Chapter 19
Mewtwo turns to face Sabrina, slowly and with real effort instead of his usual lazy smoothness. His eyes are narrowed to slits. What are you doing here?
“We’re here for you, Mewtwo. We’re going to take you back to your trainer.”
No! Sparks crackle around one of Mewtwo’s hands, but they fizzle and die in seconds. You can feel the clone’s anger, but it’s fainter than usual, fading in and out like a radio tuned to the wrong channel. Mewtwo’s eyes glow a brilliant purple, but if he’s doing something, you can’t see it.
“Yes,” Sabrina says. “We are. Get in the master ball, Mewtwo.” The purple ball floats near Mewtwo’s head, tipping and rocking crazily on invisible waves of psychic energy.
No! Mewtwo manages to raise one hand, and the master ball drifts down towards his fingers.
Sabrina’s alakazam raises his spoons higher, and it curves towards him instead.
The master ball wavers as the psychic-types engage in an invisible tug-of-war, psychic energy clashing and roiling in the air. You swallow hard as the throbbing in your head spikes up and down in waves, setting your stomach to nauseous churning. Mewtwo’s ranting fills your mind. I knew it! he snarls. I knew the League was working with the Rockets. You humans are all alike.
“Did you now?” Sabrina asks in a bored tone. “Fascinating. And how exactly did you arrive at that conclusion?”
How else would you be able to teleport down here? You must have been here before.
“Don’t be absurd,” Sabrina drawls. Her acolytes are pale and sweating, shivering with the effort of maintaining–whatever it is they’re doing. But Sabrina isn’t even winded, meeting Mewtwo’s blazing eyes without a hint of worry. “Why would I visit a rat-hole like this, even if I were working with the Rockets? Did you honestly think you could wander around my city without me knowing? With a mental signature as strong as yours, we could feel it the moment you were released from your ball. We can see through your eyes, Mewtwo. And where we can see, we can go.”
You’re lying! the clone yells. That’s all you humans ever do is lie! Energy pops and crackles around him, peeling away in ragged tendrils rather than gathering into an attack. The clone howls angry accusations, but he’s starting to sweat, shaking with the effort of holding off so many other psychics. The master ball glides ever more steadily towards Alakazam.
He’s going to lose. Mewtwo’s strong, but he’s not strong enough to fend off all these people at once. Your head fills with his denials, but you can see for yourself it’s the truth.
You drag yourself to your feet, head bowed as you take a shaking step forward. You use your own psychic abilities to carve a path through the wall of power seeping from the ring of humans. You don’t stand a chance against them, but maybe you can distract them long enough for Mewtwo to get the upper hand.
It’s like trying to walk through a churning sandstorm, burning sheets of psychic energy crashing over you, forcing your head down even though there’s nothing physical standing in your way. The air feels dense and rubbery, like the very atmosphere is trying to repel you. Energy runs out of your body as soon as you gather it, just like it did for Mewtwo. Sabrina turns to look at you, the barest hint of a frown on her face.
Get out of here! Mewtwo yells. He has to repeat himself several times before you realize he’s talking to you. You can barely pick out his shouting over the roar of psychic power trying to tear your brain to pieces. I don’t need your help! Finish the job. I’ll meet you later.
It’s a good thing you don’t have to voice your protest aloud, because you can’t seem to find your tongue, probably couldn’t force sound out over the noise of clashing psychic fields. You’re distracting me, the clone snarls. Get out of here! You can’t put together a coherent thought, but Mewtwo feels your confusion, and your whole world is eclipsed by the image of a number, huge and bold-lettered, on a plate on what must be a wall.
Then the picture flickers, blanks out for a second. And when it comes back you could swear it’s different, that the numbers are changed. First you panic, trying to remember what it was before. Once you’re sure you have it, just as you begin to calm down, you realize what must have happened.
You can’t turn your head to get a proper look at Sabrina, can’t feel anything from her either. Mewtwo’s a gushing spigot of emotions, but Sabrina projects nothing but a cool, detached attentiveness. You know she’s the one messing with your head, though, her or one of the pokémon. She knows everything you and Mewto have been saying, everything you’re thinking. She feels horror flood your veins as you realize, already knows she’s been found out.
You shrink down inside your skull as Mewtwo’s thoughts pound into yours, fury at your failure mingled with frustration at his inability to overcome the other psychics and fear–even fear, he can’t hide it, as the master ball keeps up a slow wobble towards the alakazam. Behind it all is the white noise of psychic power, the minds of Sabrina’s team, wending through everything like they’re the air your thoughts breathe. They know everything going on in your head.
You try to think and not think at the same time, afraid that anything you try the psychics will know about before you even begin, afraid that you’ll give away the truth of your mission with some idle thought. Mewtwo screams at you to get out, but you can’t move. You’re trapped inside your own head, because the psychics will know wherever you think to go. They’ll follow you, if not now then later; they’ll come after you once they’ve dealt with Mewtwo.
Your mind blanks again, and this time the memory overwhelming your senses is one of your own, grabbed and re-projected before your mind’s eye. Mewtwo isn’t speaking words anymore, but you feel his scorn layered over his desperation. He’s exasperated at having to do everything for you.
You’re back in the base’s entry corridor at the bottom of the pitted metal stairs. This is a recent memory, vivid, laced through with the musty smell of damp concrete and footsteps echoing from the arched ceiling. You shove the great Nathaniel Morgan ahead of you, but you’re not really paying attention to him, then as now. You raise your eyes like you did before, study the cracked tiles overhead, geographic patterns of rusty, spreading mold.
You look down again and Sabrina stares back from where the great Nathaniel Morgan’s supposed to be. Her eyes are empty and too dark, the same darkness that leaks into the air around her, cracking the memory to nonsense splinters. There’s nothing under your feet anymore, nothing but void, and light and sound and smell all fade away until there’s nothing left but you and Sabrina in an endless well of sensory deprivation. You feel Sabrina reaching for you, trying to pry your mind wide open, and terror at last gives you the clarity to tear yourself away.
You reappear in that same hallway with nothing on your mind but the need to flee, and you trip over your own feet as you turn to run. Then the headache slams into you with such violence that you collapse against the wall, retching.
“Hey, uhh, you okay over there? You trying to get to medical?”
You twist around, expecting to find Sabrina standing there again, but it’s just a grunt. The hallway beyond looks perfectly normal, and the tile is cold and smooth under your fingers. You only get a second to take it in before your quick movement catches up with you and you’re forced to squeeze your eyes shut against the pain.
“Yes.” You push off from the wall, doing your best not to grimace as your head throbs again. “Yes, I am fine.”
“Where’d you come from?” the grunt asks. “You sure are quiet. I swear I don’t know anybody who can get down those stairs without it sounding like a donphan stampede.”
“I came from outside. I need to get to B1472A. Do you know where it is?”
“Uh, well, B-wing, that’s east. Fourth basement somewhere.”
You nod and then regret it, barely remember to toss off a mumbled thank you as you push past her.
“You sure you’re all right?” she calls after you. “You’re acting kinda funny, like–”
“I am fine.” You pick up speed, trying to wash out your splitting headache with a trickle of healing energy. You have to be quick about this. Sabrina knows you want the computer, and she might not know why, but you doubt she’s just going to let you walk off with it. Maybe if you’re quick, you can get there before she finishes with Mewtwo.
You’re almost sprinting by the time you hit the central chamber, earning odd looks from passing Rockets. There’s a little knot of them around the elevators, loitering with the carefree nonchalance of people who have no idea that Mewtwo and Sabrina both are loose in their base. You wish you could barrel right past them, scatter the humans like bowling pins and smash clear through the elevator doors. You could slide down the cables all the way to the depths of the hideout. No waiting. No thinking. You want to be gone.
You make yourself stand around instead, cramming onto the first elevator that arrives. “Do you know where B1472A is?” you ask a Rocket busy texting on his pokénav.
“Fourth floor,” he says without looking up, and the next person you ask is very slow and deliberate about turning away from her friend, her tight frown suggesting your question is somehow less important than her gossip about one of the senior admins. A glare is all she has for you.
“Do you know where–?”
“Just go left when you get out of the elevator, man, it’s no big deal.”
That wasn’t even the person you were asking, but fine. You’ll find it. You can do it by yourself. You clench your jaw and stare at the number above the door, willing it to go up faster. You’re the first one out on the fourth level, and you quickly outpace the shambling bunch of Rockets who get off with you, eyes scanning the doors you pass as you go left, left, left…
This floor is more like the base in Viridian, all metal and video screens. But it’s grungier, tarnished, almost, and the card readers on the doors are boxy old things made of gray plastic. The signage is at least as bad, and you squint at doorplates as you pass, trying to work out the pattern.
It’s hard, especially when there’s so much you can’t think about. Not how long Mewtwo can hold out against Sabrina. (The numbers are all odd now. How are they odd on both sides?) Not whether he’ll slip up and let her know what you are, what you’re planning to do. (Back up, you’re in the 1480’s somehow.) Not if you’re going to come around another corner just like this and run smack into Sabrina with a wall of psychics at her back. Not if you’re ever–that’s it!
You put Tony Flores’ ID against the reader, and the light flickers red a second, and that is it, you’re done with this, you’re done with all of it. You tear the reader off the wall and grab the mess of wires behind it, and a thundershock makes the door slide open with a cheerful beep, like it was just kidding, it wanted to let you through all along.
The lights take long seconds to sputter awake, but you’re already on your way, weaving between shelves as you search for the place in Mewtwo’s memory. The room overflows with ancient electronic equipment, all thick cables and big disks and instruction manuals three inches deep with browned and curling pages. Somebody drew in the dust on an old TV screen, a few squiggles and a big “R.”
You hardly notice because there it is. It’s in a different spot than in Mewtwo’s memory, but it’s got the same half-torn-off sticker on the front of it. An old thick monitor perches on top, but there’s no keyboard connected. You kneel down in front of the console with a sigh you can feel through your whole body. This is the right machine, you’re sure of it, and there’s no trace of psychic power in the air. You reach around behind the tower–it’s at least three feet deep, you can’t believe people ever used computers like this–to see if it’s connected to anything–
“Boo,” a young man says cheerfully as he steps from behind some shelves of VCR tapes, a kadabra by his side.
You suppose you can’t blame him. He must have assumed you were human. Nobody would say “boo” to a gengar. Nobody would jump out at a rhydon, not if they didn’t want to get thrashed. The trainer only gets a couple of seconds to realize his mistake.
Your heart stops when the human appears, all your muscles lock, and you might actually jump a couple of inches into the air. Time blurs together in a thoughtless rush as your instincts take over, and you remember nothing after that.
When you come to yourself again you’re at your campsite with the sun warming your back and a fresh breeze tickling your coarse dark fur. You’re hugging the computer so tight your claws are stuck straight through the plastic, and blood from your clothes getting smeared across the casing.
It takes a few minutes to convince your muscles to relax enough that you can unwrap yourself from the computer. You slump in the dirt next to it, breathing hard and letting your head hang. As the adrenaline seeps away you sit and stroke the fur on your arms, running your fingers over the bony nubs that forced their way out of your skin in your moment of surprise. Houndoom, maybe? The skeleton parts jut out at random, and they should only be on your back anyway, but that’s the only thing you can think of that would have them.
Fur and bone melt to human skin under your fingers, and you rub your hands over your face, first to change everything back, then trying to massage the tension away. You’re safe now. You can be human again. You let your hands flop in your lap and lean back against the side of the computer. The last remnants of your headache come creeping back, a dull steady pain behind your temples, but you’re too tired to deal with it. At least Mewtwo’s not here to make it worse.
Inspiration strikes, and you climb up on top of the clone’s boulder to flop down in his usual spot. It really is nice and sunny and warm. Everything looks different from up here, even the absurdly big computer turned squat and insignificant. You let your eyes fall closed, the sunlight turning the insides of your eyelids hot and red, and consider your situation.
So now Mewtwo’s captured again. Serves him right. It was his own idea to go down there. He acted like it was no big deal, but then Sabrina came and showed him up good.
Maybe this time he’ll learn his lesson. He’s not so great, and you don’t need him anyway, or at least not until the end. You and your friends can handle the mission on your own. You can do it better, even. You don’t need him, and if Absol didn’t insist, you would just make it you and your friends from here on out.
You and your friends–that Mewtwo took. Suddenly you’re not tired anymore.
You nearly fall off the side of the boulder in your haste to get down, diving into Mewtwo’s crevice underneath. You paw through dead leaves and dig into the dirt below, raking it up in cool handfuls. Mewtwo could have just buried them here, thought you would never check, but no, you get up to your elbows in earth and there’s nothing there at all.
You wrench yourself out of the hole and climb up over the boulder instead, probing in cracks and sweeping leaf litter out of crevices, but they’re all empty. You stop and try to sense your pokéballs somehow, tapping to send vibrations through the rock and listening for their echoes with what weak earth-senses you can muster.
Except wait. Pokéballs are magnetic, aren’t they? That’s how they stick to your belt. You concentrate, turning up your electromagnetic field until the change in your pocket slithers and shifts and you think you might go mad from the humming. No pokéballs roll from hidden crannies. You let go of the magnet pull and jump down again, hunching in the dirt.
Smell. You can smell where the clone went. You circle the clearing for a couple minutes, marking out Mewtwo’s progress. From the boulder to the ground and back, circling the great Nathaniel Morgan, pacing around and then–finally–wandering off into the trees.
The track stops not far away, dead-ending in an unremarkable patch of woods. The clone stood here, maybe, and sent your belt drifting up to hook on an overhead branch, or tucked it under a rock, or…
Or this is where he stood a moment before taking off, flying to somewhere far away you could never guess.
But no. They have to be here somewhere, they have to. Mewtwo would never go to that much trouble to make sure you couldn’t find them, and he isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he is.
You kick up leaf litter and paw through underbrush, tearing apart bushes and ferns and overturning rocks. You scale trees, breaking branches and scattering leaves as you haul yourself into the canopy. From up above you can see trees stretching out all around you, rank on rank of possible hiding places, and you force yourself not to look. You focus on what’s in front of you instead, shoving your claws into knotholes and tearing chunks out of rotted limbs.
Not here. You jump down again and dig around in the ground, forcing your way into burrows and heaving up rotting logs. Not here. You race back to the clearing with grime crusted on your claws and burrs sticking in your hair, and there’s no one here, no one, nothing, just a bird rising startled from its perch on the computer monitor. He’s gone. They’re all gone, and you have nothing–
There’s something red tucked in a patch of grass near the edge of your campsite. You’re on it without conscious thought, clutching at it before you even realize what you’re doing with your heartbeat loud in your ears. It slips and crinkles through your fingers, and you shred it apart with a howl of frustration. Just one of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s wrappers.
Then you’re in under the boulder again, kicking up plumes of dirt as you dig, and you don’t realize you’re crying until you stop to rub grit out of your eyes and your hand comes back wet and smeary. You drag yourself back on top of the boulder and collapse, shaking with angry sobs.
They’re all gone now. Everyone–after all the years you spent looking for them, they’re gone just like that. That stupid clone–that stupid, stupid clone, he never listents to anyone and just does what he wants, and now where are you? He thinks he’s so smart, he thinks he’s better than anybody, and he went and ruined everything.
You curl up in a ball and bury your face in your arms. Now your friends could be anywhere, literally anywhere, and you’ll never be able to find them. Even just this forest goes on for miles, and Mewtwo could have stuck them anywhere, tossed them in a bush or buried them between some tree’s roots and then been on his way. But there’s no reason for him to stop there, no–he could have flown anywhere, to Cerulean Cape, even, and stashed them somewhere you’ll never find.
You bare your teeth behind your arms. Stupid, stupid, stupid clone. Everything started going wrong after you met him. And he calls you worthless.
Your hand sizzles against the boulder as you steady yourself, coming up into a crouch. Your tears disappear in tiny bursts of steam.
It’s all Mewtwo’s fault. When you see Absol you’re going to tell her she was wrong. Your brother doesn’t really care about the mission. The only thing he cares about is himself. You never should have gone to find him. And it won’t do one single thing to get your friends back, but at least for once Absol will have to admit she was wrong.
There’s anger underneath your sadness, a seething molten core of it that calls to the planet’s heart far below. Tremors shiver through the clearing, splitting jagged fissures across the earth. Dry grass crackles into flame as the sun beats down harsh and angry, and you breathe in sweet, woody smoke the fire spreads. You scoop up a handful of boulder and watch it drip back through your fingers, admiring the glowing yellow veins running up your arm. Mewtwo calls you weak. He thinks you’re the stupid one. He doesn’t know a thing about you.
The boulder melts away in glowing rivulets. Off in the forest bushes are starting to catch, flames licking at the trunks of trees. You let your anger warm you and idly swirl your hand through molten rock. Then you pull it back as a you remember, panic latching onto your chest. You stand up and strain watering eyes to see through the smoke.
The computer’s over on its side, one big crack spidering across the monitor. A big red-glowing fissure right next to it vents caustic volcanic gases. You forget your anger in fear, stop feeding the fire and hope it burns itself out.
The tremors die away to nothing but the occasional aftershock, and slowly the sun’s fury fades. You flop back on the boulder, splatting down in cooling rock, and cover your eyes with one hand. You point at the sky with the other, sending a burst of water-type energy towards the stratosphere.
The heat seeps out of the boulder until the hiss of boiling raindrops fades to a gentle patter against stone. You lie in a growing puddle, too dejected even to change your skin to drink in the rainwater. That would make you feel better, and right now you’d rather lie where you are and be resentful.
Mewtwo’s going back to the Champion, probably. Sabrina won’t be happy about that; she wasn’t happy when the Champion caught him in the first place. He’ll get Mewtwo back, though. The Champion gets what he wants.
So Mewtwo’s with the Champion. The Champion’s at Indigo. And here, once again, are you. Except this time the security on Mewtwo’s bound to be much stronger, and all your friends are gone.
But it could still be okay. All it took was you and Absol to get him the last time, after all. And once you rescue him, the first thing you’ll make him do is give you your friends back. If he doesn’t, well, you’ll have his master ball. He can spend the rest of the trip in there if he won’t agree to be helpful. And he knows you’ll need your pokémon back eventually, anyway.
At least you can be sure the Champion will bring him to the final match. There’s petitions every year, people complaining about how unfair it is, but the League always lets him use Mewtwo anyway. The Champion gets what he wants. And even if he keeps the clone’s ball in a super-top-secret storage vault the whole rest of the time, he’ll take it out to battle with.
Well, he will if it’s not some loser trainer he’s fighting. Last year Pikachu swept the idiot’s entire team, and that’s not even the first time it happened. He’s only had to use Mewtwo in one whole match since he got the title. Obviously if he had to battle somebody like you, but… no pokémon. No way to fight. And no way to guarantee the Champion will let Mewtwo out even once before he disappears back into the mountains. That stupid clone. If he hadn’t taken–
You sit up so fast your head swims. Your pokémon. He took your pokémon.
You don’t know how long Team Rocket keeps prisoners around before they make them sleep with the fishes, especially the really annoying ones, but it’s only been a few hours. If you get just one scrap of luck today, you won’t be too late.
“The fuck happened to you?” The great Nathaniel Morgan croaks. Mewtwo’s attack punched in the bars of his cell, twisted them out of alignment, but they’re still not far apart enough for the human to slip between, not even in his reduced state. He’s leaning against them as he watches you, his body in an exhausted slump.
You lower clenched fists. The guards aren’t here. Nobody’s here. The wreckage of the desk’s all shoved up against one wall to leave a clear path to the door. One long splinter of wood is stained dark almost four inches up the tip. Maybe everyone went off to get healed.
“No, seriously. What’d you do, go off and hug a fucking magmar?”
You look down at yourself. Oh. You probably should have thought of your clothes before you took a nap in molten rock. You peel a charred strip of fabric off your chest and let it fall to the floor, flaking away to gray ash as it goes. “No. It is not important. I have a proposal for you.”
“And I got a proposal for you: go fuck yourself with a cactus, you shit-sucking, [font=verdana]c[/font]um-guzzling little wankstain.” He turns away from you and closes his eyes.
“Sabrina took Mewtwo. That means he will be returned to the Champion soon. That means I need to go back to the Indigo Plateau. There will likely be increased security. It may be that the only time I can rescue Mewtwo will be during battle. So I need to enter the Indigo League Tournament. And I need to win.”
You pause, anticipating disagreement and ready to fire back with everything you’ve got, ready to vent nervous anger in a tirade. But there’s nothing. You move closer to the great Nathaniel Morgan’s cell, peering in at him as you go on. “I need an identity for the tournament. I will use yours. And I will not be playing the trainer this time. That will be you.” You wait a few seconds, but there’s still no reaction.
“I recognize that you require medical attention. If you agree to help me, if you agree to act as the trainer for our battles in the tournament, I will take you to a hospital. Otherwise, I have no need of you. I will leave you here and be on my way.”
You wait again, listening to the faint rush of air from the vents in the walls. “Are you listening?” Still no answer. “Fine, then. I will punch you until you wake up.”
The human lets out a bubbling sigh and says, “I was kinda hoping that if I ignored you you’d fuck off already.”
You grin and cross your arms. “Of course I will not go away.”
“Of-fucking-course not. But a guy can dream, you know?” He shifts a little against the bars but still doesn’t look at you.
“So? What do you think? You need help. I am willing to offer it to you if you do me a favor. We would both benefit.”
“Look, what the fuck is it with you and me anyway? Go find some other poor bastard to be your stupid fake trainer. Leave me the fuck out of it.”
“I cannot just pick some random trainer,” you say. “What if I picked somebody who is bad? I need to win. There is not much time left. I cannot find the best person and get them to agree in the next couple of days.”
“Jesus Christ, just grab anybody on the Plateau. You know they got eight badges at least, right? That’s already a hell of a lot better than me.”
“I know you are good at battling,” you say. “Even the boss said so, and…” The words stick in your throat, and you have to stop and try again. At last they all tumble out in a rush. “And anyway, you are better than me. So if you agree–”
The human’s eyes pop open. “What?”
“I can fight in the first couple of matches, as I imagine you will need time–”
“Nah, nah, back up a bit. What was that you were saying about me being better than you?”
You glower at him. “You heard me.”
His leer looks even more hideous than usual on his gaunt and dirty face. “Nah, I’m going deaf, you know? Must be one of the side effects of getting practically fucking murdered. You’re gonna have to say that over, or I might never hear nothing ever again, get me?”
“You can hear just fine!”
“What was that? ‘It’s naptime?’ Well, if you say so…”
You grit your teeth, your pulse ticking in your forehead as the human makes a show of collapsing against the bars. This is never going to work. You’re never going to last a week without murdering this human. “I said you are better than me at battling. Are you happy now?”
“Damn!” The great Nathaniel Morgan chuckles to himself, a hair-raising congested noise. He’s smirking at you even as he’s gasping for breath. “Holy shit, you gotta be desperate. God, all this shit was almost worth it just for that.”
You glare at him as he trembles in the throes of painful mirth. “Then you will do it?”
“Oh fuck no,” the great Nathaniel Morgan chokes. “You’re fucking insane. But at least I can get a damn good laugh out of it before I die.”
“Why not?” The human’s hacking up clots of greenish mucus, but he’s still grinning. “Would you really rather die than help me?”
“Sounds like a plan,” the great Nathaniel Morgan rasps. “I dunno where you got the idea I’m some fucking god of battle anyway. Yeah, I beat you, but you also fucking suck. Doesn’t mean jack shit.”
“I have eight badges, and you beat me. So you must be at least as good as a trainer with eight badges, and that is very good.”
“Okay, look. Even if it actually worked that way, and even if you got your badges fair and square, there’s still the fact that eight badges is the minimum fucking requirement for this tournament. You better believe there’s better trainers than me out there, and I bet there’s an asston more of them than you think, too. And you know what? They’re all going to be at the fucking plateau.” He shakes his head. “Even if I was the next motherfucking Red, we ain’t got jack shit for mons. How the hell are you planning to take on the tournament without no goddamned team?”
“We have pokémon.” You reach into your pocket and pull out the great Nathaniel Morgan’s pokéballs. “See? I got yours.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan gives them a disdainful look. “Oh fuck you. You went and ripped off that dude’s team along with all his money and shit? Just ’cause you stole those for me don’t make them mine now, dumbfuck.”
“No, I mean they’re yours. Your pokémon.”
“Who the hell wants to battle with some fucking grunt’s pokémon anyway? I mean, I guess you might get lucky and Red laughs himself to death when you send out your sandshrew or whatever the fuck…”
“No, they are–oh, just go.” You throw one of the pokéballs at random, and a raticate appears, looking up at you in blank confusion. He turns slowly, taking in his surroundings, and stops when he catches sight of the great Nathaniel Morgan.
“Whoah. What the heck happened to you, buddy?”
The great Nathaniel Morgan frowns down at the raticate for a long moment. Then he reaches his hand through the bars and says, “Give them to me.”
Your fingers close over the pokéballs. “If you agree to fight for me, you can have them back.”
“No!” You jump at his sudden yell. “You give them back now. Do you understand me? Those are mine, and you give them back now or I swear to God you will regret it for the rest of your fucking life!”
“Yeah! What he said! Or something.” The raticate flashes his teeth at you, but he keeps glancing over at his trainer, rocking back and forth on the balls of his hind feet.
You start to protest, but the human’s expression darkens, his lips drawing back to show teeth. He’s shivering, clinging to a bar for support, but his eyes are bright with hatred. He can’t do anything to you, not from inside the cell, but you get the sense that he’s about to try anyway.
“Fine. Take them.” You hold your hand out, and the great Nathaniel Morgan snatches the pokéballs away, staring greedily down at them. His face contorts with anger a second later.
“Where’s the last one?”
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, you piece of shit!” The great Nathaniel Morgan explodes. “There’s only three here! Where the fuck is the last one?”
“Those are the only ones I have,” you say. “I do not have any idea where–”
“Bullshit!” He grabs you and pulls you forward so fast your head bangs against the bars. You hang dazed in his grip while he roars, “Where’s the last one, you bastard? Don’t fuck with me, you understand? Don’t you even fucking dare, you piece of shit, you ratfucking son of a bitch, you–”
You stretch away from the human, trying to pull free. He’s half leaning on you now, so close you can feel the fever-heat rolling off him and smell the sourness of his illness. “Answer me!” he snarls. “Where is it? Where the fuck is it? If you don’t spit it the fuck out now I swear to God I–”
“Mewtwo has it!”
For a couple of seconds the only sound is the human’s ragged breathing as he studies your face. You see the raticate creeping up on you out of the corner of your eye, his whiskers twitching nervously. At last the human gathers himself. “You expect me to believe that bullshit? Mewtwo, what the fuck? Why the fuck would Mewtwo have it?” He shakes you, voice getting louder and more hysterical with every word. “Where the fuck is it? Where? Tell me now, motherfucker. Now!”
“I mean it! I grabbed your pokéballs when we were fighting and stuck them in my pocket, and I picked up your steelix’s pokéball afterwards and put it on my belt. Then I found Mewtwo and he took my pokéballs away, but he didn’t realize I had some in my pocket, too.” You pick up speed as you begin to understand how the pieces of the story fit together. “So if you want to get your pokémon back, then you should help me find Mewtwo. He is the only one who knows where my pokémon are, and that means he is the only one who knows where your steelix is, too.”
“Well ain’t that motherfucking convenient? I’m going to give you one last chance, bastard, before I–”
“I am not lying,” you say, actually offended. How dare he suspect you? “You do not have to believe me if you do not want to. I guess that means your steelix got left with the rest of the pokémon in the storage room. If you live, I suppose you could go look for him. Maybe he’s still there. Or maybe the police confiscated everything and now he is being held for evidence, or released, or maybe Team Rocket got him back and they gave him to someone else or sold him and maybe he is not even in Kanto anymore and–”
The great Nathaniel Morgan shoves you away with an animal noise of frustration, and you stand rubbing the marks of his fingers off your arm while he staggers back from the bars, thumbing the buttons on his pokéballs. First to emerge is a graveler who gives you a calm, level look, but the other bristles the instant she lays eyes on you, baring her teeth and tensing to spring.
“Wait, Mightyena! Stop!” The great Nathaniel Morgan drops to his knees, wrapping his good arm around the dark-type’s neck. Her ears go forward in surprise, and she stops growling, trying to turn her head enough to get a good look at the human crouched gasping by her side.
“Stop,” he wheezes, leaning his head against the side of her neck. “Don’t. It’s too strong. Just, just don’t. I can’t, I…”
The rest of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s words are too garbled by sobs for you to make out. He buries his face in the mightyena’s mane, his whole body trembling with the force of crying, and clings to his pokémon like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he lets go. The dark-type stands frozen in shock, half turned back towards her trainer.
“Just what in the hell is going on here?” the raticate demands, like he suspects a joke at his expense.
“I don’t know. The last I saw, Steelix was trying to stop that thing from killing Nate.” She turns hate-filled red eyes on you and tries to push her trainer away, but he only tightens his grip.
“That so?” Raticate turns to you, falling to all fours. “Well what’re we waiting for?”
“Be careful,” Mightyena says. She doesn’t take her eyes off you. “It’s not human. I think it’s listening to us.”
You fold your arms and hold Mightyena’s gaze, tapping into your powers of intimidation. The dark-type’s ears go back against her skull, but she doesn’t look away.
This isn’t going at all like you expected. What on earth is the great Nathaniel Morgan doing? Why can’t humans ever make sense?
“What, like some kind of ditto, something?”
“I don’t know, Raticate.” Mightyena gives herself a shake, like she’s trying to shed water from her coat, but fails to dislodge her trainer. “Oh, honestly, Nate. Look, give me a hand, here?”
“Doesn’t look like a ditto to me,” the raticate says. He squeezes between the bars and grabs at the arm the great Nathaniel Morgan’s got wrapped around Mightyena’s neck. “Usually they don’t really catch on to the clothes thing.”
The raticate strains farther, bumping up against his trainer’s side as he reaches. It’s a light blow. As far as you can tell, they hardly touch. But the human screams like he’s being reamed with a white-hot poker, a noise so abrupt and jagged with pain that the raticate tumbles over backwards in surprise. Mightyena jumps sideways with her ears pinned back against her skull, finally tearing herself free of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s grip. The human slumps forward with one hand clutching his side, breathing harsh.
“Just what in the hell is going on here?” the raticate asks again, scrambling to his feet, and this time there’s a note of fear in his voice.
“No, sorry,” the great Nathaniel Morgan gasps, blinking tears out of his eyes. He reaches towards Mightyena, his hand shaking. “It’s okay. Just don’t, don’t touch.”
The dark-type looks at him a moment, then comes forward with head and tail hanging low. She slides under the human’s hand and lets him lean against her, and he closes his eyes in exhaustion. Mightyena cranes her neck around to lick her trainer’s face.
“Calm down, Nate,” she says. “We need you to calm down and tell us what’s going on.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Raticate asks, ears and whiskers drooping. “He looks like shit.”
“I know.” Mightyena sighs and stops her ministrations. “He needs to go to a hospital. Graveler, can you deal with those bars?”
The rock-type comes forward, scales rasping against the wall as she skirts Mightyena and her trainer. She seizes a couple of bars and wrenches them from their moorings, then tosses them to the floor with a metallic clang.
“You cannot make it to the hospital by yourself,” you say as Graveler reaches for another pair of bars, and Mightyena growls, taking half a step forward. The great Nathaniel Morgan rouses enough to clutch at her and babble something about not doing it.
“Who the hell’re you?” Raticate asks. Graveler keeps working without any apparent interest in your conversation. The gap in the bars is nearly wide enough for her to pass through.
“Get out of our way,” Mightyena rumbles. Her fur bristles and she holds her tail out straight, aggression radiating from every line of her body.
You hold up your hands. “I only want to help. You are in the middle of a Rocket base. You would have to fight your way out to get to the hospital, and I doubt you can make it past that many people. Even if you do, it will take a long time, both to get out and to get to the hospital. Do you think you can afford to wait that long?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the great Nathaniel Morgan groans. He wipes his face on his sleeve and blinks hazily up at you. “I’ve had enough of your fucking ‘help.’ How the fuck did I get neck-deep in this shit in the first place, huh? I’ll take my fucking chances.”
“Help?” Mightyena snarls. “Is that it, help? Because last I remember you were trying to kill my trainer.”
Graveler tosses aside a last couple of bars and trundles out of the cell. She stops just outside, looking up at you without expression.
“It will only take a few seconds for me to teleport you to the hospital,” you insist, trying to ignore the rock-type’s stare. “All I am asking is for you to battle for me. I know you do not trust me, but think of where you are. You need my help.”
“Well…” Raticate scratches at the floor with one of his hindclaws. “The decor is kinda familiar. And if we’re really back at base…”
“How about a counter-offer? You get out of our way and you get to keep your legs,” Mightyena growls.
“Look, Mightyena,” Raticate says. He’s twisting a whisker between his claws. “I know you don’t like this guy and all, but–”
“It is true that your trainer and I do not like each other,” you say. “But I do not want him to die either.” Yet.
“Wait,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “Hold on. You leave them the fuck out of this. You want to deal, you deal with me, got it? I said I ain’t doing it, and they ain’t neither!”
“He said he’s not interested. Now get out of here,” Mightyena says.
“I’m just saying, humans are really fragile, right? And he looks pretty bad. If we’re going to have to fight our way out of here–look, Graveler, back me up, here.”
“Let the human make his own decisions.”
“Oh, thanks, Graveler. You’re a huge help.”
“You asked.”
Mightyena glares around the room, her lips drawn back in a snarl. She won’t meet your eyes. She raises a paw like she wants to take a step, but she can’t go anywhere with her trainer hanging off her side, and sets it down again just as quickly. The dark-type tosses her head, an abrupt, agitated motion, then winces as the great Nathaniel Morgan lets out a hiss of pain.
“Mightyena…” Raticate starts. She glances at him, then away, and stomps her paw again.
Finally she looks you full in the face. “We don’t agree to anything until Nate’s safe, you understand me? Nothing. You really want our help? You want to make a deal? Fine. Take us to the hospital and then, maybe, we can talk.”
You scowl. Really? She wants you to do all that for her without any kind of guarantee? Agreeing to save her trainer’s life isn’t good enough for her? And she’s probably just going to say “no” in the end anyway. You might as well leave and try to think of something else.
That’s probably what Mightyena’s hoping for. She stands rigid, her gaze fixed on you. Raticate chews on one of his foreclaws, trying to watch both you and his trainer at once. Meanwhile the great Nathaniel Morgan’s sunk against Mightyena’s side, his fingers moving in small circles through her mane.
And instead of the words you wanted to say, frustration rises hot at the back of your throat, and you spit out, “Fine. Get closer.”
The pokémon huddle around the great Nathaniel Morgan, who raises himself with a confused frown. “Hey. What the fuck are you doing? You–back off! What the fuck–?”
The closer you get, the tighter Mightyena pins her ears against her skull. You ignore her, intercepting the great Nathaniel Morgan’s arm as he raises it to fend you off. There’s a brief moment of contact, and then you’re elsewhere, out in the open air of Saffron City.
It’s open, but you couldn’t call it fresh. The alleyway stinks of garbage and stagnant water, and exhaust fumes filter in from the street beyond. Before you can even open your eyes, Mightyena demands, “Where are we? Where did you take us? You said we were going to the hospital!”
You put up your hands. “The hospital is a couple of blocks away. I have never been inside, and this is as close as I can get. Go look if you do not believe me.”
“What the fuck? I said fuck off, Freak! I can get my own goddamn self to the hospital. I ain’t gonna go along with any of your League bullshit no matter what the fuck you do.”
It takes Raticate long seconds to catch Mightyena’s look, but finally he lets go of his trainer’s shoulder and takes off for the mouth of the alley, muttering to himself all the way. “Hey!” The great Nathaniel Morgan calls after him. “Where the fuck’re you going?” He makes a fair attempt at sitting upright, Mightyena shifting to put herself between the two of you as he does so. “Get lost, Freak. Last fucking warning.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. The hospital’s just across the street,” Raticate calls from behind you.
“Let us go, then,” you say, but Mightyena bristles when you take a step towards her. “I am only trying to help.” You can’t quite keep the exasperation out of your voice.
The dark-type glances behind you while the great Nathaniel Morgan suggests things for you to do with your help, then says, “Yeah, well, thanks and all, but I think this is where we part ways.”
You don’t even get to ask what she means before Raticate’s weight settles on your shoulders and his teeth sink into the back of your neck. You roar and grab for him as Mightyena tears herself free of her trainer’s grip and charges you.
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s yelling something, but you can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. Of course. You shouldn’t have expected any honor from this lot. You tear Raticate off and hurl him into Mightyena, then spread your arms, gathering energy.
Raticate rebounds from the concrete, shooting back at you in a blur of dark energy. Mightyena follows a second later, and you stumble backwards as the twin sucker punches connect, your attack dissipating in a cloud of random sparks. You right yourself and start gathering energy for a quick and nasty attack when something hits you like a brick to your gut. Next thing you know you’re on hands and knees, gagging and choking and feeling like your lungs just got punched up into the back of your throat. You raise watering eyes to find the graveler standing over you, but you barely have time to wonder how she moved so fast before the other two are there, tearing and biting from both sides.
The air around you ripples with heat, and Mightyena and Raticate fall back as a pulse of flame sweeps out from you in all directions, setting scraps of refuse alight and evaporating puddles into stinking clouds of steam. A one-handed water pulse clears Graveler out of your way, and you race towards the great Nathaniel Morgan. Raticate dashes for you, trying to put himself between you and his trainer, Mightyena close behind. You can’t let her get to the great Nathaniel Morgan first; she knows what you’re really going for. You put on a burst of speed, stumbling over Raticate but keeping enough balance to swipe the pokéballs off the great Nathaniel Morgan’s belt.
Mightyena disappears in a flash of red light, just before she can sink her teeth into your calf, and Raticate and Graveler follow a second later. You grind the balls together in your palm and stomp around in a circle, shaking out your muscles while your wounds close and vanish. Your nerves keep screaming fight, and anger lights up your whole body with heat. It’s all you can do not to turn and attack the great Nathaniel Morgan, even knowing you need him, even knowing needing him is what brought you here in the first place. Instead you try to vent all your hatred through words alone. “Some pokémon you have there. I suppose I should not be surprised they attacked for no good reason, knowing who their trainer is.”
You stagger forward as something hits you from behind. The great Nathaniel Morgan practically climbs over you, straining to grab the hand holding his pokéballs, prying at your fingers.
“Give it,” he pants, breathless and almost inaudible. “Give it, give it–no!”
You shove him away, and he catches himself against the wall, clinging to the bricks to stay upright. “Get off me,” you snarl, clenching your hands into fists to resist the temptation of sinking claws into the human’s face.
“You can’t have them,” the great Nathaniel Morgan gasps. He’s shaking and gripping the wall so hard his fingers are like claws, but he keeps his eyes fixed on you. “They said they didn’t want to. They said.”
“They will come around.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan stares at you for a long moment, chest heaving as he draws in gupling breaths. Then he hurls himself at you again.
You catch him before he can actually hit you and dig your fingers into his injured side–injured where he can’t be injured, because you fixed that–and he collapses without a sound; he can’t even scream anymore, can only curl in a ball on the ground.
“Stop this. You are only making things worse for yourself. Will you come quietly, or do I have to knock you out?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time, which is just as well, maybe. You need time to calm down yourself. You can’t go out among humans when you’re this angry; anything could happen.
At last the human unfolds himself and stops coughing long enough to speak. He looks up at you with mouth slightly open as he pants, tears slicking his face.
“Please,” he says, then chokes out another painful cough. “Please just give them back.”
“Do not be stupid,” you snarl. How dare he? How dare he act like this is your fault somehow, like he didn’t bring this all on himself. You’ve been trying to help him, but he keeps acting like you’re doing something wrong. “I need them. You have no use for them now anyway. Because you”–you grab him and haul him upright, ignoring his struggles–“are going to the hospital.”
And so he does. There’s nothing he can do about it now.