Chapter 38

The child steps back as light gushes from Mewtwo’s master ball. The glow grows taller, taller, Mewtwo taking shape, and the child wavers, but ultimately holds firm. It can’t avoid Mewtwo forever. It needs to do this if it’s ever going to get its pokémon back.

Mewtwo stands before the child, watching silently, and he doesn’t feel angry. In fact, he doesn’t feel like anything. He must be keeping his psychic field contained, close to his actual head, so the child isn’t immersed in his emotions like usual.

That’s weird. The child squashes unease and draws itself up, as tall as it can. Whatever, doesn’t matter. The important thing is the child has nothing to apologize for. “I let you out to get my pokémon,” it says. “We are leaving for Orre tomorrow morning.” It’s pitch dark outside, morning far off yet. Plenty of time for Mewtwo to do his work.

He looks at the child some more, tail swinging faintly side to side. He wants to say something, doesn’t he? More of that “alone in the dark” stuff? The child braces itself to remind him of all the bad things he’s done, all the reasons it couldn’t trust him to be out. When the clone remains silent, the child says, “You need to get my pokémon. We need them to find Mew. You know that, don’t you? We can’t leave them here in Kanto. So go get them.”

Mewtwo stares, for a couple more seconds. Then he says, simply, Of course. Are you prepared to teleport? Unless you’d rather I fly and alert the entire continent to my presence.

“No, I’m ready,” the child stammers. “Teleport where?”

Back to the place we were staying outside Saffron City. With the rock.

Yes, of course the child knows it. It steps forward, wary. Any second now Mewtwo could lash out, with a punch as easily as with psychic force. But he merely watches, psychic field faint and distant-seeming, betraying nothing. The child touches his arm, and the two of them are away.

In the clearing Mewtwo turns and walks towards the trees. Wait here, he says without slowing down or even looking back at the child. I won’t be long.

For one wild second the child wants to run after him, to demand that he tell it what’s up. It just knows he’s going to go out there and, and… do something bad. Blow his cover. Be a huge jerk like always. Without his psychic field to tell the child which way he’s going, he’s out of its awareness in what feels like seconds. Like a normal person. But all that means is the child won’t know what he’s up to.

And he must be up to something. It would honestly be reassuring for him to start raging. As it is, he must have some other revenge in mind. Has to. He knows he needs to get the child’s pokémon, since Absol saw them in her vision. Maybe he’s just waiting to do that and then he’ll attack the child. He must want to. He’s always angry. How can he not be now?

The child shivers, then conjures flame between its hands, small but warming. It wants Mewtwo to come back and doesn’t want him to, not at all. He can stay out in the forest forever.

And then it won’t ever get to see Titan again, probably.

The child sighs and wishes it had something to check the time. It jolts when, after minutes, maybe, not so long, it actually hears Mewtwo crackling through the trees before feeling his psychic field. And here he comes, striding out of the forest, still calm, still blank and unmoved. Floating ahead of him is a familiar belt, and attached to it, six pokéballs. The child starts forward, hesitates, and now, only now, becomes worried that Mewtwo might not actually let it have them back.

Take it. Mewtwo tosses the belt at the child with a tiny burst of psychic impulse, and the child’s hands move automatically to catch it, to save it. It grabs the belt close, checking each pokéball in turn, finding them all slightly heavy, slightly warm–occupied. Everyone’s here.

Now take us back, Mewtwo says, and stunned and delighted and confused as it is, the child can’t help but obey.

Mewtwo turns and walks from the room the instant he reappears, headed outside, the child thinks. It’s barely aware of him, running its hand again down the line of pokéballs on its belt. Its swim trunks don’t exactly have belt loops, but the child straps the belt around its waist the best it can, feeling again its reassuring weight. Finally. Somehow, impossibly, Mewtwo was actually true to his word.

The door opens and shuts, somewhere far off. The child pauses a moment, thinks. Goes out of the room. “Where are you going?” it calls. Out, into the jungle. What does he want in the jungle?

I’m going to see your friend, the Rocket, Mewtwo says blandly, and the child’s stomach lurches.

“No! Mewtwo, you can’t kill him! Absol said not to. It’s important!” It’s down the steps and after the clone in seconds. He’s going to ruin everything! He’s barely been out of the master ball for half an hour, and already he’s going to screw everything up, he’s going to go off and murder people, even people he specifically can’t murder, he’s out of his master ball for like two minutes and this is what he decides to do.

Who said anything about killing? Mewtwo asks as the child comes up besides him, its fists up in confused desperation. It’s ready to fight him if that’s what it takes, and at the same time so, so not ready. A ripple of amusement passes through the clone, and the child actually feels it, but it’s gone again just as fast. The child frowns. What’s funny?

We have business, that’s all, Mewtwo says.

“Business?” How can Mewtwo make the word “business” sound so ominous? “No, you don’t. Why would you even want to talk to him? He’s so annoying. We don’t have to, we have to leave early anyway, we can just go and he won’t even realize it until we’re gone.”

Perhaps you’re content to leave without tying up loose ends. I am not. There, at last, is a flicker of Mewtwo’s normal hard tone, a biting edge to those last three words. He strides through the jungle with his usual easy, powerful gait, the undergrowth bending and straining out of his path, then whipping back into place once he’s gone past, usually in the child’s face. It stumbles on after him. It doesn’t really want to know what he’s about to do, but at the same time it has to, because it would be worse to find out later.

Mewtwo pulls to a halt, and the child staggers up next to him, winded and gray with anticipation. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s ahead, standing but braced against a tree, like he only just got up. His remaining pokémon are arrayed around him in a loose circle, all scrambling to their feet when they catch sight of Mewtwo. Caught unawares–they would be, without the clone’s psychic field to announce him.

“So. You here to finally hold up your end of the bargain?” the great Nathaniel Morgan asks, as cooly as though he’s been prepared for this all night. He spares only a glance for the child, even though it’s the one he had a deal with. Not that it blames him. It’s never wise to take your eyes off Mewtwo. “If that ain’t it, you can fuck right off. I ain’t got time for your bullshit. Just hand over Steelix and I’ll get fucking gone.” The pokémon underscore his words with warnings of their own, Mightyena’s low growl and Raticate’s puffed fur. Even Graveler’s rumbling in a meaningful way.

Steelix? Mewtwo gives the impression of mild consternation, but there’s something lurking underneath, some horrible malice. Or maybe that’s the child’s own queasiness. I don’t know anything about that. You’d have to ask this creature here.

“Fine. You, then,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and holds his hand out to the child. “Hand it over, and let’s be fucking done.”

The child sucks in a breath, but even if it had come up with a response, it wouldn’t have gotten to say anything before Mewtwo butted in. Not just yet. You owe me something first.

The child flinches at a sharp snapping noise, heart suddenly thudding. What did Mewtwo do, break the great Nathaniel Morgan’s outstretched hand? Crush something deep inside him? But no. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s just standing there, staring confused at his trainer’s belt. It floats in the air before him, neatly severed, its pokéballs drifting in orbit above.

It feels like everyone figures out what’s going on at once. The pokémon scatter, but even though they go all different directions the pokéballs rotate precisely to face them, firing their recall beams as one. Only Mightyena manages to dodge, flickering in and out of shadow. Mewtwo actually lowers himself to sidestep instead of simply blasting her away when she lunges, then lines up another shot. This time the recall beam is timed for when she reappears, and she, too, is caught. In the brief silence that follows the pokéballs return to the belt, which swoops over to hover next to Mewtwo, dangling as though he’s holding it by one end.

“What the fuck is this?” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. He takes a step forward, one arm up like he wants to reach for his belt but doesn’t quite dare. “Give that back.”

No, Mewtwo says simply.

“Mewtwo,” the child says uncertainly. “Mewtwo, don’t be mean. Give them back.”

Oh, mean, am I? the clone sneers. Am I being mean to the poor slaver? Heaven forbid.

The great Nathaniel Morgan sputters, “You bastard. Give them–give them–”

Oh? Does the thief dislike being stolen from?

“I ain’t playing no fucking games with you!” the great Nathaniel Morgan yells, face reddening. He takes a step forward like he’s going to–what? What can he even do? “I will fuck you the fuck up, you mutant-ass motherfucking piece of shit!”

“Just give them back and let’s go, Mewtwo,” the child says.

Why should I?

“They should get to choose,” the child says. “They want to stay with the great Nathaniel Morgan, so let them.”

I’m not going to stand by while they’re abused. If we must let the human go free, I will see to it that its pokémon go free as well.

“Fuck you and abuse!” the great Nathaniel Morgan screams. “You want to talk about abuse, you asshole, like you ain’t a fucking mass murderer? You’re full of shit! Give them the fuck back!”

Mewtwo cocks his head as if in confusion. Without his psychic field to provide emotional color and his face its usual blank, his gestures look almost robotic. Oh? You claim to care about these pokémon, is that right? You want what’s best for them?

“Don’t even start with me, you genocidal bastard!”

You think traveling with you is in their best interest? That they should be your pokémon? You believe it would be better for them to remain your slaves than to live free?

“Better than with you!” the great Nathaniel Morgan shrieks. “Don’t give me some shit about how you’re liberating them or whatever the fuck, you’re a psychotic bastard who gets off on people’s pain! Let them go!”

Oh, you needn’t fear for your pokémon. I won’t even be carrying them. The creature here will be in charge of caring for them until we find a suitable place to release them. I have no interest in mistreating them, and neither does my companion. I assure you I’d never hear the end of it if I made even the faintest move towards doing so.

“You’re both sick fucks,” the great Nathaniel Morgan growls. The child looks away.

Very well, then, Mewtwo says. The pokéball belt floats slowly forward to hang halfway between him and the great Nathaniel Morgan. The human watches it with huge eyes, leaning forward, but even he isn’t going to pounce at such a provocation. He must know that Mewtwo will yank it out of reach before he can grab it. Step forward, human, if you truly think yourself deserving. Do you believe you have the right to own another person? Do you think these pokémon will benefit by being with you? That they will live their best lives? Then step forward, human. Step forward, Rocket. If you truly believe you’re worthy of them, then step forward and take them.

The great Nathaniel Morgan hangs there, staring, and the child’s holding its breath. Mewtwo won’t possibly hand the pokémon over, okay, but surely the great Nathaniel Morgan’s going to try. Surely he’s not going to just stand there. He’s not–

The great Nathaniel Morgan bows his head, and Mewtwo breaks out in laughter, cruel, ringing jags of it that silently fill the night air. His psychic field blossoms to its full, suffocating extent, unrolling a wave of hideous mirth. The great Nathaniel Morgan shudders like he can physically feel it, or maybe he’s giggling, caught in the sympathetic pull of the clone’s emotions. The child can feel the corners of its own mouth tugging upwards and covers them with a hand, trying to hold them in place.

Oh, very good, Mewtwo says. Very, very good. The pokéball belt swoops over and knots messily around his waist, the same thing he did with the child’s belt back in the Viridian base.

The great Nathaniel Morgan stirs, seems to gather himself. “No,” he says, almost absently. He blinks, and some of the slack hopelessness goes out of his face. “No, I… You don’t get to, you fucker, you’re not any better.”

If that’s what you’d like to believe, Mewtwo says in that creepy way he has where he’s talking while at the same time what the child’s mind hears as laughter goes on and on in the background, now reduced to rolling, nasty giggles. So. Now we’re fucking done.

He turns back in the direction of the house, and the great Nathaniel Morgan barks, “Hey! No we ain’t. You think we’re done? You think I’m going to just let you fucking walk away? Hey!”

Mewtwo is in fact walking away, chuckling to himself, and the great Nathaniel Morgan starts after him, slow at first and then speeding up as he realizes Mewtwo really means it, that he’s not about to stop. He’s talking faster and faster, too, and ever louder. “Stop! We ain’t done here! You ain’t going nowhere with my pokémon! And where the fuck is Steelix?”

Mewtwo pauses. Ah. The steelix. As I said, I don’t know anything about that.

“Like hell you don’t! All this freedom bullshit and you’ve been keeping him locked up like you fucking own him.” The great Nathaniel Morgan stops a wary distance from Mewtwo, but there’s no trace of fear in his demeanor, only belligerent determination.

I told you, ask this one about it, not me. Well, creature? The child freezes, in horror as well as shock. It doesn’t want to be part of this, not at all.

“Don’t play fucking dumb, you even said–”

Well? The child feels Mewtwo staring at it and doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to acknowledge him. Maybe if it stays still, everyone will forget it’s there.

“Freak,” the great Nathaniel Morgan snaps. “The hell is this about? Where the fuck is Steelix?”

The child should say something. Should think of some excuse, some reassurance that it knows where Steelix is, or else explain that Steelix is gone and it’s the great Nathaniel Morgan’s fault, and that he deserves it. It should choose and it should say something now. But somehow watching the great Nathaniel Morgan’s expression fade from angry to horrified, it can’t. It can’t think of anything to say. And it can’t meet the great Nathaniel Morgan’s eye, either. Mewtwo starts to laugh again as the child turns its head aside.

“Freak!” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and he’s not even trying to sound angry instead of desperate.

The child can’t. It can’t say anything. Mewtwo’s horrible laughter grows from harsh chuckles to that same mad pealing it was before, then redoubles when the child’s overcome by the need to be somewhere, anywhere else, and reacts almost by instinct. A faint gloss of illusion, and where the child was once standing, now nothing is.

“Freak, you fucking–!” The great Nathaniel Morgan takes a step towards where the child just was–where it still is, frozen, with only flimsy invisibility to defend it–but then stops, nostrils flaring, hands balling into fists.

Mewtwo cackles. Oh, beautiful. You pathetic creature. You wanted to believe, even though you knew you couldn’t trust a thing that creature said. How badly you must have needed it. And what do you have now, you fool? This is your reward.

The great Nathaniel Morgan jerks around to face him, shaking, eyes wide and mad. Mewtwo looks back at him as blandly as ever, psychic field rippling with delight. We both found it entertaining, you know, he purrs. How far you were willing to go, how much you would lie to yourself, because what would happen if you had to admit you had no chance of seeing that steelix again?

The child’s heart lurches, and it actually opens its mouth to speak, because that’s not true. It’s not. It never thought it was funny, or at least, not since a long time ago. But the great Nathaniel Morgan acts first, roaring, “Give them back, you piece of shit!”

He hurls himself forward, only to meet an invisible wall, Mewtwo’s psychic power catching him effortlessly. He struggles and claws at empty air, and would have looked funny, even, flailing and cursing at absolutely nothing, if the child didn’t feel like it wanted to cry.

Or else what? Mewtwo asks, his mind alive with amusement. What do you think you could ever do to me?

“I’ll kill–I’ll fucking kill–” The great Nathaniel Morgan loses the thread of speech completely, throwing himself against Mewtwo’s psychic force with a wordless animal scream.

Mewtwo observes him the way he might watch the thrashings of a drowning insect. I suppose it would be entertaining to see you try, he says. But as the great Nathaniel Morgan keeps struggling, ever louder, ever wilder, the clone’s amusement cools. He feels like… something else. The child, huddled under its illusion and wanting only for this to be over, certainly can’t place the feeling in that moment. But this bores me. You’re not even worth the effort it would take to kill you.

Mewtwo’s eyes flash, and the great Nathaniel Morgan simply collapses. For a horrible second the child thinks Mewtwo might have killed him outright, and the thought of now having to break bad news to Absol hangs like a specter before it’s mind’s eye. But the great Nathaniel Morgan is moving, barely, with the rhythm of his breathing, and Mewtwo starts laughing again, striding back towards the house.

The child stands frozen, glancing between the great Nathaniel Morgan and the place where Mewtwo disappeared into the trees. It should go after Mewtwo, it should, it should try to get the great Nathaniel Morgan’s pokémon back somehow, it should–

Don’t even bother, Mewtwo says. His words feel blaring loud, his psychic field all the more smothering for the time the child got to spend without it. It can definitely tell where he is now, and it can’t help its face twitching as it holds in laughter in sympathy with the clone’s psychic mirth. As his influence fades the child takes deep breaths and dispels its illusion and tries to calm its racing heartbeat.

The great Nathaniel Morgan opens his eyes. For a moment he merely looks confused, like he can’t remember how he fell down, but while the child stands petrified with dismay he bares his teeth and starts hauling himself back to his feet. The child backs up, and when the great Nathaniel Morgan finally rises, breathing hard, and turns a glare on it, its last nerve fails. The child runs, tripping and stumbling through the undergrowth, scattering startled oddish and raising a racket that must be audible from One Island. “Mewtwo!” it yells. “Mewtwo, stop!”

The clone’s moving along sedately, psychic emanations smug and self-satisfied. He doesn’t react when the child comes tripping up to him, breathing raggedly and all clung with leaves and burrs and mud. Excellent, wasn’t that? the clone says. The look on its face!

“Mewtwo, you have to give those back. You have to,” the child pants.

It’s a pity, the clone goes on like he didn’t hear anything, I wonder how far we could have pushed that human. Do you think we could have convinced it to kill for its precious steelix?

“Mewtwo…” The child’s chest turns icy. The clone remains impassive, wandering back towards the house.

I think so, he says. I think so. And can you imagine its reaction when it found out then? There’s another spasm of his horrible laughter. But alas, no time. I hardly want to drag that wretch around with us in Orre.

“Mewtwo, you have to give them back,” the child croaks. “Please. Just give them back.”

The clone does stop now, so abruptly the child has to pirouette aside to stop from crashing into him. The clone looks down at it, a pale shape against the leaf-dark sky, eyes lambent with power. Do not push me. I have been lenient with you because you know how to find my mother, but you’re no better than that miserable human with your pokéballs and your gym badges and your nonsense about friendship and trust. If I had my way, you and that human both would get what all trainers deserve. That human’s pokémon going free is the least of your worries.

He starts walking again, but the child stays where it is, feeling as though something’s chewing on its insides. We leave early tomorrow, as you were so anxious to remind me, Mewtwo says. Do not make us late. We have not even begun to discuss the fact that you kept me confined against my will. Do not imagine I’ve forgotten.

The child stands there for some time, until the weight of Mewtwo’s mind lifts. Now it’s properly alone. The child stands and thinks of Orre, and of Mewtwo, and it’s too much, its stomach cramping so it thinks it might be sick. Even the thought of going back to its own house, where Mewtwo must be now, his psychic field filling the whole place like some kind of miasma, is too much. The child sits down, heavily, and puts its head in its hands, breathing hard, hot gasps against its teeth.

Its pokéball belt feels strange and constricting at its waist, and the child rests a hand on one of the pokéballs. But what’s going to happen when it releases its team? It’s going to have to tell them what’s going on. It’s going to have to explain what happened and why it’s sad, and what they’re going to do next. So instead of sending them out it tucks its hand against its chest and holds it there, hugged tight to itself.

Time is passing. It has to go out early tomorrow to catch the boat to Orre, pretend to be a human and then keep it up for over a week. It should sleep. But it’s never felt more awake in its life, even after sitting for a long time, so long that the sounds of night-insects and birds return, rustles in the undergrowth. From all around come the hums and squeaks of oddish wandering the forest floor, playing out their own little dramas without realizing everything’s gone wrong. The child’s breathing better, but its chest still throbs with stinging ache.

It forces itself to its feet and starts to walk, not towards the house, not towards anything, simply walking through the pathless jungle. The crash and hiss of the ocean grows louder, and it runs out of island before it runs out of thoughts, coming out from the trees onto the narrow slope of the beach, and then it’s standing at the water’s edge, incoming waves sending warm pulses of foam over its toes, big ones sometimes up to its ankles. The tide’s going out.

The child stands there and thinks about maybe changing, growing gills and webs and carrying on to nowhere, straight out into the water. It turns to look back at the dark forest, but something catches its eye, something moving farther down the shore. It goes back and forth, back and forth along the edge of the moonlight-silvered water. A figure. The great Nathaniel Morgan.

The child’s heart pounds, breath hitching to panicked once again. He hasn’t seen it, has he?

The figure paces up and down, up and down. It pauses, perhaps looking across the ocean. One Island lies to the south, glittering with lights.

So after all that, Mewtwo’s leaving the great Nathaniel Morgan here? He thinks that’s safe? Can’t kill him. So that must be the plan, leave him here on the island all alone. Away from everybody.

That’s not going to work. Even now he’s probably thinking of ways to get out of here. The child couldn’t have held him as long as it did if he didn’t halfway want to be here. Because of his steelix.

The great Nathaniel Morgan’s furious back-and-forth pacing changes. He curves out and up from the water, coming straight for the child. It’s been spotted. The child turns and bolts, only to come up short, cringing, when the great Nathaniel Morgan roars from behind it, “Freak! Don’t you fucking run!”

It turns to face him, and he’s already too close, his head down like he’s about to charge, face set in a scowl, eyes locked square on the child. Its hand goes uncertainly to the pokéballs that now feel unfamiliar at its waist.

But when the great Nathaniel Morgan reaches it he only stops and puts his hand out. The child stares at it. “Take me to Viridian,” the great Nathaniel Morgan snaps.

“What?”

“I said fucking take me to Viridian City, you–” Apparently he can’t come up with anything. “Just fucking take me.”

The child swallows and tries to focus, but words keep tumbling from its mouth without it wanting them to. “What Mewtwo said is not true, I did not think it was funny about your steelix, I was going to find him, really–”

“Shut the fuck up! Take me now, or that’s it, get it? No more of your fucking bullshit. This is it, you understand me? This is your last fucking chance. Now, are you gonna try and play me again, or are you going to take me to fucking Viridian City because maybe you actually give a single fuck about what you’ve done? This is your last. Goddamned. Chance. Now choose.”

“We can go to Viridian, yes, I can take you, but listen–” The great Nathaniel Morgan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His eyes are hard, accusatory. He just stands there with his hand out, waiting, which somehow feels more menacing than if he were screaming and jumping at the child the way he did at Mewtwo.

The words die in the child’s throat. It bows its head and wraps its hand around the great Nathaniel Morgan’s fingers.

A brief hop to Cinnabar Island as usual, and then with another jump the child’s surrounded by the gentle hills of Route 1 just south of Viridian City. Tall grass rustles in the cold nighttime wind, and the air smells like rotting leaves. The great Nathaniel Morgan pulls his hand away, and the child lets it go.

But then he starts walking towards Viridian City, briskly, and the child has to hurry to catch up, practically jogging along beside. “Wait! Great Nathaniel Morgan, wait, where are you going? What are you going to do?”

He speeds up. “The fuck do you care?”

“Do you not want, I mean, Mewtwo has your pokémon, are you just going to leave–?”

“Don’t even fucking start with this, Freak,” the great Nathaniel Morgan snarls. “Like you even give a single shit.” The child really does have to run to keep up now, tripping in rattata-holes and crashing through waist-high grass. “We’re fucking finished, you understand me? Done. Fuck off already.”

“But what are you going to do?” the child asks, bewildered. It can hear him wheezing already; there’s no way he can keep going like this. “You are still sick, you cannot even–”

“Fuck off.” The great Nathaniel Morgan jumps and lands with a crunch of gravel. He’s found the trainer path, the one that goes straight up to Viridian, and at last he stops to catch his breath, coughing.

The child jumps the ditch after him, landing close but not too close, slinking forward despite the hostile look he’s giving it. “I already looked for your steelix in the Rocket base,” it says. “He is not there.”

“Oh, sure, I bet I can trust your fucking word on that,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, and coughs again, dryly. “Don’t bullshit me, Freak. Fuck off or you’re gonna get fucked.”

The child takes another cautious step forward. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s attention is completely focused on it, though he keeps having to stifle coughs. “What do you think you are going to do?” it asks. “You know you cannot do anything against Mewtwo.”

“Red sure fucking managed,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, but his voice cracks in the middle of the sentence.

“You are not the Champion,” the child says gently. It’s almost close enough to reach out and touch him now. “Listen. I already figured out a way to find your steelix. You just have to wait a little bit. So if you go running off now we are not–”

The great Nathaniel Morgan lunges, and the child’s instinctive sidestep almost takes it into the ditch, leaves it wobbling on the edge. The great Nathaniel Morgan changes direction and rams his shoulder into the child’s side, and it goes over completely. It lies a second in dark and confusion at the bottom of the ditch, then realizes the crunching noises it hears are footsteps running–definitely running–away. It claws at the grass-feathered walls, dragging itself right-side-up and then over the edge, coming up dazed on the side of the road with weeds in its hair.

“Wait!” it yells. “Great Nathaniel Morgan, wait!”

“Fuck you!” comes floating back to it, distantly. The child sees movement that might be him, off in the fields towards the city, but nothing more. He’s not on the moonlight-drenched path. The sound of his footsteps has faded. The child crawls the rest of the way out of the ditch and sits down and watches, and waits, thinking of nothing in particular, for a very long time.