Chapter 18

But by all means, try, Mewtwo’s saying as you reappear in the clearing. If it amuses me enough, who knows? I am not an unreasonable pokémon. He shifts his attention to you without turning. So? Did you find it?

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s sitting up against a sapling, head bowed and frowning so deeply it looks almost painful. As far as you can tell Mewtwo isn’t doing anything to him aside from talking, though. “I found the entrance,” you say. “We can go whenever you are ready.”

You understand what you need to do?

“Go find the human scientist who knows about the computer. What is her name? You never said.”

Eleanor Fairchild. Is that all? He doesn’t really have to ask, and he doesn’t bother looking to see you nod. The master ball plucks itself from his belt and hovers out in front of him for a moment, and then a red beam of light swallows him up.

The ball drops out of the air, landing in the dirt with a solid thump. You can still feel the humming of the clone’s mind, the same as when you first picked up his ball. Now that you’ve been around him for a couple of days, though, you find the faint tingle inconsequential, not startling. You’ve gotten used to much worse.

The great Nathaniel Morgan opens his eyes as you reach for the master ball. “I don’t know about you, but I’m all for shoving that asshole in the first PC we see and pretending none of this shit ever happened.”

I can still hear you, you know, the clone says. His voice is comically small, like he’s been shrunk down to ant-size and is shouting up at you. Rest assured that if you try something like that, I’ll know. I’ll let myself out and make sure you live exactly long enough to regret it.

The human starts to answer, but falls victim to a harsh, painful coughing fit instead. You frown and stuff the master ball in your pocket. “I do not know why you think I would side with you. You know how hard I worked to find Mewtwo. Why would I try to get rid of him now?”

“I don’t know, because he’s a giant douche?”

You frown at the human. “That is not a good reason. Now stand up.”

He actually tries, but it’s so painfully slow that after about three seconds you decide you don’t have time for this. “Enough. I will help you.”

“No, don’t–”

You reach down and grab his arm, only to drop it again when he jerks back from you with a choked-off yell. You watch, suddenly wary, as the human curls in over his left side like he’s trying to protect it. “Other arm,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“Fine, then.” You have neither the time nor the patience to try and figure out what’s gotten into him. This time you seize the human’s right arm, and he allows you to drag him to his feet. He won’t stand properly, though. “Could you not lean on me like that?”

“No.” If anything, he shifts more weight onto you, and no amount of glaring can get him to move. At least he’s not that heavy anymore. “So? We gonna do this or what?”

You don’t bother to reply, or to warn him before you go. You close your eyes, steeling yourself for the glare of the sun when it’s not hidden behind tree branches, the psychedelic whirl of energy that melts one place into another, but the human is unprepared. He sucks in a surprised breath, then coughs it out again a moment later, a nasty wet noise that makes you screw up your face in displeasure and shove him a little farther away from you. The human smells spoiled, like something’s rotting away under the blood and dirt sticking in his unwashed clothes. You can’t believe you were half thinking of snacking on him only yesterday. Not having to think human is useful a lot of the time, but it’s so weird, and a little gross, too.

At least you won’t have to put up with the great Nathaniel Morgan for much longer. You drag him over to the doorway from the businessman’s memory, a rusty metal thing, the kind you imagine they use on military bunkers, and hammer on it with all your might. You’re still cringing at the resulting dents, hoping no one will notice, when the door swings open and a rumpled teenager with bad acne pokes his head out. “Fine, fine, I’m here. You don’t have to try and break the damn door do–what the hell is this?”

He’s staring at the great Nathaniel Morgan, who gives him a dull look in response. “I am Tony Flores, from Viridian Base,” you say. “I was told to bring the Great Nathaniel Morgan here so the boss could interrogate him.”

“The who-what now?” The guard peers even closer at the great Nathaniel Morgan, and you frown, wondering what he’s seeing. “Did you say Nate Morgan? You’re kidding me, right? Even he’s not that ugly.”

“Eat a dick, Fawcett,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says without feeling.

The younger Rocket looks taken aback for a moment, and then a slow, broad smile stretches across his face as he gives the great Nathaniel Morgan another inspection. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “It really is him. How’s it hanging, Nate? What the hell happened to your face?”

“Yes, it is him,” you say, before the great Nathaniel Morgan gets the chance to reply. “We are in a hurry. You need to let the boss know we are here.”

“Sure, sure. Come on in,” Fawcett says, stepping back and holding the door open for you as you haul your companion inside. The Rocket’s eyes never leave the great Nathaniel Morgan, alight with avid curiosity.

The door swings shut with a heavy clunk, leaving you in a dim storeroom claustrophobic with junk-laden shelves: here stacks of old travel magazines, there a broken blender, a collection of faded pokémon bobbleheads. It’s all covered in what looks like a decade’s worth of dust. The only furniture is a single chair facing a tiny TV with bent antennae, currently showing a grainy picture of some game show or other.

“You said you came here from Viridian?” Fawcett says over his shoulder as he jostles past you to the far side of the room.

“Yes. I am from Viridian base,” you say, wondering why the Rocket’s lurking around in the corner instead of taking you through the door on the far wall.

“So I guess you left early enough to miss out on… you know.”

It takes you a few seconds to work out what he means. “Yes.”

“Crazy stuff, man. Just crazy.” He shakes his head and turns his attention to the great Nathaniel Morgan again.

“We are in a hurry,” you say pointedly. “This man has information the boss wants. I do not think it they will appreciate you delaying us here.”

“Only thing he’s got that anybody wants,” the Rocket says with a laugh, but at least he’s getting out his pokénav.

“Laugh it up, asshole. If you had half a fucking brain, you’d be getting the hell outta here and praying nobody comes looking. You think Viridian was the end of it? You think you’re fucking safe because you–”

“Shut the fuck up, Nate,” Fawcett snaps, putting the pokénav to his ear. It’s only a couple minutes of chatter before he cancels the call, leering at the great Nathaniel Morgan as he puts the pokénav away. “Well whaddaya know, sounds like the boss is interested. Guess I’m not the only one who’s wondering how you made it back from the dead. What, even Hell didn’t want to put up with your bullshit?”

He chuckles to himself and kicks up the edge of the carpet, stepping on something underneath. Your eyes widen as one of the shelves slides sideways, revealing another heavy metal door. An actual secret door. A real, live secret door, just like in the movies. It’s the coolest thing ever, and Fawcett’s just messing with the keypad next to it as though nothing could be more normal.

“Anyway, take that guy down to detention and stuff him in a cell. The boss’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” Fawcett says as the door slides open, smooth and silent. “It’s in D-wing. Just take the second corridor on the left once you get to the hub. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” you say, and push the great Nathaniel Morgan forward, eager to see what the secret passage looks like.

The stairs go down and down and down, much deeper, you think, than they did in Viridian. The great Nathaniel Morgan moves slower than you thought possible, and as you get deeper into the earth your excitement starts to fade. The corridor’s dull and grimy, rust crusting the rivets in the walls, but you’re not really seeing them. As the surface draws away overhead you’re remembering somewhere else, where the metal was gleaming bright under smears of blood. The air down here tastes stale, like fear, except that doesn’t make any sense, you’re just a couple minutes from the surface, aren’t you?

You shove the great Nathaniel Morgan so hard he almost falls, then curse yourself for your mistake when he has to spend an eternity stabilizing himself again. “Move faster,” you snarl. “We have not got all day.”

“Jesus shit, who pissed in your cornflakes?” he mutters to himself, but he does manage to go down a bit faster than before.

The corridor opens up just past the foot of the stairs, bringing you to an underground cavern like the hub of a giant wheel, at least a dozen other hallways branching off from it. Old, cracked tiles cover the walls, blue and white and red and black. An old subway station, maybe? You see no sign of tracks, but the architecture feels familiar. Up near the ceiling red tiles spell out “All Pokémon Exist for the Glory of Team Rocket.” Faint awareness of Mewtwo prickles at the back of your mind. You imagine he must be watching through your eyes.

At least a dozen other hallways branch off from the central chamber, and Rockets bustle from one to another, crossing the broad empty space without even glancing up, absorbed in their own business. No one’s noticed you, as far as you can tell.

There’s that insistent tickling in your head again. No words, no more than the barest hint of emotion, but somehow you get the feeling Mewtwo doesn’t appreciate you standing around admiring the scenery. You push the great Nathaniel Morgan forward while you stare around, trying to remember which way the guard told you to go. The human is being deliberately difficult, and you practically have to drag him along, forcing Rockets to detour around you. Most dodge past and continue on their way without a second glance, but a few slow down and stare, and here and there a couple stand together and mutter, watching the two of you stagger away.

Just wonderful. The great Nathaniel Morgan is creating a scene. Why does it feel like you’re always hauling him around and hoping the other humans don’t get too suspicious?

You turn into another cramped metal corridor, one much busier than the tunnel you came in by. You’re forced to take the lead, jostling Rockets out of the way so you can get past with the great Nathaniel Morgan. The backup gets worse as Rockets stop to stare, and you ignore curses and surprised yells alike as you push your way along. One grunt starts to say something to your companion, but she doesn’t get farther than “Nnn?” before a vicious look shuts her up. For his part, the great Nathaniel Morgan doesn’t appear to notice her. He seems very focused on breathing just at the moment.

You do your best to divide your attention between shoving people out of the way and trying to figure out which of the hallway’s identical metal doors is the one you want. How does anyone figure out where they’re going in this place? Maybe it’s some human skill you haven’t mastered yet. Or maybe it’s something exclusive to Rockets–maybe you have to have evil-vision to pull it off.

At last you find a door with a tiny plate on it reading “D085A Lower Detention Block.” You hammer on the pressure plate, and the sound of conversation drifts into the hallway as the door slides open.

A couple of guards are leaning against a desk at the front of the room, laughing and chatting about nothing in particular. A houndoom lounges on the floor next to them, right up against a heating vent in the wall, squeaking away at a rubber toy. They pause at the sound of the door, turning towards you.

“Hey, is that Nate?” one guard asks. “No worries, man, we kept the master suite open for you. Everybody knew you were too big of a dick to stay d–”

She falls silent when she actually lays eyes on the great Nathaniel Morgan and exchanges an alarmed look with her companion. You frown, tired of dealing with this, and haul the human over to the desk. “Hello,” you say. “I am Tony Flores, from Viridian base. I was told to bring the great Nathaniel Morgan here.”

“Bring the… who, now?” one of the guards asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

The other smirks at the great Nathaniel Morgan. “Finally got what was coming to you, didn’t you?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Idiot. And I’ll bet you still haven’t learned your lesson?”

“Could you talk later? This man refuses to stand by himself, and I am tired of holding him.”

“Right, sure. Hang on a sec.” The raised-eyebrow guard paws through a litter of paperwork to uncover a key card. “Second cell over there,” she says, jerking her head towards the back of the room. The other pulls a card out of her pocket, and the two of them move to stand on either side of the cell, pressing their keys against readers flanking the door.

The metal grating rattles back, and you shove the great Nathaniel Morgan through. He catches himself against the far wall and slumps down onto the bench, staring at the floor. You watch him for a few moments, suspicious, but all he does is give a painful cough.

“All right, let’s clock him in and get on with our lives,” one of the guards says, already back at the desk and poking away at the computer. “I’ve got that dumbass’ number on speed dial, but I need your ax.”

“My what?”

“Your ax.” When you don’t say anything, she glances at you over her shoulder. “Your access identification number? Come on, Nate there’s trying to catch ’em all. Don’t deny him another ID.”

“What’s he on now? Fifteen?”

“Seventeen. Eighteen with this one.”

“Ooh, so close. Think he’ll make it to twenty before they kill him for real?”

You barely notice their conversation. They’re nattering on like this is any other day on the job, like there’s nothing wrong here, but you, you don’t know any number. How are you supposed to have a number? If it’s important, why isn’t it on your ID? You clench your hands down at your sides but try not to let anxiety show on your face. You can do this. They’re just Rocket grunts, and they’re not even on the alert for you. You just have to think for a moment.

“Wait, what’s he in for this time?”

“Well, he came back from the dead, right? That musta pissed off the higher-ups, big time. When they say to take some permanent vacation time, they like it to be permanent.”

“So basically the same as usual.”

The other guard laughs. “Yeah, I guess. Being… a… dick,” she says as she types, then bangs the enter key with extra gusto. “Okay, so, just need that ID, and then you can get out of here.”

“No I cannot,” you say reflexively. “I need to stay here until the boss comes.”

“Until the boss comes? What are you talking about?”

“I am supposed to wait here until the boss arrives. They want to ask the great Nathaniel Morgan some questions.”

There’s a grunt and the click of claws from the far side of the desk as the houndoom heaves himself up. He pokes his head around the corner and stares up at you. “Whoah, whoah, whoah,” one of the guards says. “Did you just say the boss was coming here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I am not sure. Soon. Fawcett said it would be soon.”

The guards stare at each other for a moment. Then they spring into action, shoving the papers on the desk into neatish piles, sweeping cigarettes, dog-eared magazines, half-empty packs of gum into a drawer. The houndoom grabs his squeaky toy and hands it up to one of the humans for concealment. One guard starts dumping empty drink cups and take-out boxes into the garbage while the other stands in front a spreadsheet taped to the wall, scribbling away with grim determination. “So we probably had… eight? In July, and…”

She jumps to attention as the door slides open, standing directly in front of the chart to block it from view. The houndoom and the other guard straighten up, tense with nerves.

At first you think it’s just someone bringing a troublemaker to detention, but the guards don’t relax, and you can’t imagine what an old woman would have done to land herself here anyway. She’s tiny, leaning on an elegantly worked cane topped by a golden sceptile head, and Hoennese, face darkened and creased from long years out in the sun.

Behind her is more what you were expecting out of Rocket leadership: a grim, hulking man of about thirty who wears his gun as openly as his pokéballs. A beedrill floats behind him, glassy red eyes reflecting the harsh ceiling lights in a manifold dazzle.

“Oh? Got word we were coming, did you?” the woman asks, smiling warmly. “No need to look so nervous. We’re just here for a friendly chat.”

The guards babble out something halfway apologetic, which seems to involve a lot of “ma’am,” then shut up in unison, looking queasy. The boss nods at them, still smiling, and turns her attention to you. “You must be Tony, then.”

“Yes. I am Tony Flores, from Viridian base.”

“I heard.” The boss’ smile is gone in an instant, and her face draws down in hard lines. She looks determined, almost predatory–angry. It’s the look of someone who has lost a game and who deeply, deeply hates to lose. “You have my condolences. I’m sure you lost friends two nights ago.”

“Yes. It was… horrible.” Horrible. Yes. That’s a good word. That’s exactly how a member of Team Rocket would describe it. You swallow back bile as you remember the Rocket woman choking up blood, staring after you as you left her alone to die.

“Yes, I’m sure it was.” The woman’s face softens, and she studies you with a calm, level gaze that leaves you squirming with unease. You don’t know what it is, but there’s something about her that’s scary. “I assure you, Tony, that there’s a place for you here in Saffron, if you want it. Either way, rest assured that your loyalty won’t go unrewarded. I commend you for finishing your job, even in the face of everything that happened. But,” she raps the end of her cane against the floor for emphasis, “we can discuss that more later. I believe you had something you wanted to tell me about?”

“Yes. I need to talk to Eleanor Fairchild. She worked on the Mew project.”

The boss inclines her head slightly. “I thought I was the one you wanted to talk to.”

“You too. But Eleanor Fairchild knows about Mewtwo. And Mewtwo is coming here, soon! We have to do something to stop him!” You’re starting to warm to your role.

The boss gives you a faint smile and nods towards the great Nathaniel Morgan’s cell. “And somehow this has to do with that man over there?”

“Yes. He is involved.” You hurry after the boss as she goes to stand in front of the bars. “We do not really know how. But he was supposed to be dead, and then he was not, and then he was talking about some special pokémon, like Mew but not, and we tried to catch it but could not, and right after he got to the base, then Mewtwo attacked. Now he is saying Mewtwo will come here, soon. That is why we have to get Eleanor Fairchild.”

The Rocket accompanying the boss snorts. He makes you think of an ursaring, like the one that beat the great Nathaniel Morgan to a pulp: sleepy eyes, bland expression, but very, very strong. “That was the best you could do? What, is Viridian going soft? If you couldn’t get better answers than that, you obviously weren’t trying hard enough.”

“Eleanor isn’t here,” the boss says, studying the great Nathaniel Morgan through the bars. He stares back for a couple of seconds, then looks up and away, studying the ceiling instead.

“What?” You’re so surprised you blurt it out without even thinking. “Where is she?”

The boss turns to you, still smiling, but her words are edged with iron as she says, “Not here.” She turns away again. “It hardly matters, in any case. Mewtwo isn’t coming here.”

“What?” There’s such calm, unruffled surety in her voice that you can’t reconcile it with her being so drastically, dangerously wrong.

The great Nathaniel Morgan glances at you, then away again, and after a moment you realize the boss’ bodyguard is giving you a hostile look. The woman herself says, “This is Saffron, after all. It’s Sabrina’s city. Outside of Red, she’s probably the only human the experiment fears. If it’s Mewtwo you’re worried about, you couldn’t find a safer place than here.”

She turns away from you, leaving you frozen in shock. Is that true? you wonder pointedly, but there’s no response from Mewtwo. He’s lying low.

“But you’d know more about that than I would, wouldn’t you, Nathan?” the boss says, stepping a little closer to the bars. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me just what the connection between you and the experiment is.”

“Perhaps you’d care to kiss my ass. I don’t owe you jack fucking shit. Or did you forget the part where you sent a bunch of goons to fucking murder me?” the great Nathaniel Morgan rasps, baring broken teeth.

“Show some respect, you piece of shit!” the bodyguard roars.

“Aiden, please,” the boss says, and he flinches and falls silent, settling for glaring daggers at the great Nathaniel Morgan. “Nathan’s obviously been having a difficult time lately. It’s understandable that he’d forget his formalities.” She smiles a warm, broad smile. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan has nothing to say to that, so she goes on. “I understand your resentment, Nathan. But you know I didn’t have anything to do with that. Personnel decisions are always up to a soldier’s commanding officer.” She glances at Aiden, who’s still fixated on the great Nathaniel Morgan. “In any case, I’m curious why you would go to such lengths to contact us after Aiden’s attempt to discharge you. Why not simply run away when you had the chance?”

The great Nathaniel Morgan doesn’t bother to reply, but the boss goes on anyway. She doesn’t really seem to be talking to him anymore but only speaking her thoughts aloud as she works through some tangle in her head. “I’ve looked at your records, of course. Putting aside certain… disciplinary issues, you’ve led a career with an almost singular lack of accomplishment. This despite what appears to be a certain talent for battle–”

“Ha.” That at last rouses the great Nathaniel Morgan out of his sullen silence. “If by ‘talent’ you mean I kicked this jagoff’s ass so hard he’s still gotta shit standing up, then yeah, I got loads of motherfucking talent. That dumbass battles like a drunk skitty, though, so it ain’t exactly an ‘accomplishment.’ Hey, Gimpy.” He sneers at the beedrill hovering by Aiden’s side. “How’s it going? Ya miss me?”

The thrumming of the bug’s wings climbs to a higher pitch, and the beedrill bobs a little in the air, as though longing to shoot forward and run the insolent human through. One of the beedrill’s hind legs is twisted and curled back on itself, hanging limp and useless alongside his abdomen.

“You caused permanent damage to one of my pokémon,” Aiden growls. “I should have had you taken off the team right then and there.”

“Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it, douchebag?” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and Aiden flushes with anger. “Too bad you couldn’t ax me after that, not without everybody knowing what a little bitch you were about losing that fight.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, you ungrateful gutter rat?” the other Rocket snarls. “I don’t know how you survived that ursaring, and I don’t care. This time I’m going to handle your execution personally, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

“What’s that? Not gonna send somebody else to do your dirty work for once? Damn, don’t tell me you went and grew some balls since I was here last. I’m gonna have to start coming up with new jokes.”

They’re too wrapped up in their argument to see the boss’ gesture, a quick twitch of the fingers. Something stirs in the darkness under the great Nathaniel Morgan’s seat, a double row of triangular teeth glinting where none were before. The great Nathaniel Morgan yelps as the sableye scuttles up his leg, then lets out a hiss of pain as he regrets his involuntary start. The ghost ignores him, climbing all the way up to his shoulder and leaning out in front of his face, staring avidly into his eyes.

“Ah, Eskar. There you are,” the boss says, sounding for all the world like she’s surprised to see the sableye.

“What the fuck is this thing doing up in my face?” the great Nathaniel Morgan snarls, trying without success to pull away from the ghost.

“Oh, I think she’s just admiring your eyes, that’s all,” the boss says. “They’re the same color as hers, after all.”

“Not the same,” the sableye insists. She pops a light blue gemstone out of her face and holds it up for the great Nathaniel Morgan to see, swelling with pride. “Aquamarine,” she says. “Illite-Eyes got this one for me. I cut it myself. See the fire?” The big gemstone dazzles in the light, but the great Nathaniel Morgan doesn’t look appreciative.

“When two sableye meet, they exchange eye-stones and compliment one another on the quality and cut. It’s a matter of social rank to them,” the boss says. “Eskar is quite fascinated by human eyes, too, but although she finds they come out just fine, she hasn’t quite grasped that they tend not to go back in nicely afterwards.”

“Do so!” the sableye snaps. She presses the gem back into her face. “You always drag the humans away before I get a chance to put them back. Rude!” She peers into the great Nathaniel Morgan’s eyes again. “Illite-Eyes is wrong. Not aquamarine, yours. No, lazurite, I’d say, or perhaps a nice euclase. Such a lovely color. But I would need to have a closer look to be sure.” She pats the great Nathaniel Morgan, who is visibly sweating, on the cheek. “But not now, I’m afraid. You’ll need those soon, I think.”

The sableye settles herself down on the human’s shoulder, her back against the side of his head, and waves to Aiden. The man pales.

“Illite-Eyes says I should be interested in Axinite-Eyes over there, but I don’t know why,” Eskar goes on conversationally. “Axinite is common for the humans of this region, is it not? And I see nothing special about his eyes. A nice rich color, to be sure, but nothing special. But Illite-Eyes knows more about humans than I do. Maybe I’ll see what she means when I take a closer look.” The sableye sighs and shakes her head, stretching a moment before settling back into a more comfortable sprawl. She looks pleased to have found a warm spot to perch. “But really, humans don’t understand minerals. Not even Illite-Eyes.” The great Nathaniel Morgan shivers, trying to see her out of the corner of his eye without actually turning his head, listening to the nonsense whisper of the sableye’s hissing, clicking language in his ear.

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” the boss says after a moment of silence. “Were the two of you discussing something?”

They practically trip over their words in their haste to deny it. “Very well, then. We return, Nathan, to this creature of yours, and what it has to do with Mew or Mewtwo.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” the great Nathaniel Morgan says tightly, trying to split his attention between the humans in front of him and the sableye slipping into a doze on his shoulder. “You must have read the fucking field reports. Ma’am.”

“Naturally. But I was hoping you might be able to provide some insight into just how a squad ended up fighting some kind of shapeshifting pokémon with an unprecedented number of abilities, and what, if anything, that has to do with Mewtwo.”

“Yeah, well, I got a metric fuckton of insight, believe you me, but what I’m not seeing is why I oughta be sharing it with you, get me? Ma’am?”

“You should ask Eleanor Fairchild. I bet she would know.”

“Yes, thank you, Tony. Rest assured that I will take all appropriate measures to figure out what’s going on. But right now I’m interested in learning what I can from this man here.” To the great Nathaniel Morgan she says, “Listen, Nathan. In a business like this, you don’t get to be my age by being stupid. You cheated death once, and that was miraculous enough. But now you’ve turned up alive again when by all reports you should be dead. I’m not the sort to believe in miracles, Nathan. Especially not two of them.”

The human lets out a phlegmy bark of a laugh. “Yeah. Some fucking miracles.”

“It’s obvious there’s something more going on here. I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Mewtwo, and at the moment I don’t particularly care. It’s obvious no ursaring did that to you, and that Viridian squad did see something that no one’s been able to explain. I understand you and the commanding officers of this base have had certain disagreements. But nothing is unforgivable, Nathan. Team Rocket protects its own. Tell me what you know, and there will be a place for you on the team again.”

The great Nathaniel Morgan looks between her and Aiden, who’s all a-scowl, and what little he can see of the sableye. The boss waits quietly, a gentle half-smile on her face. At length the great Nathaniel Morgan says, “Look. Even I ain’t that stupid. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and even if you did, who gives a shit? You’d still find some reason to bump me off. So you off me today or off me tomorrow, the fuck kind of difference does it make?” He tries to shift to a more comfortable position on the bench, but freezes when Eskar lets out a sleepy jabber. “You ain’t got nothing I want no more anyhow. So you can kindly go to hell, ma’am.”

The boss shakes her head, face grim. “We both know this is the best offer you’re going to get, Nathan, and it’s better than you have any right to expect. I’ll get what I want, one way or another, but I’m offering you an easy way out. You would be wise to take it.”

“I said you can take your offer and shove it, bitch,” the great Nathaniel Morgan growls. “Who the hell wants to get stuck on a team full of fuckwits like boulder shoulders over there? Or those two dumbasses, couldn’t handle booking a prisoner if their lives depended on it.”

The boss turns, and you do, too. You’d completely forgotten the guards were there. They’ve been keeping quiet this whole time, probably hoping for exactly that.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about, ma’am,” one stammers, rigid with shock, while the other glares pure hatred at the great Nathaniel Morgan. “We were nearly done booking him when you came in. All we need is that guy’s ax–err, his ID–and it’ll be done.”

“Is that all?” the boss asks, shooting a glance back at the great Nathaniel Morgan. He’s watching with a blankly sullen expression. “Well, go ahead and finish it up, then. Apparently someone’s very concerned about proper protocol today.”

’Of course, ma’am.” She turns a strained smile on you. “Your ax, then, please? Sir?”

How did it come around to this again? How did it come around to this again so fast? You stare hopelessly around at the humans, who are looking at you expectantly, like there couldn’t be a more simple request.

“I–I forget.”

“You forget?” Aiden rumbles.

The boss smiles like you’ve told a wonderful joke. “It’s the number you use to access your paycheck, Tony. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten.”

“What, got stage fright?” one of the guards asks with an uneasy chuckle. “Don’t worry, the boss isn’t judging you, she’s–well, uh, she’s, she’s… not judging you.”

“No, really, I… I can’t remember.”

“Tony,” the boss says in a voice so gentle and encouraging that it sets your heart racing with fear, “this is no time for games. What is your access identification number?”

You have to come up with something. You have to say something. Any number is better than no number. Any number is better than no number.

“Five?”

They all just stare at you. You hurry on, hoping to somehow patch the mistake, to arrive at something that will satisfy them. “Zero… zero… six?”

You become aware of a noise, a kind of scratching, croaking sound. It’s laughter. You turn around and find the great Nathaniel Morgan laughing at you, or trying to. It’s more wheezing than anything, and he has to brace himself against the wall, but you can tell he’s trying to laugh. Eskar drops to the floor with an indignant chatter, then scurries out of the cell, passing straight through the bars.

“Oh my God,” the great Nathaniel Morgan wheezes. “It’s a shapeshifter. It’s a shapeshifter, and you let it walk straight into the middle of the fucking base, you fucking morons.”

This time you don’t catch the command, but a froslass appears at the boss’ side in a whirl of ice crystals, and Aiden grabs two of the pokéballs off his belt as his beedrill raises gleaming stingers. You find yourself anxious, alight with nerves, and realize you’ve been drumming on your leg, right over the pocket where Mewtwo’s master ball resides. Something prickles at the back of your mind, the faintest brush of awareness.

“Tony,” the boss says, deadly calm, “could you recite the Team Rocket oath for me, please?”

Your legs almost buckle as sweet relief floods your veins. Yes, yes you could. Doesn’t everybody know Team Rocket’s oath? Everybody who watches gangster movies, anyway.

“Steal pokémon for profit. Exploit pokémon for profit. All pokémon exist for the glory of Team Rocket.”

There’s a long silence. You stand there in confusion, resisting the urge to blurt out something more, trying not to let your anxiety show. Those are the words, you’re sure of it. Unless she was looking for “Prepare for trouble…”

“What about the rest, Tony?” the boss asks quietly.

“There is more?”

“Arcanine, Machoke, let’s go!” Aiden roars. The froslass floats forward with arms spread wide, trailing snowflakes.

Let me out! The voice in your head is faint but distinct even over the sudden clamor.

“What?” you mutter as you drop under a shadow ball from the froslass. The arcanine jumps onto the desk, scattering papers everywhere and knocking the computer to the floor before he lunges at you with teeth blazing.

I said let me out! The arcanine rebounds from your protect, but the machoke is on you as soon as the bubble dissipates, swinging a fire punch at your head. You can’t keep retreating in this cramped little room, and you won’t have time to power up any of your serious attacks with all the pokémon focusing on you at once.

“But Sabrina,” you gasp, firing a widespread shock wave. The pokémon move to block the attack from hitting the humans, but it only slows them for a moment. “The Rocket was saying you wouldn’t–”

You think I fear that ridiculous excuse for a psychic? You believe that crawling human’s word over mine? Let me out! An ice beam hits you while you’re distracted, knocking you over and leaving you stiff with burning cold. Let me out before you ruin everything!

You fumble in your pocket and manage to grab the master ball just before the machoke’s foot comes down, pinning you and crushing the breath out of your body. The master ball clatters to the floor and starts to roll away, and you croak, “Go” as you tear at the machoke’s leg with fingers morphing into claws.

The fighting-type’s lifting his foot for another stomp when the clone takes shape, but he never gets the chance to bring it down again. Mewtwo gives himself a shake, shoulders down to tail-tip, like he’s trying to shed water, and a wave of psychic energy spreads out across the room, sweeping up everything in its path. Humans and pokémon alike are slammed into the walls, and the desk smashes after them, splintering on impact.

There’s a long moment of silence where nothing moves, and then the houndoom, the only one still conscious, begins struggling his way free of the pile. You get to your feet as Mewtwo hurls an aura sphere at the dark-type to make him stay down.

Come, the clone says, eyes blazing with purple light. We must hurry.

“Mewtwo, Eleanor Fairchild isn’t here,” you say as you brush the last of the ice from your clothes. “What are we supposed to do–?”

Find out where she’s gone, of course, the clone says. He starts towards the pile of humans washed up like driftwood against the far wall, then turns so fast it puts your heart in your throat, forming and flinging the dusky whirl of a shadow ball in the blink of an eye. It hits the dusknoir before he even finishes phasing out of the wall, scattering clouds of ectoplasm. The ghost’s cry is a hollow, lonesome sound that sets goosebumps prickling up your arms. He’s tough, too, and a chill wind blows around the detention block, rippling bands of darkness undulating through the air.

Mewtwo doesn’t let the dusknoir finish building up his ominous wind. Another casual shadow ball is too much for the ghost, and he falls unconscious, slumped halfway out of the wall with curling wisps of ectoplasm drifting from the gaping holes blown through his body by Mewtwo’s attacks.

You shudder and turn away. Hopefully that’s the last of the boss’ ghosts that’s lurking around. It must be nice, being a psychic like Mewtwo, and never having to worry about someone sneaking up on you.

The clone’s sifting through the debris, standing calmly in place while bodies and detritus alike shift around as if of their own accord. Smug satisfaction oozes from the clone as he uncovers the boss, lying in a crumpled heap and bleeding where flying debris carved narrow scratches across her cheek. Let’s see what you remember, shall we? the clone asks as his eyes blaze brighter and the human rises in the grip of psychic force, floating a couple of inches off the ground with her head still lolling in unconsciousness.

You take a step forward, curious what Mewtwo’s going to do. It’s probably some psychic thing, you probably won’t even be able to see much, but you crane your neck anyway, wondering. You end up blindsided anyway, shoved away from Mewtwo by a wall of psychic force. You stumble and fall over, vision lurching as a headache starts throbbing in your temples. At first you think Mewtwo attacked for some reason, but then you realize some of your surprise is his own, a wordless shout echoing around your skull. You blink and try to figure out what the yellowish thing is that’s somehow gotten between you and the clone. You can’t recognize it, you can’t think through the buzz of psychic pressure so powerful it feels like it’s going to vibrate your brain to pieces.

“Mewtwo,” someone says from nearby, and you focus on her, a young human with short dark hair and one hand resting on the shoulder of an alakazam.

Just like that, everything snaps into focus. The thing standing in front of you is a kadabra. There’s over a dozen of them now, kadabra and alakazam both, in a ring around Mewtwo. He turns slowly in the middle of them, reflected in their upraised spoons, looking for a gap in the circle.

“Mewtwo,” the human repeats, and you recognize her at last as Sabrina, Saffron City’s gym leader and a person Mewtwo’s definitely not afraid of. “It’s time for you to come with me.”