Chapter 66
Kid reappears in Phenac City, in the little alley across from Hypno’s apartment. It can see her front door when it peers between garbage bins. It’s only going to look, it tells itself. It’ll just look in through the window. Assess the situation. It doesn’t want to barge in on Hypno’s trainer.
The windows are dark. If she’s awake, she’s in her bedroom. There’s nothing to stop Kid from teleporting inside now. It hangs back instead, the cold of the desert night raising gooseflesh up its arms.
There’s something too familiar about this, hiding in an alley on a moonless night. Some part of Kid seems to expect Mewtwo to be here, alert for the prickling creep of psychic power over its skin, the familiar building headache.
That’s not real. It has nothing to do with why Kid’s here.
Stupid. Is it just going to be afraid of nighttime now? Kid swipes its arm across its face and focuses back on the dark and silent apartment. It has to go in there. It’s the only way. Kid already screwed everything up by being scared once today.
It’s no good, though. No matter how Kid tries to focus, it can’t concentrate long enough to teleport. It’ll have to walk over there and let itself in the old-fashioned way. And it will. It will go over. It forces its feet to move, one stumbling step at a time, to carry it to the door.
Doesn’t want to break it down. Doesn’t want the slightest chance of confronting someone, anyone, over the noise.
At least the night is quiet. No one on the street, and this being Orre, not even rattata rustling around in the alleyway. Kid doesn’t know what it’d do if someone caught it unawares. Run away, or kill them without even thinking about it.
It walks up to the door, all the way up to it, and presses its hand just below the knob. A thin vine extends from its palm and threads its way through the crack under the door, growing up the far side to curl around the deadbolt. Kid fumbles for a few seconds, twisting one way and then another, until finally it hears the bolt slide back and pushes the door open, the vine withering away to dust as it does.
The apartment’s as quiet inside as outside. It looks the same as Kid remembers. Here in the entryway are the hooks with purses and bags hanging from them. One of those is the satchel Hypno took with her to class. There’s her helmet, ghostly pale in the dark, but Kid knows it’s actually pink. Bright pink.
There’s also a bench by the door where it can sit and try to get control of itself. Kid stuffs one hand in its mouth, biting down hard so the tears that come are from pain and not sorrow. It bites down until the pain is all it can think about, no room for wondering whether Hypno’s something even worse than dead.
For a little while longer Kid can pretend it’ll stumble upon her here, asleep at the kitchen table or just returning home after a night out–maybe she and the other Musketeers would have been making a plan to rescue Kid from Cipher, since they’d surely realize it had been captured.
Kid wipes its face off again, sniffling. Hypno always said her trainer kept her pokéball just in case it was needed. For emergencies only. But where?
Kid doesn’t remember seeing it when it was here before. Still it makes a cursory check of the living room, the kitchen. No clues there. That leaves the bedrooms, and Kid’s heart leaps in its chest as it hears restless motion behind the door of one. It moves quickly past, to the silent room across the hall.
Again Kid can almost convince itself that it’ll find Hypno here, asleep, like nothing ever happened. But of course not. The bed is neatly-made and empty. Everything is neat: the pile of books square on the desk, a potted plant meticulously trimmed. Hypno doesn’t have much in the way of possessions. It’s not like she needs clothes or anything. But there are trinkets here and there, photographs in frames, with her trainer and with the other Musketeers. A small flyer with a picture of Ecruteak City on it. A plush sandshrew sitting at the head of the bed.
Kid stares at that for long moments, trying once again to keep its emotions in check. It never knew Hypno had a sandshrew plush. Where did she get it? What did it mean to her, that she kept it when she kept so little else? Did she sleep with it at night?
Kid wants to tell itself it’ll ask her all those things when it sees her again. When Mew is safe and it can turn its attention to Team Rocket, or to Cipher, maybe, and find her. It knows she has to be alive. That means she can be found. That means Kid will find her. And Noctowl, too. Kid wants to tell itself that all of that will happen, but it doesn’t know if it can believe it anymore.
How long will Hypno’s trainer keep the room like this? Does she still believe Hypno might come back? Or is it like this out of inertia; someday Hypno’s trainer will need it for something else, and she’ll come in here and clean it out without a second thought?
Kid goes through drawers and shelves, looking for the pokéball. Hypno keeps a first-aid kit in her room, extra food and water, a whole readiness kit taking up the floor of her bare closet. But the pokéball isn’t part of it, not that Kid can find after going through it twice.
It’s seen practically the whole apartment now. Only one place left to look. A heavy weight settles in Kid’s chest at the thought that it might not find the pokéball there, either. And then what? One of the first things everyone learns about Orre, that underscores how foreign it is, is that almost no one has pokéballs. Even the Pokémart doesn’t bother to stock them. Where would Kid find another?
It closes the door to Hypno’s room behind it with the same finality with which it might shut the lid of a coffin.
Across the hall, Kid listens at Hypno’s trainer’s door. It sounds like she’s fussing around in bed, trying to get comfortable. Kid stands there hopefully for what feels like a long time, waiting for her to fall asleep or maybe get up to get water or something and leave the room unguarded. But when finally a light turns on inside and there’s no sign of anyone leaving–maybe she’s reading a book, Kid thinks, or some other distraction–Kid remembers that the whole reason she met Hypno in the first place is that she has trouble sleeping. Kid could be out here all night.
Would Hypno be happy that it shot an aura sphere at the wall to make a big noise, which also put a fair-sized dent in the plaster? And then ambushed her trainer with a spore attack when she came out to see what the sound was, and left her lying on the floor while Kid searched her room? Maybe not. Perhaps she wouldn’t be happy about it stealing her pokéball, either, but it’s for a good cause. It will let Kid save Mew, and Hypno, too, if she’s down there in the base.
The explosion of clutter in Hypno’s trainer’s room is all the more overwhelming after the austerity of Hypno’s living space. Kid hesitates in the doorway, dreading the search through all the books and papers and pokémon dolls, but for once life is easy. The pokéball’s right there on the desk, a little obscured by a pile of romance novels, but still standing out with its bold red and white.
Kid lets out a long breath of relief and hurries over to grab the ball, tiptoeing between the crumpled husks of clothes lying discarded on the carpet. The pokéball’s right next to a framed photograph of Hypno and her trainer. The human’s leaning in towards Hypno, making a peace sign above their heads. Hypno sits normally and looks straight at the camera, maybe smiling a little bit. By the picture is a hypno keychain, the plastic kind that might come out of a gacha machine, and a rather jaundiced-looking plant. Someone may have forgotten to water it.
Maybe the pokéball was so easy to find because Hypno’s trainer wanted to be able to see it. Kid grips the ball tight, its plastic rapidly warming under its fingers. Will Hypno’s trainer notice it’s gone? How would she feel, to think she’d lost it?
Kid can’t. It can’t stand here and worry about that, especially not when every minute it spends is another minute Hypno’s trainer could wake up, see it, and truly freak out. And besides, Kid needs this. For something important. Saving Mew won’t just help Kid, won’t just help Hypno. It’ll help everyone. And to do that… Kid needs a pokéball.
So it clutches the ball against its chest and schools itself not to think, to move, already, and be on its way. But it’s not until Kid hears groaning behind it, the restless movement of someone waking up, that fear gives it the impetus it needs. It imagines the desert, and it goes.
In the cold outdoors, under the fierce light of the stars, Kid has more time to reflect. The deed is done. The pokéball’s been stolen. All Kid can do now is be sure it makes a difference. If it’s lucky, it’ll be able to bring the ball back before Hypno’s trainer even realizes it’s missing. Or better yet, bring it back with Hypno inside again.
“I figured it out,” Kid says brightly.
The great Nathaniel Morgan looks up wearily, manages a smile even though all of him is drooping. He’s only just shucked his Cipher armor and is probably only minutes away from falling asleep. He only needs to see to his pokémon first.
Kid feels a little bad for interrupting him, but this can’t wait. Absolutely can’t. It figured out how to fix everything, and the great Nathaniel Morgan needs to know about it immediately. “I figured it out!” it crows.
“Figured what out?” The great Nathaniel Morgan’s smile widens, creeping into his eyes.
“How I can help you find Mew. Even though I keep getting scared.” It puts the pokéball on the coffee table before the great Nathaniel Morgan can slump over again. It knows he’s going to be skeptical, but it also knows its plan is perfect. He’ll see soon enough.
“A pokéball? What’s in here?” The great Nathaniel Morgan picks it up, weighs it in his hand. A pensive frown spreads across his face. He flips the ball open with unconscious ease and looks down into its mirrors. “It’s empty.”
“I know,” Kid says, practically wriggling with glee. “I want you to catch me.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s gaze jerks up to Kid’s face. “Catch you? What?” He shakes his head. “No, wait. You told me pokéballs don’t work on you.”
“Well, I did. Because I thought them working on me would be stupid. But it turns out they do. That’s how the Elites were able to catch me back in Kanto.” It’s a good thing Kid never told the great Nathaniel Morgan much about what happened with that. “So you can catch me, and then you’ll be able to take me with you into the base. I’ll stay out for as long as I can, but if I have problems, you can recall me, then let me out again when it’s safe. See? Just like a regular pokémon.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s still shaking his head, slowly. “I mean, I think people are gonna notice if some old guy freaks out and then I zap him into a ball.”
“I will not look human,” Kid says impatiently. “I will be an infernape, of course.”
“Where the fuck am I supposed to have gotten an infernape all of a sudden?”
“You won one! Betting on a battle!” Kid laughs. It’s so simple! How come he doesn’t see it? “You are good at battling. People will believe you won a bet.”
But the great Nathaniel Morgan’s face is only sinking deeper into a scowl. “What is wrong?” Kid asks.
“I dunno, Kid,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. He sets the pokéball back on the coffee table, on top of an empty pizza box. “I just really think you oughta stay out of this.”
No. No, no. This is the right way. Kid can do this. It can. “I can do this,” it echoes aloud. “If you want to wait a few days to make sure I am better, or to try working with the pokéball, that is okay. But this is perfect. And I want to come with you. I need to. I need to do this. Please do not make it so I come so far and then never get to actually rescue Mew.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan sighs and rubs his face. He drags his hand down to his chin, then sits staring at the pokéball. “It will work,” Kid insists. “Why would it not?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess it’d work. Like putting you in a pokéball if you get overwhelmed. But I dunno. It just feels like if you’re on that level, maybe the solution is to not go at all, you know?”
“I do not want to stay behind,” Kid says. “Please do not make me stay behind. What if something happens? What if you do not come back? And if I could have been there and stopped it–”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says bluntly. Then he sighs again, hugely. “Look, Kid, it’s more than that. It’s kind of weird, you know? To talk about putting someone like you in a pokéball?”
“Why? Because I am not a pokémon?”
“I mean, yeah, kinda,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. “You don’t really act like a pokémon, especially. Makes it weird to think about, like, recalling you if you freak out.”
It takes Kid a second. “You mean it feels weird to put somebody who feels like a human into a pokéball,” it says, with a bitter smile.
“Fuck you, you really wanna go there now?” The great Nathaniel Morgan shakes his head again, fiercely. “Look, I just… I don’t feel good about this, okay?”
“Please?” Kid says. “You can release me right afterwards if you want. I am not really looking for a trainer. But this is why pokéballs are made, is it not? To help people?” Kid can’t hide a brief frown. “I know you get to choose, too. If you do not want to, I cannot make you. But please. I do not want to be left behind. I think this will work.” There’s only one wrinkle that might make it not. Kid will have to be careful.
The great Nathaniel Morgan takes a deep breath and picks up the pokéball. He holds it cradled in one palm, open again, looking into the wiring. “I know,” he says softly. “I guess… If this is what you really want. Go ahead.” He flips the pokéball closed and then presents it to Kid, button pointed in its direction.
Kid swallows queasily. It’s too much like Koga offering it the master ball. But it can’t hesitate. The great Nathaniel Morgan will know something’s up if it hesitates. Kid makes itself reach out and press the button swiftly, confidently. The world goes red and it’s tearing, shredding, pulling apart.
And then it’s being smushed back together again, which is almost worse. Kid holds in a gasp, turning its back to the great Nathaniel Morgan so it can check itself for injuries, hoping the damage is all internal.
Kid heals fast, fast enough that there’s only a second’s delay after the great Nathaniel Morgan asks, “Kid? You okay?” and before it says, “Yes. I am fine. It was strange, that was all.”
It turns back around to find the great Nathaniel Morgan squinting at it with undisguised suspicion. Kid forces a smile, swallows down blood, and says, “It is weird, being gone all of a sudden and then back, and everything is a little different. I will have to get used to it.”
“Yeah,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says in a dark tone.
Kid’s healed now, all better. That wasn’t fun, but it was a lot better than when the elites put it in the master ball. This was by choice, and Kid knew what was coming. It hurts to transform anyway, so Kid’s used to handling pain. As long as the pokéball doesn’t mess with anything too vital, it will be fine. Besides, Kid’s sure the great Nathaniel Morgan won’t use the ball very much anyway.
“What do you think?” Kid says. “This will work. You know it. Now we can go back to the base. Tomorrow.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan shakes his head slowly. “Not… tomorrow, no. Sooner than later, though. I mean, I was looking for a good chance already. If you’re gonna–I mean, I guess it ain’t the worst idea, if you’re doing okay.”
He sounds much less excited than he should be, but Kid smiles anyway. Forget “not the worst,” it is a good idea. “I bet you did not expect you would catch another team member in Orre,” it says.
The great Nathaniel Morgan snorts. “Damn straight. Like I need more problems.” He smiles at Kid, tired but genuine, it thinks. “Whatever. Welcome to the team, Kid.”
And Kid has to smile back, a small spark of excitement kindling in its chest. Whenever it dreamed of going on a journey, it always figured it would be the trainer, not the pokémon. Nothing has happened the way Kid thought it would. But for some things, at least, it doesn’t really mind at all.
The whole house feels tense with waiting. Waiting for whatever sign the great Nathaniel Morgan thinks he’s going to get that it’s a good opportunity to go into the base again. You don’t know what reason the great Nathaniel Morgan gave his pokémon that the first try didn’t work out, but Kid’s sure they must know it’s its fault, one way or another. Even Steelix seems preoccupied, and for long stretches of the day Kid has no company but him, nothing to do but talk or watch TV or sleep. In the evenings it mostly watches TV with the others, and sometimes the great Nathaniel Morgan still has everyone battle.
And sometimes, in the middle of the night, Kid and the great Nathaniel Morgan will share the quiet house, united in wakefulness. Not that they often acknowledge it, even if they’re both aware; usually Kid pretends to be asleep if the great Nathaniel Morgan comes to check. The great Nathaniel Morgan himself falls asleep piled under his pokémon most nights, so when he’s by himself, when everybody’s avoiding him, Kid knows it must be really bad.
Sometimes Kid watches the great Nathaniel Morgan be sad and drink alcohol about it until he passes out and wishes it could do something to help, but there’s nothing. Trying will only make the great Nathaniel Morgan angry, and then Kid will get to see him the way it remembers, as mean. It won’t help anyway. When the great Nathaniel Morgan’s in a bad mood, he wants everyone to stay away.
So Kid doesn’t intervene tonight, when boredom in the wee hours of the morning draw it out to investigate the television’s blaring. The great Nathaniel Morgan’s fallen asleep on the couch, a forest of empty bottles littering the coffee table in front of him. Kid watches him, pointlessly, a raw feeling in its chest. He feels bad, and that makes Kid feel bad, too, but all it wants to do right now is stand around and feel bad about things. It’s better than going back to bed and staring at the ceiling.
Something changes on the television. That’s a voice Kid knows, one that turns its blood to icy slush. This is something important. Something it needs to see.
One quick glance at the great Nathaniel Morgan, who’s very definitively asleep, fingers curled in the scratchy fabric of the couch, and then Kid goes forward on silent feet, far enough that it can see the TV.
It is Lance. He’s making some kind of statement, he and the rest of the Elite Four up at a podium above a sea of reporters. Kid watches in numb horror as the Champion is summoned up to join them, his blank and silent stare piercing it even through the haze of the television screen. Lance is doing most of the talking, about “extra-state actors” and “weapons of mass destruction” and how it’s in everyone’s interest, Orre’s most of all, that Kanto recovers Mewtwo. After all, doesn’t everyone want Cipher gone? The Champion has considerable experience dealing with organized crime and Mewtwo both; who better to clean up this poor little region?
But that’s not even the worst of it. The worst thing is that Kid recognizes another of the people standing up on the stage but not talking, keeping out of the spotlight. The picture’s blurry, but it’s sure: that’s Leonard Kerrigan. Still alive, apparently, and out of the hospital. What is he doing there, with all those famous people?
It can’t be anything good. Even if the Elite Four are really here to help, if they actually do want to put an end to Cipher and find Mewtwo and nothing else, Leonard Kerrigan doesn’t care about any of that. If he’s got this group’s attention, he’s going to send them after Kid, isn’t he? That has to be his goal.
Kid doesn’t have much time.
The rustle of fabric pulls Kid’s attention around to the great Nathaniel Morgan, who’s opened a bleary eye to stare at it. “Fuck’re y’doing ’ere?” he mumbles into the couch cushion.
“I cannot sleep,” Kid says.
“Yeah?” The great Nathaniel Morgan drags himself to a seated position with the help of the couch’s back. “Decided you were gonna make it my fucking problem, huh?” He grabs a dreggy bottle of beer from the array in front of him, swirls it a moment, and knocks it back.
“I think I saw Leonard Kerrigan on the news,” Kid says.
“Who? Oh, fucking sweatervest? He’s still alive, huh?”
“Yes.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan makes a noncommittal grunt. After a moment he asks. “So? That it? Why the fuck’re you still here?”
“I wanted to watch TV. Is that okay?”
The great Nathaniel Morgan gives Kid a narrow, hostile look, but after a moment he says, “Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want. Ain’t like I can stop you anyhow. I ain’t watching this fucking garbage, though.” He grabs the remote and clicks through channels until he finds one showing late-night tournament reruns and settles in to stare moodily at it.
Kid climbs onto the couch and sits clinging miserably to the arm as far from the great Nathaniel Morgan as it’s possible to be. It keeps still, hardly breathing, like the great Nathaniel Morgan’s a predator who might fail to notice it if it doesn’t move. And he might not; he’s glaring at the television like it’s done him a personal affront.
Kid wants to ask him what’s wrong. It wants to say that it’s going to be okay, even if it’s not. That he should try to get some rest, or at least put away the beer. None of those is going to work.
He’d say he’s fine. He’s an adult. It’s none of Kid’s fucking business. So talking won’t work.
“You got something to say?” The great Nathaniel Morgan asks. “Why the hell are you out here so late?”
Staying silent won’t work, either. If Kid doesn’t say something now, there’s going to be a fight.
“Who is going to win?” Kid blurts out.
“What?”
“In the battle. On TV. Who is going to win?”
“The fuck kind of question is that? It’s obvious. It’s…” The great Nathaniel Morgan looks back at the television, really looks at it this time, like he’s actually seeing what’s happening on the screen. After a long pause, he finally concludes, “The pyroar.”
“Why?”
“You fucking blind? Watch how she’s moving.” The great Nathaniel Morgan takes another second to apparently do just that. “The trainer says what to do, and she just does it. No hesitation. The rhythm’s right. The staraptor guy, he ain’t got the touch. It’s all awkward with him and his pokémon, and he’s too slow. He’s holding his pokémon up, not helping.”
“The better trainer does not always win, though.”
“No.” The great Nathaniel Morgan snorts. “But the more mon in the set, the more likely it is. Dumb luck can score you a couple wins, but usually not, like, six in a row. Anyway, for this round, the pyroar’s obviously just playing with the staraptor. She’s got shit under control.”
Kid watches for a little while. It isn’t a very exciting battle, but at least it’s better than having to see the Champion’s face again. “She is good,” it says after a while. “The girl with the pyroar.”
“No, she’s shit. Just not as shit as the other guy. Neither of these assholes would last two seconds at Indigo.”
“Because everything is just better in Kanto, huh?”
“No, because Indigo’s the most prestigious league in the goddamn world. Gets all the best trainers.” He turns to find Kid grinning at him, and seems caught out for a moment before smiling wearily. “Oh. You’re making fun of me.”
“I was just thinking that you won that league. So you are calling yourself one of the best in the world.”
“I didn’t win shit. Like we were cheating left and right the whole damn time.” But he’s still smiling while he seems to watch something in his mind’s eye.
Emboldened, Kid presses on, “You talked to your pokémon a lot when we were at the Plateau, did you not? Since I could help. You let them plan your battles and everything.”
“I guess, yeah.”
“But you have not asked me to do that here. Why?”
The great Nathaniel Morgan slowly rubs the back of his neck, “I mean, you haven’t been feeling great, you know? Tired and all. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“It is not hard. I do not mind doing it.” The great Nathaniel Morgan still looks queasy. “I mean I will do it. Help you talk to your pokémon again.”
Finally the great Nathaniel Morgan seems to come fully awake. “You sure? I mean, if it’s not a big deal, then–yeah. Of course that would be. Great. Amazing. There’s been, you know, a lot for us to talk about that we really can’t, and… Only if you want to, I ain’t asking you to do nothing if it’s going to be a strain, you know?”
How can he think battling would be less strenuous than talking? “I want to.” Kid can’t help but smile. “Do you want to get started?”
“What, now? It’s the middle of the fucking night. I mean, Graveler and Steelix are still up, but… no. Tomorrow, I guess.”
Kid nods. It supposes it is tired, pressed into the fabric of the couch by all the weight of the air above it.
“Look, you should really get to bed already. At least try to sleep.”
“So should you.” Kid slouches down farther, head pillowed by the couch’s arm, feet stuck out towards the great Nathaniel Morgan. “Besides, I am comfortable here. I am too sleepy to go back to bed.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan sighs heavily. “Whatever.”
“Tell me more about the Sinnoh League,” Kid says. The TV’s moved on to another battle, a roserade and toxicroak trading poison across the field. The great Nathaniel Morgan gives Kid a skeptical look. “I mean it. I like pokémon battles, and you know more about them than me.”
“I mean, what do you want me to say? Not a lot of poison specialists out in Sinnoh, I guess. Haven’t heard of either of these two, but that guy’s got, oh, drapion’s nice, I guess. You don’t see a lot of those around. No crobat, though, and you really want something like that to deal with the ground weakness…”
Kid lets his words wash over it, its eyes falling closed. It makes some fuzzy assertion about the Johto starters being better for new trainers than the Kanto ones, and the great Nathaniel Morgan could rant about that all night. He seems to have forgotten his drink, forgotten whatever he was angry about. Kid slowly falls asleep, saying less and less for the great Nathaniel Morgan to say more and more, and imagines that he could go on like this forever, just talking about what he loves, and neither he nor Kid would have to think of painful things ever again.
By the next evening, Kid is beginning to regret its offer. It is tired, even though all it’s done today is nothing, and the excited anticipation of the great Nathaniel Morgan and his pokémon is near too much to bear. Everyone’s crowded onto the couch in front of the TV, but it isn’t even on. The entertainment tonight is Kid.
“Are we ready to begin?” Steelix asks. A normal pokémon, Kid thinks, would have pressed his eye up to the window that’s not far from where everyone’s sitting. But since Steelix can’t see well anyway, he’s curled around the base of the house, his voice welling up subterranean from below everyone’s feet.
“Well, I guess we can, umm, start with that,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. He seems oddly shy, sitting too-upright with his hands clasped in front of him.
“He just wants to know if we are starting.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess we are. Or we can. Uh.” The great Nathaniel Morgan reddens, scratching at his scalp. “Anyway, listen. I know we didn’t get a lot of chance to talk about things back at Indigo, so I figured we could catch up a bit here. Since, uh, the kid said they could help out with translating.” He nods to Kid, stiffly. “And Steelix wasn’t even there, so. You know.”
He seemed much less weird about it back on the Plateau, though. Maybe some of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s awkwardness has to do with Mightyena, who lies several feet away on the floor near the kitchen, her back pointedly turned towards everyone else.
“Do you want to ask something?” Kid prompts.
“Oh, yes! Go on, give me a question,” Steelix rumbles.
“Right.” The great Nathaniel Morgan flushes. Kid bets he’s prepared a lot of questions. “Umm. So, Steelix, how old are you, anyway?”
“Oh, a little over eight hundred.”
It takes the great Nathaniel Morgan a second to process that answer. “Is that old for a steelix?”
“Not at all. Not even for an onix. But for a steelix it’s especially young. For an onix to evolve without human assistance takes thousands of years.”
“Thousands…” The great Nathaniel Morgan lets the word linger, a dreamy expression on his face. “How long do steelix even live, then?”
“Hard to say. Elder steelix spend most of their time hibernating. It can be difficult to tell who’s dead and who’s only sleeping!” Steelix’s booming laugh destabilizes a drift of mail on the coffee table, sending a couple envelopes skidding to the floor. “Most would say somewhere between five and ten thousand years.”
“That’s kind of a big fucking range.”
“I suppose. How long do humans live?”
“Like eighty years maybe. Give or take twenty.”
“Oh, my, that is… Oh, my.”
“I mean, you know most people don’t live as long as you guys, right?”
“On the surface, I suppose, but…” Steelix trails off.
“So steelix take a long time to evolve out in the wild, huh? I guess that makes sense. When you go back home, everyone’ll be real impressed, you being so young and all. A mere eight hundred and fifty years, whatever.”
“Yes.” Steelix’s voice seems strangely distant, though it’s just as loud as ever. “I would certainly be thought of as hasty.”
He falls silent, and the great Nathaniel Morgan looks a bit put out, as though sensing he’s made Steelix uncomfortable somehow. “Okay, okay. Enough about the giant loudmouth. Ask me something,” Raticate says, shoving himself up against the great Nathaniel Morgan’s side.
“Yeah, sure,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. He smiles and reaches down to scratch the back of Raticate’s neck. “What the fuck is with the cooking shows, huh?”
“What do you mean? They’re great, obviously.”
“I mean, you don’t cook, and the last thing I saw you eating was a piece of loose wallpaper.”
“It’s not about the food, it’s about the people! The judges, the contestants–the drama! Come on, have we even been watching the same shows?”
“Oh, we’ve all been watching them. Seems like there’s at least two on every damn night.”
“Psh. You just don’t appreciate art.” Raticate combs his claws through his whiskers. “You know, you should try paying more attention to the cooking parts. You could stand to learn a thing or two.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan laughs. “Well, if we’re gonna watch them anyway, I guess someone oughta try and learn something. How about you, Graveler? You want to be the one whipping up steaks and souffles and shit?”
Graveler blinks.
“Right, yeah, bad joke,” Nate says into the awkward silence. “I know you don’t like to talk much. Any, uh, reason for that? It ain’t a problem or nothing, I’m just curious.”
He’s addressing Graveler, but it’s Steelix who answers. “I don’t imagine she’ll want to explain that, either. She’s a storyteller, Nate.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan’s face twists up in confusion as you relate this. “What? What’s that mean? If she’s a storyteller, why won’t she talk? Ain’t that the whole deal with storytelling?”
“Well, yes. But Graveler hails from a particular golem sect that believes we are each granted only a certain number of words to last our entire lives. They are a limited resource, to be spent wisely, especially for someone who has to ration them across such a long life as Graveler does. She saves them up until the time comes when she feels compelled to tell a story, and then she will spend what she’s saved, all at once, to make her tale come to life.”
“Oh.” The great Nathaniel Morgan’s eyes go wide in realization. “Oh, my god. Is that what was happening that one time she wouldn’t shut up for like a week?”
“That was one of the times she decided to tell a story, yes,” Steelix says.
“Oh my god. Wait, hang on, what was that story even about?”
“Rocks, primarily.”
“Rocks? Okay.” The great Nathaniel Morgan sounds skeptical. “But I mean, what did the rocks, like, do?”
“Do?” Steelix hums for a long moment, the vibration of the floorboards tickling the soles of Kid’s feet. “I wouldn’t call it a story about doing. Rocks don’t generally do things, as we would think of it.”
“Okay,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, brow deeply furrowed. “So it’s like art-art, then.” He leans over the arm of the couch to lock eyes with Graveler, who regards him placidly. She doesn’t seem to mind being talked around like this. “But if you’re so keen on telling your stories, why don’t you wait until people are ready to hear them? Such as not when it’s important for everybody to be quiet because we’re trying to sneak up on some place, for example.”
“You don’t need people to listen in order to tell a story, Nate.”
“Well, okay,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says. His frown of concentration fades into a faint smile. “Well, I might not really get it, but at least I got a little idea now. Never would have guessed. And that’s wild, right? All this shit I never even knew.” He shakes his head. “Okay, so there’s like a weird cult thing down in Rock Tunnel–no offense, Graveler, sorry–where people don’t speak for like hundreds of fucking years? Are there any other weird pokémon religions like that?”
By now everyone’s well and truly forgotten Kid’s there, as though they’re hearing each other’s words directly with nothing in between them. For a while Kid doesn’t have to be itself, fading into the background while everyone carries on like it isn’t even there.
Kid can almost pretend it’s one of them, as much a part of the scene as any other. Really part of the great Nathaniel Morgan’s team instead of just pretending. It gets to share all their stories, even if they really aren’t meant for it.
They talk deep into the night, and it feels like they could go on forever. Kid wants that. It doesn’t want this to end, even though it begins to feel headachey and strained, its eyes grainy and swollen and wanting sleep.
In the end it’s Raticate dozing off in the great Nathaniel Morgan’s arms that brings things to a halt. “Hey, Steelix,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says, stroking Raticate’s back while the normal-type faintly snores, “I think we’re done for tonight. We’re gonna head to bed, okay?”
“Already?” Steelix sounds regretful. Kid supposes for him the time must have passed faster than the blink of an eye.
“Yeah, sorry. Ain’t sure how much longer I’ll be able to keep my eyes open.” The great Nathaniel Morgan leans over the end of the couch and transfers Raticate to Graveler’s arms. “Go tuck this guy into bed for me, huh?”
Graveler grunts and stumps off down the hall, which is currently creaking and vibrating as Steelix moves around outside. He’s humming to himself, no surprise, and Kid grins as it recognizes strains of his Sleep-song.
It unfolds from its spot on the couch, stretching aching muscles and thinking longingly of its own bed. But the great Nathaniel Morgan isn’t following Graveler.
“What about you, Mightyena?” he asks. She’s been lying on the floor the whole time, watching, listening, while everyone else discussed.
“Oh, so now you want to hear from me?”
The great Nathaniel Morgan winces. “Yeah. I do.” He gets up and goes to sit beside her, sliding down the wall until he’s resting on the floor with knees drawn up in front of him. “Come on, Pooch. I know you ain’t happy to be here. Don’t you want your chance to really let me have it?”
“Not with that thing here.” Kid shrinks back under Mightyena’s fierce red glare.
“Hey,” the great Nathaniel Morgan says sharply. “If you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to talk. Fine. But don’t be a dick about it.”
Mightyena flashes her teeth at Kid, then sets her head back down with her chin pointing at the wall, her fur bristling. The great Nathaniel Morgan reaches over and smooths her hackles back down. “Come on, now,” he says. “I know you were hoping we could bounce out to Unova or somewhere and just lie low and figure things out and all, and then all this shit instead. Working for Cipher and, and I know you didn’t want nothing to do with those sort of people ever again.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan pauses, looking down at Mightyena as though expecting a comment, or maybe just acknowledgement, but she keeps her back resolutely turned. “Thanks for being here anyway,” he says at last. “I promise we’ll take a break after this. Once this Mew bullshit’s cleared up, I’m done. We can go wherever you want. Put all this shit behind us, you know?”
“Do you really believe that, Nate?”
“Huh?” The great Nathaniel Morgan freezes up for a moment. “I mean, yeah. What… What do you mean?”
Mightyena turns towards him, then, just enough to fix him with a red eye. “You think we’re all going to walk away from this just fine and live happily ever after?”
the great Nathaniel Morgan crosses his arms and scowls. “Well, when you put it like that, no. I ain’t that stupid, okay? I know it’s gonna be hard, and it’s probably going to fucking suck a lot of the time, and maybe… Maybe it won’t work out. But I’ll try. Promise. I’m sick of all this crazy shit.”
“Are you really? The person who mouthed off to an ursaring? Who double crossed Rocket twice? Who dragged us all out here to try and pull one over on another gang? Sometimes when people keep putting themselves in danger, I start to think that’s where they want to be.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Mightyena faces him fully now. “Why are we here, Nate? The real reason.”
“Look, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. We’ve been over this. I can’t just let this all go on, with Mewtwo and everything. And nobody really even knows what it’s all about, ain’t nobody else can–”
“And you were worried abut the creature and wanted to be sure it was all right.”
“Well, not really, I mean obviously I wasn’t going to just let Cipher torture it or nothing, but I wasn’t really expecting–”
“And?” Mightyena prompts. “What else, Nate?”
“What? What do you mean?” The great Nathaniel Morgan stares at Mightyena, and she stares right back, red eyes unblinking.
“Look, why don’t you just spit it out already, if you know so fucking much? I don’t have the first fucking clue what you mean.”
Then Mightyena looks at Kid for some reason, and its heart leaps in its chest. But she doesn’t say anything this time, just stares, and finally turns away, pawing at her snout. “All I’m saying, Nate, is that I work hard to keep you alive. I just wish it felt like we were playing for the same team.”
“I don’t fucking get you,” the great Nathaniel Morgan snaps back. “What, you think I fucking enjoy all this crazy shit? You think I wanted any of this? You–?”
He bites off the rest of that sentence, clenching his jaw so hard Kid thinks he’s going to crack a tooth. The silence hangs there for long seconds, and Kid doesn’t dare breathe, afraid the faintest sound will ignite a firestorm. In the end the great Nathaniel Morgan seems to master himself and says, “Look, what the fuck do you want from me, Pooch? You want me to call all this off and go enroll in culinary school or some shit?”
“Yes,” Mightyena says, “but I know that’s not going to happen.”
The great Nathaniel Morgan drops his gaze to the floor, hunching his shoulders. “Look, this is the last of it. It is. After this… We just need to get through this. That’s all. Just this, and then it’s done. And look, I’ve been trying, all right? To not be such an asshole. I’m working on it. And I’m doing better, right? At least a little bit?”
“Yes.” Mightyena presses her nose against his leg, and the great Nathaniel Morgan reaches down to run his fingers through her fur.
They sit like that for a while, Mightyena leaning against the great Nathaniel Morgan, who scratches around her ears, under her jaw, down the side of her neck and into her thick ruff. It’s quiet so long that Kid wonders whether it should leave. It doesn’t seem like they need it anymore.
“Can’t you even imagine it?” The great Nathaniel Morgan says at last. “That we could wrap up all this Mew shit, and that would be it? Like afterwards things would be okay, just normal life?”
Mightyena doesn’t answer for a long time, maybe waiting for the great Nathaniel Morgan’s scratches to work their way around to her back. “No,” she says at last. “Can you, Nate?”
The great Nathaniel Morgan keeps running his fingers through her fur, staring at nothing. At last, he sighs. “No,” he says. “Me neither.”