Chapter 17

The child lies awhile in a delirium of nerves, struggling to keep its eyes open, desperate to know, to be watching in the moment when the human either awakens or slides from sleep down into death. It waits, tense with anxiety and resentful of every moment of lost sleep, hating that so much rides on the life of this human that it tried to kill. It stews but can’t help straining its ears to listen for the irregular sigh of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s breathing.

Even when dawn creeps gray into the clearing and the child at last succumbs to exhaustion, it can find no peace. It sleeps in dribs and drabs and fitful bursts as day unspools into evening, exploding into panicked wakefulness like a drowning person who now and again breaks the surface long enough to suck down a few burning gulps of air. Then fatigue pulls it under again, down into unsettled depths where bloodstained metal and broken glass mix with its mother’s intubated nightmares.

The child finds itself lying in a shivering ball, waiting for its heartbeat to slow and trying to ignore the great Nathaniel Morgan’s uneven respiration in the background. It stares up at the moon and thinks there’s no point to this at all. What’s it afraid of? Nothing but harmless dreams, a future that may or may not come to pass. There’s no point in worrying at all–so it won’t. The child changes its brain to something more sensible, then at last slips into undisturbed slumber.

It comes to with afternoon sunlight warming its skin, refreshed if aching from lying in the dirt. It stretches and rolls onto its stomach, hungry but too lazy, yet, to do anything about it. Across the clearing, the great Nathaniel Morgan breathes. The child grimaces and turns away. Not quite that hungry, but enough that the possibility can’t be ignored.

Mewtwo’s draped over top of his boulder, stretched out in a patch of sun with his head resting in his hands. No signs remain of the clone’s adventure in Viridian, his wounds healed over smooth and invisible under his thin fur. Purple light glows from under Mewtwo’s half-closed lids, but his mind is utterly calm. Perhaps he’s doing some kind of meditation. The child feels no need to interrupt until it notices the pokéball belt still knotted around the clone’s waist. Then it sits up, not worried but recognizing something unexpected.

“Where are my pokémon?”

It has to repeat the question twice before Mewtwo stirs. The clone turns towards the child, tail twitching and stretching as the light fades from his eyes. What?

“My pokémon. What did you do with them?” It points to the clone’s belt, where only the master ball is clipped.

I put them somewhere safe. You can have them back if our trip to Saffron is successful. For now, I don’t want you distracted.

“I wouldn’t be distracted.”

You haven’t been awake five minutes and already you’re whining about them. Your preoccupation is clear.

“I’m not whining. I’m concerned that you might not hold up your end of our deal. Also, putting my pokéballs out of sight is obviously not doing anything to stop me from thinking about them, so I would prefer that you–”

Quit complaining. You’ve woken our guest.

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s making small, tentative movements, every exploration accompanied by a hiss of breath and an exclamation of pain. He opens his eyes, squinting up into the searing blue sky. For a few seconds he just lies there, staring in confusion. Then his hand goes abruptly to his belt, as if he’s only just remembered something. When he finds nothing there the human closes his eyes again, grimacing and letting out a hissed expletive.

That’s right. You’re defenseless without your slaves, aren’t you?

The human jerks upright, then has to stop, holding his side and panting. He raises his head with deliberate slowness, gaze roaming the clearing, taking in trees, ferns, the great, mossy boulder…

His eyes widen, and he freezes. “Oh, shit,” he squeaks.

The child smiles as a ripple of amusement moves across Mewtwo’s mind. Quite.

A smile flits across the great Nathaniel Morgan’s face, too, followed by a look of confusion, like he has no idea where it came from. He bares broken teeth and snarls, “What the hell is going on here? Where the fuck am I, and just what the fucking fuck are you–” The child shifts, stretching out a cramp in one leg. The great Nathaniel Morgan turns towards the noise, only to recoil with a wince. “What the fuck is that?”

Ignore the creature. You deal with me, Mewtwo says, and the child frowns, wondering what he means. Now. Can you stand?

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s eyes are still on the child. “The fuck?” he rasps, hardly above a whisper. “That you, Freak? What the f–?”

Oh, come now. You at least have to try. A purple glow flares around the human’s body, and he lets out a cracked scream as Mewtwo hauls him upright. The glow disappears, and the great Nathaniel Morgan sways in place, then collapses on hands and knees, letting out a sob of pain.

That’s no good. I’ll pull you up as many times as it takes for you to start trying to stay up by yourself. Surely you’re not too stupid to understand something as simple as that.

The human doesn’t move. He’s staring at his hand, his fingers splayed out in the dirt. They’re like knobby twigs, every bone visible. “What the fuck,” the great Nathaniel Morgan gasps, raising a shaking hand to poke at his face. He must be able to feel the hard lines of bone under his fingers, must notice now how his clothes hang off him loose and baggy. He used to be the very picture of a Rocket goon, the kind of guy the child imagined leering and cracking his knuckles before working someone over with his fists. Now he looks more like an undernourished teenager, and there’s an edge of hysteria in his voice as he asks, “What the fuck did you do to me? Just what the f–” He is interrupted by a wracking fit of coughs that leaves him shivering and gasping for air.

I am made to understand it’s a side effect of the healing you received from my overzealous companion, the clone says with a tremor of amusement. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s eyes are round and staring as he turns to the child.

That’s an excellent idea. I’m hungry as well. It takes the child a second to realize Mewtwo’s addressing its thoughts. It’s not just hungry, it’s ravenous, and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s cowering prey-animal act isn’t helping. If Mewtwo doesn’t need it here it can pop over to Saffron and pick up some food. For Mewtwo, too, if he’s hungry, though it doesn’t know what–

Fish. I like fish. Especially the little silver kind from the stream next to the–what do you mean you don’t know them?

“Mewtwo, if I don’t know the name I can’t–no, not even if you show me,” the child says as its mouth fills with the cold wetness of raw fish, silver scales flashing before its mind’s eye. “They’re not going to have fish from whatever place you’re talking about anyway. That’s not how it works.”

The clone doesn’t have to ask why not, or what he can get instead; it’s all floating around in the child’s head, and after a few seconds of concentration Mewtwo’s absorbed all it knows about how grocery stores work. Very well, then, the clone says sourly. Whatever you can find. Something fresh.

“If you want me to, I could stop and catch you something instead. It’s just that would take–”

No, no, not necessary. Be quick about it. Just make sure it’s real food, not that awful processed stuff they feed to pokémon.

“Actually, I tried some of that before, and it wasn’t b–”

Enough! Just go. And you–on your feet.

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s still in his shivering crouch, his breathing shallow and labored and his gaze darting around the clearing like he’s looking for escape routes. The child ignores him, and the noises he makes when Mewtwo goes to work, as it changes.

In a couple of seconds you’re Tony Flores again, checking your ID to put the finishing touches on your face. Then you’re gone, throwing yourself to the outskirts of Saffron City with nothing but a thought.

At first you don’t notice the wide berth people give you, the stares they have for tattered clothing stiff with dirt and blood. It’s not until you find yourself trying to explain to the police why you’re wandering around in the garb of an axe murderer that you remember to change your brain back to human, too. Once you do that, you realize what’s wrong and manage to throw the officers off your trail with a story about a wild pokémon attack on Route 5. They’re even kind enough to give you directions to the nearest pokémon center so you can get your imaginary team healed.

Shopping is more fun when you think like a human anyway. You get some new clothes, just to prevent any further misunderstandings, and some for the great Nathaniel Morgan as well. You buy six different kinds of fish for Mewtwo to try because why not, then wander down the aisles, choosing whatever looks interesting, picking up some of your favorite snacks as you go along. After some confusion where you try to pay with your ID, you enjoy the novelty of using a credit card, then decide you have to try them all, one at each different store. Not all of them work, but in the end the late Tony Flores’ money is more than enough to fund your shopping spree.

You spend longer than you intended out on the town, and the sky’s turning dusky by the time you teleport back into the clearing. Mewtwo doesn’t bother to comment on your lateness, has no need to ask what took you so long. He zeroes in on the food you bought him, radiating impatience as he levitates a bag of groceries his way.

Why did you bother getting anything for the human? the clone asks as he attacks a package of fish with his teeth, gnawing at the plastic wrap. It doesn’t need to survive for long.

The great Nathaniel Morgan is curled up on the ground, his back to you and Mewtwo. You watch him uneasily, expecting some kind of comeback, but the human stays quiet. “So he’s coming with us, then?”

Oh yes, Mewtwo says. It can stand and it can walk. Not too many fractures. Much more amusing than I expected, I will admit. But still, there’s no reason to waste food on it. The clone drops the package of fish, deformed but still sealed, onto the boulder, then fires a narrow burst of psychic power at it. Juice and scales and bits of flesh spatter in all directions, but Mewtwo doesn’t blink, just digs the remaining fish out of the crumpled wrapping and scarfs it down in greedy gulps.

“Well, we don’t want him to die yet,” you hazard, keeping a wary eye on the great Nathaniel Morgan as you approach. He shouldn’t be this quiet. “If you want him to stay able to walk and stuff, we should probably give him something. He’s got to be really dehydrated at least.” You stop and size the human up, then nudge him with your foot. “You. Turn around. I got you food.”

It takes him a few seconds, but he does finally turn, holding his side as he goes. All his apathy evaporates once he actually lays eyes on the bag of food.

“You probably should not have too much of that,” you says as he downs a bottle of water faster than you’ve ever seen, but of course he ignores you, inhales some of it, then spills half of what’s left as he falls into a choking, coughing fit. You retreat to the far side of the clearing while he plows through his food, eating even faster than usual and without apparent consideration for what he puts in his mouth. You probably could have thrown a box of nails in there and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“That is supposed to last for tomorrow too,” you say. “Both of you.” Mewtwo’s being more leisurely about his dinner, but he’s already finished half the fish and shows no sign of slowing down.

I’ll need more after our visit to Saffron tomorrow, the clone says, but no matter. This will suffice for now, and it’s of no consequence for the human.

“How did you get him to be quiet, anyway? Normally he won’t shut up.” The human’s mouth is preoccupied with a box of crackers–you saved the boringest food for him–but it’s not like that’s stopped him in the past.

That one realized quickly that it doesn’t need to speak out loud to be understood. It’s hardly quiet, though. Be glad you can’t hear all the nonsense running around its puny little mind.

The great Nathaniel Morgan continues to ignore the clone while he devours another sandwich. “Really, you should not eat that much. You will make yourself sick.”

The human makes a rude gesture at you with his free hand, which is strangely comforting; he’s been much too cooperative so far. Maybe he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security.

Hardly. I can see everything it’s thinking, remember? It can’t deceive us. Mewtwo’s licking oil off his hands, the last package of fish lying crumpled and empty at his feet. The clone shifts to a seated position, tucking his tail around his legs. So. We’ve eaten. Now to business. He keeps licking his hands and arms, grooming his sparse fur, without any break in what he’s thinking at you. We are going to Saffron City. We are looking for a computer terminal in the Rocket base.

For a moment you see it, a boxy thing at least ten years out of date sitting in a cluttered alcove under a pile of dusty folders. This machine holds the files related to the Mewtwo project. Very few people have access to them, and I do not know any of their login credentials. However, I do know the human responsible for granting access to the system. If we can find her, I can extract the information I need.

Now. This human here. The great Nathaniel Morgan is still chewing, watching the clone all the while. He was supposed to be killed. And when he showed up alive, he told some impossible story about an unknown pokémon, a creature Team Rocket would be wise to acquire. They tried, but the creature was even more powerful than expected, and their attempt to capture it failed.

You smirk at the great Nathaniel Morgan. He’s sorry about that now, isn’t he? No sooner was the human taken to Viridian than I attacked the base and killed all the Rockets I could find. The clone’s words bubble over with smugness. But this one, again, survived.

“Just my fucking luck,” the great Nathaniel Morgan mutters, while Mewtwo goes on over him.

The Rockets will be very curious about how it managed to stay alive. If someone were to bring it to the Saffron Base and claim it was involved with Mewtwo’s attack, that it lived because it knew something about me, and that it said there was something in the old Cinnabar records that would tell them how to stop me… I think the Rockets would be very interested. I think they’d want to bring in someone who knows how to get into that computer to see what information they can find, and as soon as they do that, we’ll have everything we need.

You grin in sudden understanding. “Oh, I get it. It’s like that time in Knight of Old Johto where they pretend to have captured Satoshi and bring him to the castle so the guards’ll let them in. Or in Spydeath III where she knocks the assassin out then pretends to be taking him to the hospital so they let her inside!”

Yes, Mewtwo says after a moment, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his words. Yes, I suppose it’s like those things.

You smile to yourself. It’s great. It’s a great plan. You can see it already: you and Mewtwo, outwitting the Rockets and sneaking past their best defenses, only to reveal yourself once you’re inside. You’ll be like Aleksandra Aksakov, international super-spy, whipping out your pen that’s actually a laser and tossing off a pithy one-liner while you fry some bad guys. “I guess the pen really is mightier!” It’s going to be awesome.

Except for one thing. “Mewtwo, what if the human screws things up? He doesn’t want to help us out. What if we kill him first, then we won’t–”

Team Rocket can’t interrogate him if he’s dead. It’s information they want, not his corpse. The clone pauses, head tipped as though listening to some faint voice. Then he breaks out in mental laughter. Well, I suppose they want both. But he’s worth more alive.

The great Nathaniel Morgan lets out a choked giggle, then gives Mewtwo a sour look and goes back to picking at crumbs in the bottom of the cracker box.

“But he’ll find a way to screw it up. I know he will. He did that to me, you know. It’s too risky.”

I am not you, Mewtwo says. I have nothing to fear from this human. What could it possibly do to me? And besides, he goes on, ignoring your nascent protest, who can say it won’t cooperate?

The clone turns towards the great Nathaniel Morgan, expressionless as ever. Well, human? Will you assist us? We aren’t asking that much of you, are we?

The human drops the box, moving as little as possible. “You’re shitting me, right? Why the fuck would I help you?”

Why not? No harm will come to you.

“You’re going to haul me up in front of a bunch of jackasses who want me dead, and you say I ain’t gonna get hurt? What the fuck are you smoking?” The great Nathaniel Morgan stirs the remnants of his food, an empty scatter of packaging, like he’s hoping to find something he missed. “Besides, I saw what you did in Viridian. You think I’m gonna help that happen in Saffron, too? I’m a criminal, you bastard, not a fucking monster.”

Perhaps you failed to comprehend the plan. There is no need for any of your kind to die.

“Yeah, I believe the hell out of that one, fucker. Why the fuck wouldn’t you just go all murdershow on everybody like you did last time? Give me a fucking break.” The human doesn’t meet the clone’s gaze as he picks up an empty yogurt carton and runs a finger around the inside, then licks it.

We can’t risk the admin figuring out we’re there before we find her. She might escape. So I will have to stay in my master ball until the creature is able to locate her. We will kill no one. We will do nothing to draw the Rockets’ suspicion.

“Okay, so you find whoever the fuck, get your intel, and then you turn everybody’s brains to soup. Well, shit, how can I say no to that?”

The clone watches the human for a moment, his face blank but his irritation scintillating through your mind. So noble, he says. Do you know what this creature and I are working towards? We’re searching for our mother, for Mew. We are going to free her. If it’s doing the right thing that weighs so heavily on your conscience, then we’re the ones you should be helping, not Team Rocket.

The great Nathaniel Morgan fixes Mewtwo with a glare. “You just don’t fucking get it, do you? I couldn’t give less of a shit about your stupid fucking mission. As far as I’m concerned your cunt of a mother can rot in hell, and serves the bitch right if she’s anything like you pieces of shit.”

The human probably goes on talking after that, but you can’t hear him over the blood pounding in your ears. You’re on your feet without even realizing it. “Take that back!” you yell, starting forward. “Take that back, you, you–”

You smack into an invisible barrier, snarling and clawing at empty air as you try to break through to the human. Your hands smack the barrier with hollow thuds, like you’re punching a piece of Plexiglas, but even with all your strength behind them the blows have no noticeable effect.

You back off, panting and growling to yourself, then round on Mewtwo. He’s got one arm out, the palm of his hand turned towards you and the air dancing around his fingers. He must have put up a wall of psychic force.

“Stop it!” You bang your fists on the barrier, noticing now the faint static tingle as your hands connect. “Why are you protecting him? You can’t just let him say things like that about Mew!”

Can’t I? the clone asks, reeking of self-satisfaction. They’re only words. Don’t you see? That’s the best it can do. That is its best effort. It’s a weak, scared, pathetic creature. It has no power over us. It has no hope of stopping us. The best it can do is spit in our faces and call our mother names.

You can’t believe it. “You aren’t angry? You aren’t even a little bit angry? Mewtwo, he said–”

I know what it said. Why should I be angry? What should I care what some festering excuse for a living creature says about my mother? It’s just the yapping of a dog on a chain, completely harmless. The human knows it can’t really hurt us. It can only hope to trick us into harming ourselves. Isn’t that right, human?

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” the Rocket says breezily. “But if you’re asking for more insults, wankstain, then buckle up, because I got a fuckton more where that came from, you fucking ugly cocksucker.”

Yes, wonderful, the clone says while you stand there quivering, just waiting for the second the barrier falls. Enjoy it while you can. We both know what awaits you when we drag you back to your den, and no amount of squeaking is going to prevent it.

“No, but it’s pretty fucking hilarious anyway. Hey assface,” he says to you.

“Mewtwo,” you start, glaring, but the clone is already responding.

It’s not the human I’m worried will cause problems tomorrow. It’s you. You have no self-control. You allow the human to provoke you, and your petty anger endangers all. If the human is weak, you are the weaker for giving it power over you.

You’re only half-listening to the clone. The great Nathaniel Morgan is still going. His voice is hoarse and raspy, but it looks like he’s enjoying himself nonetheless. “…got even half a brain, you retarded asswipe. What the fuck was that earlier? Can’t even put together a proper body if you don’t have a real human to cheat off, huh? Nice fucking try, dumbass. I mean, your eyes weren’t even the same fucking color…”

I think I’ve made my point, Mewtwo says, and the great Nathaniel Morgan’s voice cracks into a scream, a jagged noise that actually makes you wince. The human doubles over coughing and retching, and Mewtwo says, You see? True power does not threaten. It acts. Now. This is what we’ll do.

Tomorrow morning you’ll go to Saffron City. You’ll find the entrance to the base, and you’ll teleport back here to pick me and the human up. Then you’ll teleport us all straight to the entrance. I don’t fancy dragging that worthless sack of flesh around on foot.

“Do you know where the base is?” you ask, watching the great Nathaniel Morgan struggle to get his breathing under control. You wanted to be the one to punish him.

Certainly. You ought to sit down.

“Why? Is it scary? Do you have to kill somebody to get in? Do they make you do a blood pact? Is there a secret–”

Mewtwo’s eyes glow, somewhere far off, but their purple light is lost in the springtime sunlight glaring off the bank’s marble facade. You shift the briefcase to the other hand, flexing sweaty fingers and resisting the urge to wipe them on your pants. The case is a lot heavier than you were expecting, and the handle cuts a painful line across the inside of your fingers.

At least it’s not far now. Just turn… here, and then a right at the end of the block. Funny how few streets it takes to get you to the bad side of town. No soaring institutions here, just cash-advance ATMs and liquor stores and convenience stores with bars on the windows. You try not to make eye contact, put your head down and hurry between a coffee shop and a dusty, empty storefront, into an alleyway that turns to another and then another, a winding maze where all you can do is hurry on and hope your instructions are a lot more reliable than you suspect.

You want a door, metal, rusting at the bottom, flaking green paint. It’s in the back of a pawn shop next to a loading dock. It’s not far off the street, just past the balcony with red wire wound through the railing.

You turn. You turn again and see the wire, then the dock, then the door. It’s there, ahead. Two steps. It’s here. You shift the briefcase again, for the last time, let it hang awkwardly against your leg. You raise your hand to knock and go over the line you need to say one last time…

…as you lie face-down in sudden dark, reaching for a door that isn’t there. You blink and you’re Tony Flores again, your nose full of the smell of loam and your mouth full of grit. You realize you’re on the ground, somehow, half draped over a bush that jabs with indignant branches…

…and then the night lights up halogen orange and you leap and hit the fence halfway up, wire cutting into your fingers and feet scrambling on air. You hardly even notice, clawing up and over and landing with a jolt that radiates up through your legs to punch you in the stomach.

It only stops you for a moment. Then you run. You can still hear footsteps behind you. They don’t know these streets, but it doesn’t matter with that houndour of theirs. They’re not going to lose you for more than a few seconds. That’s fine. You can run. The burn on your side hasn’t started hurting yet, and you barely feel the bullet either. Somehow it’s the blood you feel instead, a warm trickle down the side of your leg. You won’t hurt until you stop, and you won’t stop until you’re home.

You make the turns without even thinking, running on instinct as all your awareness centers on the footsteps behind you, barely audible over the beating of your heart. The door’s ahead. You know it in your bones and pick up speed until each breath of air scorches your throat, your chest so tight it might burst.

You’re going too fast to stop before you hit the door, but you hardly notice the impact. You pound on it with the palm of one hand while you fumble in your pocket, and it opens before you even manage to fish out your ID.

You push past Kayla and slam the door, but you don’t have the breath to answer any of her questions. You don’t even know what they are, can’t hear them over the blood surging in your ears and the footsteps you know are out there, still echoing through your mind.

“Job went bad,” you gasp, then have to repeat yourself over whatever Kayla’s trying to say. “They had backup. They got Anthony. They’re coming.”

Kayla’s not stupid, and she knows when to shut up. She’s getting her ’nav out already, finger on the internal service button.

For you, it’s over. For now. You can lean against the wall and start to feel things again. You can feel your legs aching and a stitch burning in your side, but you still can’t feel the bullet in your thigh. Instead you feel… cold. Prickled. Sideways? How’d you end up on the ground?

You blink and the walls are gone and you hurt in all the wrong places. And you’re laughing, too, choking out of breath with tears streaming down your face. For a few seconds you lie there, completely at a loss.

I did tell you to sit down, something says in your head instead of in your ears. You grasp at faint recognition, and then all at once remember Mewtwo, then yourself, Tony Flores, back in your borrowed body again. You force your hitching giggles back, smothering the clone’s mirth with your annoyance.

“Those were memories,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and somehow he’s gotten far away. He’s sweating and wheezing like he was the one running, and he keeps squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, squinting at nothing in the growing shade. “Like, other people’s memories, weren’t they?”

Yes, the clone says. And now, creature, you know the way to the base as well as they did. Two different entrances, I believe.

You pull yourself into a sitting position and start untangling your clothes from the bush you somehow ended up in. There are little bleeding cuts all over one arm, and you know this is all Mewtwo’s fault somehow. There’s no point trying to keep the sourness out of your voice as you say, “Not really, though. I know what the area looks like, but I don’t remember any street names or anything. They could still be almost anywhere in the–”

Well, if those won’t suffice, I imagine the human can provide us with more. How is your memory, human? Shall we have a look?

“Stay the fuck out of my head, fucker!”

I assure you I have no desire to go trawling through that cesspit you call a mind, the clone says. The wonderful thing is that with the proper stimulation you’ll just start spraying information in all directions where anyone with real eyes can see it.

“Cute. Well don’t do no fucking ‘stimulating,’ got it?”

“Why was I walking around?” you wonder aloud, looking at the dirt smeared up your arms.

The introduction of foreign memories affects you much as a dream would. Your brain approximates the motor output. Your body is not paralyzed the way it would be if you were asleep, hence the ambulatory side-effects.

“He didn’t run around at all,” you say, glaring at the great Nathaniel Morgan and scratching one of your cuts.

I focused the information transfer on you. The human might have injured itself further, and I daresay it’ll be enough of a hindrance in the state it’s in now.

You can’t really argue with that. You pull yourself the rest of the way out of the bush, then move back to your old spot, sitting down to brush off the worst of the dirt and dislodge a few twigs tangled in your hair. After that you try to coax the great Nathaniel Morgan into the clothes you got for him, and as full dark falls Mewtwo crawls under the boulder again, rustling around in dead leaves.

The great Nathaniel Morgan ignores all your protests and just pulls the new clothes on over his old ones, then curls up on the ground, facing away from you. You glare at his back. Fine, then. He can go right ahead and keep wearing those smelly old clothes of his, and serves him right when all the other humans give him funny looks tomorrow.

You lie down yourself and think about going to sleep, even though you aren’t tired. The human’s being distracting, shifting around and grumbling to himself and coughing now and again. At last he says, “Hey, kitty. Ever heard of a fucking fire? I’d make one myself if I wasn’t about to just keel over and fucking die, here.”

Mewtwo doesn’t answer for a moment, but at least his thoughts don’t feel angry when he says, I am quite comfortable, thank you.

“Good for fucking you. But catch this, dipshit, you ain’t the one who’s about to fucking freeze to death in the first place. And unless you think Base’s gonna be pleased when you drag in a fucking Natesicle tomo–”

Very well. Mewtwo’s arm emerges from the alcove, his hand palm-up towards the sky. He makes a fist, and there’s a chorus of rending, snapping noises as limbs are torn from trees. The clone brings his hand down slowly, directing them into an untidy pile between you and the human, then extends a finger, and a thick streamer of flame sets the wood ablaze.

A great wave of heat washes over the clearing, and a great wave of smoke, too. The child can hear the great Nathaniel Morgan coughing dryly from the far side of the blaze.

There we are, Mewtwo purrs, letting his arm drop again. You stare into the fire, at leaves curling into blackened, ashy husks, and think that it might be big, but it’ll burn itself out fast. You can just see the great Nathaniel Morgan around the edge of the pile. The human’s curled in a ball, wrapped in a few extra items of clothing and a couple plastic grocery bags.

You could go back to Saffron for a bit, find a store that’s open late, and get him a blanket or something. But that would be silly, wouldn’t it? He’ll probably survive the night just fine without.

You’re right. It would be silly. Now think about something else.

You sigh. “Look, Mewtwo, I can’t really control what I’m thinking. It’s none of your business anyway.”

You make it my business when you keep chattering on about it, the clone says.

“It’s not chatter, it’s what I’m thinking. And I can’t do anything about it, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.” You sit up and pout in the general direction of the boulder. “Come on, Mewtwo, we’re–”

We are not! Mewtwo’s eyes light up, and you feel a sick churning in your stomach as his anger streams into your head. You’re tired of this. He doesn’t care what the great Nathaniel Morgan says about Mew, but he gets mad whenever you mention your mission? I told you, I’ve had enough of your talk about teamwork. I’m not your brother, you piece of filth! Don’t ever call me that again!

“–siblings, so you shouldn’t be mean to me,” you mutter. “And I don’t care if you don’t like it, I’m going to keep saying it because–”

It’s not! The fire leaps and dances, sending a whirl of embers into the sky. You’re nothing like me, you understand? You’re a mistake! You never should have happened!

You let the clone’s anger wash away your fear. “What do you mean? You don’t even know me! And if it weren’t for you, neither of us would even be in this situation!”

I don’t know? You think I’m the one who doesn’t know what’s going on here? You understand nothing! You’re a weak, stupid, pathetic creature that shouldn’t even exist! It’s only by my generosity that you yet live!

You try to speak again, try to protest, but find you can’t move your jaw. You can’t move at all. You’re frozen, seething, yelling the words with your mind instead. I’m not weak! I’m important, too, and if Mew saw you treating me–

Leave my mother out of this!

She’s my mother t–

No! Enough! You want to close your eyes but can’t, have to sit there struggling just to breathe. The fire burns higher, and the smoky air is raw in your throat. You can’t think, not really, and your own fury is reflected back on you by Mewtwo as the two of you feed each other’s ire. No more of this! I’ve said it for the last time. I may not be able to kill you, but there is much within my power that–

“Oh my fucking God. Will you shut the fuck up already? I’m trying to die in fucking peace over here.”

Mewtwo’s attention swings away from you, and you let out a startled breath, raising your hands to rub at watering eyes. You’re still tense with fear and anger, but at least you don’t feel like you’re getting cooked alive in the spotlight of Mewtwo’s rage.

Ah, of course, Mewtwo sneers. You can feel him relaxing, though. Somehow the great Nathaniel Morgan is just a minor nuisance compared to you. Well, give the human time, you think. He’ll grow on you. Pretty soon you’ll understand why I cut him open like I did. We have a human among us now, don’t we? Already giving commands like we’re your precious slaves, I see. So sorry to have disturbed you with our conversation. You don’t believe that pokémon should talk, do you?

“Not when I’m trying to get some goddamn sleep. And cut that shit out with the fire, you’re going to burn this whole fucking forest down, and nobody’s impress–”

It’s sleep you want, is that it? Mewtwo interrupts. Oh, certainly, Master. Why didn’t you ask earlier? His eyes flare, and the great Nathaniel Morgan goes limp.

“Why did you call him Master?” you ask. “He’s not your trainer.”

It wouldn’t matter if he was. No human has the right to call themselves my master.

“Then why did–”

I’m done trying to explain simple things to you. If you know what’s good for you you’ll stop asking, you insufferably stupid creature.

You scowl into the fire, drawing your knees up to your chest. You wish Absol were here. Sometimes she gets exasperated by questions, too, but at least she isn’t mean about it.

Mewtwo must be able to hear that thought, and feel your anger, too, but he doesn’t press the issue. His eyes glow steadily under the boulder while his own irritation ebbs, until you can’t feel anything from him at all.

You sit up watching the fire, thinking that there’s a lot you need to ask Absol about. She’s the one who called Mewtwo your brother, wasn’t she? She’s the one who said you had to have him. She’s always right, of course, so if she says it, it must be true. But when she shows up again, she’d better be ready for questions. Somehow things aren’t going quite like you thought they would.