork a moment more, then turns and leaves, probably encouraged by the acrid smoke starting to billow out of the room. There are other labs.

“Wait!” You hurry after. “Mewtwo, wait! What are you doing? You aren’t going to find anything here. You heard the Rockets. They weren’t lying, were they? Looking around here is just a waste of time, and you need to get out before–”

The clone rounds on you, and you freeze as psychic power flows around you like a hot wind. I have to do nothing. I don’t take orders from a creature like you. You’re the one who needs to leave. You are getting in my way. Get out of here!

“But Mewtwo, we’re a t–”

No! His anger hits you like a physical blow, almost sending you to your knees. You think you have some part to play in this. You don’t! We are not a team. I want nothing to do with you. You are of no use to me. And if you wish to be able to leave under your own power, you will go. Now!

Protests build up in your head, but you forget them all when something tugs on your midriff, hard, and you see your trainer’s belt, pokéballs attached, floating towards Mewtwo. It ties itself into a messy knot around his waist, and hangs there askew. His own master ball continues to float nearby, never out of reach.

I’m taking this as well. I don’t do business with slavers.

“What?” Where on earth did that come from? “Slavers? What do you mean?” Mewtwo turns away and stalks off down the hall. “No, wait, I’m–I’m not a slaver! I’m a good trainer! What–?”

Mewtwo doesn’t wait, but he does speak. If you are such a good trainer, then I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I mean these pokémon no harm. I’ll release them once I get out of this place.

“No, but–we need them! We need them to find Mew! And they need their pokéballs, War can’t go almost anywhere without his. And what if one of them gets hurt? It’s not safe if I can’t recall them. And they’re big, what about–?”

The clone turns back, thin fur bristling, tension in every line of his body. His words are flat and acid. How awful that their freedom would be inconvenient for you.

“But Mewtwo, you don’t underst–”

I don’t understand? the clone roars, and you flinch, bowing your head before the blast of psychic fury. You draw more dark energy, as much as you can hold, and the anger recedes, but you can still feel the clone’s power thickening the air around you, pressing in from all sides. He’ll overwhelm your mind if you let your guard down. You dare stand there and tell me I don’t understand? You, who has never been captured, who has no idea what it means to be someone else’s property? You, who have always been the one giving the orders, enjoying your power over the pokémon you own? And you dare stand there and tell me that I–don’t–understand?

You dare it, but not an inch more. You can’t do anything but stand still and try to put your thoughts in order. You get no chance to speak them; Mewtwo can see them forming even through the haze of darkness.

Don’t say it. Get out of here before I forget myself and give you what all “trainers” deserve.

But you have to try, you can’t just let him take–

GO! An unseen hand hurls you into the air, and you sail a few yards down the corridor before slamming back to the floor and sliding until your skull cracks against the wall. You lie stunned, dumbly taking in a sideways view of the hallway and at the far end, Mewtwo, suddenly distant. The clone stares at you, eyes burning purple, daring you to get up again. Then he turns and leaves, blowing out a door and going through, the tip of his purple tail disappearing from view. His churning anger goes with him, but you can still feel the edges of it nipping at your mind: receded, not gone.

You lie there sick and confused and in pain. How can he do this? After all the work you did to get your friends back, he’s going to scatter them again. He doesn’t understand, you need them. He’s going to ruin everything. He’s crazy! He can’t do this!

You rock your body into a kneeling position, then brace one hand on the wall and pull yourself to your feet. You have to go after him. If he’s going to release your pokémon, then as long as you’re there, as long as you get a chance to talk to them–

You start to take a step, then groan and lean your head against the wall a moment instead, the cool metal giving you a small measure of relief. Wait. Calm down. There has to be another way out of this.

Mewtwo has something you want–badly, desperately want. There’s no way you can take it back by force, you can’t outsmart him, and reasoning with him hasn’t worked well, either. But you do have one advantage. You have something the clone wants. You know someone who knows someone who knows about the Mewtwo project. Perhaps Mewtwo can be tempted to trade.

You close your eyes and open them to find yourself back at the entrance to the base, your own corpse lying at your feet. You jerk your gaze away and find a clear space a little down the hall, somewhere where you can relax and enjoy the absence of Mewtwo’s psychic field. It’s so much easier to think, so much easier to breathe without the pressure of his mind poisoning the air. After a few minutes, you’re starting to feel almost cheerful again.

You hope the great Nathaniel Morgan hasn’t gone far. For once you’ll be happy to see him.