Absinthe was something that was meant to be enjoyed slowly. Meticulously. Ritualistically. Despite its reputation for being uncommonly intoxicating – a reputation born more from its status as a foreigner’s drink than anything in reality – it wasn’t something one could guzzle down.

  Not if they wanted to do things properly, anyway.

  No, absinthe was a thinking man’s drug of choice. The placing of the dish atop the glass, then the sugar atop the dish, having to wait patiently for the ice to melt and turn the spirit from unreasonably bitter to merely bracing… It was not something that could be rushed, unless one were to simply toss the ingredients together haphazardly and risk ruining the flavour.

  And if you wanted to do that, why not choose a different liquor in the first place? No, Daniel Jitsu’s favourite drink was not something to be recklessly enjoyed, but rather one that reflected his personality.

  A ritual, something that drove social contact, that forced one to slow down and enjoy life’s triumphs and vicissitudes in equal turns. One learned to drink absinthe, the same way one learned to take tea, and teaching it to one’s juniors was a magnificent way to break the ice.

  And yet, Daniel Jitsu, Provincial Minister of Kanto, was not drinking with friends, or even colleagues. For once, he was drinking alone.

  But even alone and half-drunk, he remained a man of ritual – and of thought.

  It will appear soon, one of said thoughts spoke from inside his head, anticipatory, almost longing. The twist. Apollo went down entirely too easily; there’s some scheme in play. The red-haired mistress, or those two in Vermilion, or perhaps even someone I’m unaware of.

  It brought a smile to his face, bitter and sweet in equal measure. And that will be when the Inner Ministry makes its own move, and finally emerges from the darkness. Yes, Team Rocket had proven to be a worthwhile investment; taking the bulk of the Elite Four’s attention for years, even as it fomented a rebellious streak in the younger generations – a streak that the Inner Ministry had capitalised on. Free The League – now there’s a slogan that wears its heart on its sleeve. His organisation was all but bursting at the seams with eager young recruits, frothing for justice, for violence, for Kanto.

  He took a sip as he watched Celadon City, his city, churn below him. Anise and wormwood and a dozen other spices met his tongue, the flavour exquisite, and he continued to rejoice in silent bliss. Whatever they have planned, it will only play yet further into our hands. Ah, I’m almost hoping they’ll actually manage to remove Clair and her minions – with the slate wiped clean, everything would be almost too easy…

  But even if they failed, as he had to assume they would, it would leave his Inner Ministry in place to pick up the pieces; to swoop in and save the Champion in her moment of need… And what could possibly be a more bombastic show of patriotism? And while we might’ve failed to secure the Moltres and Zapdos…

  The city glittered like a jewel, mirroring his mood. The force we’ve gathered will be enough, should Clair prove… less thankful than she ought to be. The drink swirled in his hand, clouds of green like forest mists forming a slow vortex trapped between walls of glass. He raised it for another sip-

  And paused as a premonition of something hit him. It was nothing overt, not a sound or smell or glint from out the corner of his eye; only pure animal instinct that bid him to dive to the side, discarding his liquor as he hit the polished hardwood of his office floor.

  For the briefest instant Minister Jitsu wondered if perhaps he’d overindulged, and managed to become fully intoxicated without noticing – and then the window he’d been gazing through suddenly exploded outward, shards of glass catching the light for a moment before beginning the long fall to the streets below.

  “You-!” he exclaimed, whirling on whoever it was that had come to disturb his pre-victory drink – and again, just for a moment, he wondered if he was seeing things. That alakazam is wearing an Orrean cavalry hat- oh dear.

  Jitsu rolled, flinging his hands out and crying “EMERGENCY RELEASE!” as the Pokémon gestured lazily with one spoon, cratering his floor in a display of psychic power that would have left him impressed were it directed in any direction other than his. As splinters flew and the assassin’s head moved minutely to track him, the minister’s team appeared in a series of flashes.

  Two hypno, a xatu, a mime, and his own alakazam took in the destruction – and then, before the seemingly casual blast had even begun to subside, immediately blanketed the area between them and the enemy with overlapping layers of Reflect and Light Screen. As barriers sprung up Jitsu allowed himself a moment of relief – and yet the feeling of danger lingered.

  Where-?!

  Again he moved on an instinct so subtle as to be directionless, looking up just in time to catch an actual glint foreshadowing his fate fractions of a second before it arrived. His hand dug in his robe, and as the second intruder descended he broke a holy artefact of the Father, one of several irreplaceable pieces that he kept on his person for… trying circumstances.

  Time became strange and he flung himself again, aging muscles screaming in protest as the wafting psychic energy emerging from the broken length of black stone destabilised space. The sword missed him by inches, its swift descent held back by the twisting dimensions, and it caught nothing more than the edge of his robe. With a slight tearing sound Jitsu’s weight pulled the fabric free – and his eyes widened as the small field of Psychic Terrain resonated with the swordsman. This was a fellow psychic.

  Well, there go my favourite dayclothes, groused a stray thought as the rest of him fervently dug for another ancient sculpture. As his Pokémon reoriented his questing fingers wrapped around a second piece of black stone, this one a sphere, and its gentle pulse calmed his racing thoughts.

  “Who are you?” he asked as he scrambled to stand, legs weak from the sudden shock of danger. “How did you-?” How did they get so far? My security…

  The second assassin – a human – wrenched his blade from the floor. “Oho, to dodge my Descending Darkness so easily..! Minister Jitsu, are you not, in fact, a man of politics… but rather a fellow warrior?”

  He gestured with his sword, and Jitsu got his first good look at the man who’d attempted to run him through. He was unfamiliar – and like the alakazam, his appearance evoked a moment of sheer bafflement. I almost just died to a fat man in a trenchcoat. A fat man in a trenchcoat, with an atrocious beard. He’d expended one of the Father’s gifts for this?

  Well, since I did… “Expanding Force! Mime, Barrier! Xatu, Future Sight!”

  Hoshi very nearly flinched as a third horde of police cars rumbled past, the narrow Vermilion streets turning what would otherwise be a squad of fairly humble vehicles into lumbering, ungainly behemoths. As they receded into the distance he let loose a silent sigh of relief, leaning out from the alley to listen to the echoing wail of their overlapping sirens.

  “Think that’s the instructor’s distraction?” Casca asked from behind his ear, and he nodded.

  “I sure hope it is, ‘cause the only other thing I can think of would be one of the others getting caught.”

  Kenny grunted his agreement, then pumped the throttle. The hoverbike roared back to life with an enthusiasm that was almost… well, alive, and the three Rockets once again took to the streets. It was a strange experience, weaving around the sparse crowds; Hoshi was completely divorced from the texture of the street, and also from the people they passed. They got attention, yes, but the bulk of it was directed at the exotic machine they were riding, rather than them.

  People really only looked hard enough to check their backs for gang signs before the gigantic engine block – and the frankly absurd visual of it floating off the ground in defiance of pedestrian physics – recaptured their attention. It was like there was an invisible bubble separating the three Rockets from the rest of reality, and they were no longer able to touch or be touched by anything outside it.

  Arc, shut the fuck up, man. You’re freaking out.

  He was… Yeah, he was maybe freaking out, just a little. It was always surprising, finding out what surprised him; fighting the Jenny on the truck the other day had been a mess of adrenaline, but when he’d come down he’d felt good. But now, in the aftermath of an inarguably more successful encounter, Hoshi found himself feeling distantly sick. It’s the normality of it, I think.

  Big climactic battle on top of a speeding semi? Awesome. Movie shit. Putting down a blue in the middle of the street, in a part of the city I know? Normal. Scary normal. It was the sort of thing you heard about on the news and didn’t think about – ‘Officer accosted during patrol, assailants identified as known gang members Hoshi Mutsu and Menard Kaneth. Please report suspicious activity; do not approach suspects, as they are assumed to be armed and dangerous.’

  Would a police sketch of his face be appearing on the evening news? Had it been appearing, and he just didn’t know? His eyes met a pedestrian’s, and for a moment the surreal fear of it gripped his heart with both hands – but the man showed no recognition. The enormity of the emotion even pushed out the headache for a moment, causing a paradoxical relief. I need to sit down. When I get home, I need to- to just sit for a second.

  The short trip south was tense, nearly vomit-inducingly so, but ultimately uneventful. There wasn’t even a police car parked outside the apartment; either there was an ambush waiting for him and Casca inside, or whatever commotion had drawn the other Jennys across the city had also taken whoever was stationed here. Hopefully that second one. “Okay,” Hoshi said as he dismounted the bike, his voice containing a certainty he didn’t feel. “This should only take a few minutes – Kenny, you stay out here with the bike. But if you hear fighting or anything, bust in.”

  A nod. “Was plannin’ on it, Boss.” The grunt gave a salute as Hoshi strode towards the building, Casca beside him, both of them with a hand hovering near their belts. Huh, when did that gesture stop being sarcastic? Or am I just seeing things?

  For hopefully the final time, Hoshi swallowed down the questions; he entered the apartment’s foyer with his muscles clenched, ready to dive away from a hail of gunfire – or the much-more-likely Hypnosis from a police hypno.

  But nothing happened. The room was exactly as he remembered it, with its old beige paint obscuring the solid concrete of the war-era construction. He shivered as the tension unravelled. “No pigs,” Casca commented, taking the lead while he stood still. “Should probably take the other stairs, we don’t wanna bump into anyone; if anyone’s gonna recognise us, it’d be your neighbours… Hoshi?”

  She stopped mid-step, noticing his absence, and looked back. He swallowed. “Yeah, coming.”

  Hoshi moved, breaking the horrible this might be the last time I see this stupid, cheap-ass building feeling with the force of his muscles, his steps heavy and his shoulders squared.

  “You alright, stud?”

  “Yeah, just still feeling the headache from yesterday. You’re right, we should take the back stairs.”

  The two were silent as they ascended, each tiny creak under their feet causing a wince or muffled hiss – at least on his part; Casca seemed to be handling the stress of it with more grace. Makes sense. She’s done undercover shit before. All I’ve got is the one lesson on disguises from a hot Paldean gangsteress.

  After what felt like an eternity of half-creeping through his own home, the two finally came to their apartment. “If there's an ambush,” Hoshi whispered, “This’ll be where it is. Go in hot?”

  Casca chewed on the question for a moment, then answered without words; Candy appeared, sensing the atmosphere and choking her customary “Huh-huh!” down to something that wasn’t quite a whisper.

  With a nod Hoshi followed suit, releasing both Guts and Crow, and he braced himself again as he raised a leg. Thank Arcus I never shelled out for one of those heavy-duty locks-!

  He kicked and the flimsy wood gave way, the door’s bolt tearing free from its housing to stay with the wall as his golbat flapped inside, reality blurring as he realized oh fuck, there actually is somebody in there.

  “Supersonic!” “Water Gun!”

  “Gah!” “What the-!”

  Guts followed after her sister, teeth bared, and Hoshi was on her heels. “You think such an obvious ambush would work?” he sent out into the keening maelstrom that Crow had turned the room into, her attack bouncing off the walls. It felt like he was back on the yacht – except instead of a quietly ominous mirror, the floor under his feet was being thrown every which way by a roiling storm.

  But he’d been subjecting himself to Crow’s Supersonic for months, and he had the added benefit of expecting it – something the intruders definitely weren’t, because they fell over each other as they tried to keep Candy’s Water Gun from pushing them into the corner. Caught them all kneeling. What were they..? He looked down, and saw that the trio had been…

  Had been..? Playing poker..? The order to Bite died on his lips as he took in the three homeless-looking old men trying fruitlessly to pick themselves up, dripping wet, from his living room floor. “Guts, heel.”

  “Old guys..?” Casca asked, equally baffled, walking in with her hands over her ears. “Who the fuck are these three?”

  Good question. “Crow, stop.” The order cut through the noise, and his giant screeching bat quieted – though she didn’t land, continuing to circle around the ceiling in a display that really showcased how much bigger a golbat was than its previous form. Hoshi eyed the men as their sense of balance returned, finding them distantly familiar. I… think I know these guys? Maybe? “You aren’t the police. You’re…” Suddenly a name flashed into existence as his brain overlaid memory with sight, one that he hadn’t thought in years. “You’re Dirk. You used to gamble down on Route 11.” You were the absolute shittiest gambler I’d ever met. You paid my rent more than once.

  The old man – older, now, the wisps of hair in Hoshi’s recollection having been replaced by utter baldness – rubbed the side of his head. A bruise was already forming; he must have clonked it pretty good trying to move while confused. “You remember me? Good, good, that will make this much smoother.”

  Guts hissed his way, and the men flinched – but for once, the swirling synesthetic colours did something useful; they refused to change, remaining the billowing soft blues and greens of calm. Are they… faking being afraid? A breath, and the senior grunt settled himself down until his own mood was a match for theirs. “Steady, girl. Why are you in my apartment? I’m in a hurry, so talk fast.”

  The trio of gamblers, now standing, bowed their heads. “Hoshi Mutsu,” they said, in-sync, and there came a sort of… a sort of ominousness behind the words, completely detached from anything his senses could detect. The immediate change in atmosphere caused another chill to run down his spine; their expressions, which had been a mix of confused and surprised, had turned bright and sharp. “This moment has been far in coming.” In the background Hoshi’s eyes caught on the brightness of his alarm clock’s display, 2:33 etched in red light; the familiarity of the scene only added an even greater surreality to what was happening.

  “What-?” he attempted to ask, but Dirk’s scratchy voice rode over him.

  “It is time for a great secret to be revealed to you,” he said with bombast. “One which was known to me and my brothers for some time, but which we have kept to ourselves so as to create the correct moment.” Fucking- are you really speaking in Shogunate-era Kantonese? Are Kiribo’s middle-school delusions spreading..? “For your entire life, you must have sensed it – a wrongness with the world, with the established narrative that is blared from every television and radio.”

  Hoshi’s face contorted. “Look, if you’re trying to convince me the government’s a pit of lying arbok, I’m way ahead of you. Let’s just skip to the-”

  “And you have also seen a different truth – one more esoteric, the drifting currents of the world, the lifeblood of the holy Father of Man, the one that the false church calls Dexus. I come now to reveal to you that-”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Don’t act like you weren’t caught out by a Supersonic and Water Gun thirty seconds ago. “I’m psychic, yes, shut the fuck up. Why are you chanting? Is this some weird cult shit?”

  This time, his interruption stopped the man short. Dirk blinked, visibly collecting himself as one of his friends muttered “We’re not a cult…”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah ha, yes, so you're aware of that as well…” And then his voice lost most of its stupid ooh-I’m-so-mysterious cadence, returning to the slightly rough tones he’d had when Hoshi’d entered the room. “Sorry about that, people expect it to come with a bit of a song and dance – you can’t really just walk up to a guy and say ‘Hey, you have magic, come join our secret society to overthrow the League.’ You get me?”

  The more casual, achingly familiar voice brought forth a tide of nostalgia, and again Hoshi was surprised at being surprised. I didn’t think meeting an old not-quite-friend would make me feel this way – I haven’t really thought of him at all since… that day.

  Blah, emotions… Hoshi unclenched his teeth, feeling his head pulse anew. “I- look, this is unfathomably weird and it’s good to see you and all that shit, but I really am in a hurry. So, you can give the cliff notes on whatever the fuck this is while I pack, okay?” He gestured to Casca, whose baffled look had only grown, and then made his way to the section of the open-floor apartment that he labeled the bedroom.

  “Ah…” one of the other two men grunted as he passed. “Alright then? We represent an organisation whose roots stretch back to the very founding of our nation. We are-”

  “The Inner Ministry!” Casca said with a snap of her fingers, and the man’s face soured. “That’s who you are. I knew I recognised the pendant.”

  Pendant..? Hoshi turned away from where he was pulling everything out of his drawers, and indeed spied a little four-point star hanging from one of the not-Dirks’ necks. That’s just a standard Arcean symbol though? I mean it’s minimalistic without the connecting bits of the halo, but…

  Whatever. Let’s see, suitcases, old pictures, should I bring the CDs..? No, stupid thought, essentials only. “You know them?” Hoshi asked as he packed, mostly ignoring Dirk and his friends as they turned inwards to mutter to each other.

  “Kinda? Like, they’re one of the rival gangs we fight over secret hideouts with, but I don’t really know their deal.”

  “We aren’t a gang!” called the third man, the one with the necklace, who was more familiar than the second but not so much that Hoshi could conjure a name. Like Dirk he was wearing old rags, though his ears were pierced with some decent-looking jewelry. He must have an okay poker face at least, unlike Dirk – though not enough to not be homeless. Unless..? “We are-”

  Again, Casca interrupted. “Like a social club for old guys and politicians, yeah yeah. That’s half of Rocket too, and we’re definitely a gang.”

  “Casca.”

  “What? It’s outta the bag, stud. No way they’re hanging around here without being informed, right?”

  Yeah, but you don’t need to say it out loud. The police might’ve bugged the place while we were out- actually…

  Why wasn’t the place tossed for evidence? His stuff being completely untouched was weirdly convenient, and weirdly convenient usually came with hidden strings attached. Did these guys protect..? No, that would be dumb. Maybe they just didn’t get around to it yet – that Jenny earlier said a bunch of them were injured, and it’s only been a few days…

  “Social club,” Hoshi repeated under his breath, refocusing on what was right in front of him. This isn’t the time to get lost in the weeds. Where’s..? Ah, there we go. The last of the more sentimental side of what he wanted to bring disappeared as he closed the now-full suitcase, and he turned to the fridge. “So you guys know I’m psychic – somehow – and want to recruit me into your thing. Well, sorry, but that’s gonna be hard. I’m kind of on the run here, as you probably know.” Fucking surreal. Like, have they been waiting for hours? Days? Fuck, I was hoping to unwind, not get mixed up in something entirely different- wait, how the fuck did they get in here with the lock still-?

  “We know you’re in Rocket,” Dirk replied, edging even closer to his normal speaking voice. “It isn’t a problem; Team Rocket has all but imploded. They won’t be able to find you if you come with us, even if they wanted to.”

  The fridge opened – and Hoshi stared at the nearly-empty container, blinking. “Did you eat my fucking food?”

  “What? No, we’ve only been here since this morning. But more importantly, the Inner Ministry’s invitation can protect you from-”

  Thump.

  Once again the man was interrupted, this time by a loud impact coming from the spot Hoshi’d just left. He turned back, and felt his headache growing in real time as a pair of skinny arms stuck out from under his bed, a muffled curse accompanying them.

  The arms were followed by a rainbow-puke cap, curly brown hair coming out from the sides, and before this fourth intruder finished pulling himself out from his hiding spot, Hoshi had already identified him.

  “Danny,” he said with disgusted exasperation. “Why, in the actual fuck, were you under my bed?”

  The room was struck silent as Danny Houndoom stood and stretched out his back, yawning. “Hey Kid,” he eventually said, ignoring Hoshi’s furious gestures of explain yourself, you fucking ancient piece of shit. “Great nap – oh wait, first…”

  He whirled, pointing a finger at the trio of… Inner Ministers? No, that made them sound way too impressive for three old homeless men wearing soaked-through rags. I’ll just stick with gamblers until further notice. “Don’t listen to anything these weird fucks have to say! They're all creepy ‘n shit, breaking into your apartment and talkin’ about weird cult shit.”

  “We aren’t a-”

  “Danny,” Hoshi repeated. “Thank you for the warning, but why were you under my bed?”

  “Oh, right.” The old man – why are all my non-Rocket acquaintances old men, where did my life go so fucking wrong – worked his jaw for a moment. “Hoshi, we ve been friends for a long time, right? ‘Cause I need a favour.”

  “Danny.”

  “I need to get out of Kanto. I need cash, and there ain’t anybody else I can trust; whatever you’ve got, I’ll trade the yard for.” He nodded vigorously. “It’s a great deal, kid. Government subsidies ‘n shit, basically zero expenses, you’ll make it back in like a year or two, tops.”

  Hoshi’s mouth opened, but no sound came out – his head had officially reached the bursting point, and the amount of thought necessary to form words was beyond him. The silence stretched out to an uncomfortable degree, until Casca huffed out a breath.

  She stood, then kicked her own suitcase closed with a second, louder huff. “Okay, you three need to leave.”

  “But-”

  “Nope! My man and his buddy obviously need a long talk without any interruptions, so we’re going out to the hallway.”

  “But the Father-!”

  “Candy, prep a Water Gun, max pressure.”

  Hoshi breathed, not really listening to his girlfriend herd the gamblers out of the apartment so much as experiencing it from third-person. It was uncomfortably similar to the state he’d been in in the forest, hopped up on ninja drugs and brain-magic – though there were, at least, no hallucinations to go along with the dissociation this time.

  …Other than the normal ones. After a mysterious amount of time – or rather two minutes since he’d last glanced at his clock, unless the thing was lying – he turned his attention back to Danny to take in the man’s full appearance.

  He was clothed heavier than usual, in something not entirely different from the hiking gear Hoshi had bought days before. Thick leather, studded in places, made to act as a final line of defence from wild Pokémon – or, perhaps, a bullet. His eyes were covered with the same obscuring sunglasses as always, and there were more Pokéballs on his belt than Hoshi had ever seen – a full six on one side, and three more on the other.

  His expression was worried, reinforced by the subtle black outline to his head. Other, more hidden colours danced inside; reds and dark blues and sick-looking shades of pink. “Kid?” Danny said, in a tone to match his face. “You, uh, you doing all right?”

  Hoshi moved forward, sitting heavily on his bed, and within a second Guts had joined him. “How long have you been crashing here, Danny?”

  “Uh… Two days, ish. Slept a lot, so… Hoshi, seriously, what’s freaking you out? It’s not just those Dexist fucks, you’re tougher ‘n that. Lady troubles again?” He attempted a smile, but it came through wooden.

  Two days. He doesn’t even know what’s going on. Hoshi barked out a dark laugh, and rubbed at his temple in a futile attempt to calm the pain. “Surge is dead,” he said, feeling more than seeing the black outline overrun itself as Danny rocked back. “Nerine was a spy, I’ve been made, the academy was raided, and Surge died setting off a trap.” Or was killed. “I can’t help you. Sorry.”

  The old criminal was silent for a long moment, and when he eventually spoke his voice was consoling. “Fuck, Hoshi. I’m sorry. That- that sucks a fat one, man.”

  The statement was so Danny that Hoshi could only laugh again. “Thanks, Danny… Why do you need to skip town?”

  Another silence, though a shorter one, as Danny joined him on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t smell as much as usual – I guess he helped himself to my shower along with the contents of my fridge. Guts apparently agreed; she sniffed at his heavy jacket before dismissing him as not a threat, settling down to knead at the bedding with her claws.

  “Kid, I’m gonna tell you something I’ve never told anybody. A deep fuckin’ secret from my past, one that I’ll have to kill ya for if you let it slip. You ready?”

  The stupid, overwrought tone his friend had put on managed to land, dispelling the heavy mood just a touch; Hoshi didn’t laugh a third time, but he did feel his lips curl as he nodded. “I’ll take it to my grave, you dramatic old bastard.”

  A breath. “The name my parents gave me,” Danny said with the same gravitas the gamblers had tried to inject into their cult shit, “Is Flowerberry. Flowerberry Sambus.”

  A beat, and then the laugh that had failed to be born erupted back to life. Hoshi sniggered, losing his breath for a moment as yellow sparks danced in his eyes. “Oh fuck,” he managed in-between two bouts. “I’m not calling you that, man, that’s horrible.”

  “I’d fuckin’ kick your teeth in if you said it out loud,” Danny continued, still faux-solumn. “I’ve been keeping that secret since the day I was born. It’s been set on my back like an evil curse, and now you’re burdened with it too.” Another nod, slow and serious – and then he broke as well, snorting. “But yeah, kid, it really does fuckin’ suck. Learned to make up anything else before I even started school; that shit was instinctive.”

  “What-” Hoshi started, interrupting himself with a hiccup. “What were your parents' names? Arc, if they were normal..!”

  Danny’s expression answered the question before he even opened his mouth. “Rusty and Nancy,” he said, each word spat with individual vitriol. “So there was no excuse.”

  The cathartic amusement went on for a minute, but it couldn’t hold forever; eventually the laughter subsided, and Hoshi was once again aware of the pain echoing inside his head. Was a nice minute, though. “Fuck, man… thanks for that. But I still want a real answer – the government’s probably frozen my bank accounts, but I’d like to at least try to help.”

  The old man sighed. “Actually, that was relevant – the fact that my parents were hippy fucks, I mean.” Hoshi waited, feeling the aftershocks of the rapidly swinging mood, as Danny put his words in order. “Have you ever heard of Team Plasma?”

  “…No, not off the top of my head.”

  “Figured, they were kind of a while back… But long story short, they were these gangsters that hid behind this whole Pokémon-are-people-too animal rights kinda…” He waved his hands. “Thing. Now I knew they were bullshit from the start, ‘cause I’m not dumb, but…” Another long pause. “Okay, let me start from where it all went wrong.

  “I’m a scientist by trade – you probably figured that out a long time ago, if you bothered to think about it. I was with a team trying to figure out fossils – yeah, we were copying Kantonian shit, shut the fuck up – and I was approached by Plasma. They knew me ‘cause my parents were members on the stupid side of it, and wanted some help reviving and enhancing this ancient bug. And I, young dumbass that I was, decided to take the money. I thought, like, whatever, so they’ll have a giant bug. Probably just try and rob a bank or something, big whoop, none’a my business.”

  He took a breath. “So they moved me out to this little rinky-dink lab off the coast of New Tork, and I was pissed for a second until I actually saw the place. It was legit, good equipment, good people, and I was impressed. Actually got really into it… And six months later, it was done – Genesect was done, and I shook the big boss-guy’s hand and went to bed early, happy and proud as fucking shit.”

  Hoshi’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth to keep from interrupting; he wasn’t exactly a scholar of Unovan disasters – especially from, if he was guessing right, back in the eighties – but the story was starting to sound familiar. And then you woke up…

  “And then I woke up, and saw they’d blown up a big fuckin’ chunk’a the city with the thing. So I stuffed as much cash and shit into a bag as I could carry, swam off that dinky island on my muk’s back, and got on a plane to Orre. Plasma turned into public enemy number one, meaning they had this whole fuckin’, like, diaspora as the feds busted their shit – so pretty soon I was off to Alola, then Paldea, then I bummed around in Hoenn for a while, and then finally I landed here.”

  He took a shaky breath, and during the pause Hoshi put the last few pieces together on his own. “And now you’ve seen somebody you recognised, so you’re off again.”

  “Yeah. I’m figuring that Musk-whatever place, nobody even remembers that backwater exists – who even knows if they’ve got indoor plumbing or anything. So,” Danny concluded with a shaky, gap-toothed grin, “Any chance you’ve got a ticket for the S.S. Anne floating around in a drawer somewhere?”

  Hoshi looked at his friend, and…

  He breathed in. He breathed out. He massaged his temples. “Give me a minute to think.”

  And against all odds, Danny actually shut his mouth. So Hoshi sat, eyes closed, and took the opportunity to just… decompress.

  I don’t want to deal with this, he thought. I really, really, really don’t want to deal with this. The revelation that his oldest friend was so wary of gangs because of a bad experience had been so obvious he hadn’t needed the confirmation, but it was still something he needed to process. I don’t want to deal with any of this shit. My head hurts, I’m tired, I…

  …I’m still thinking maybe I should just split. The thought was violent, like different parts of his brain were actually trying to kill each other over the various for and againsts they were each invested in. The part of him that wanted safety was knife-fighting with the part demanding revenge, his loyalty to the organisation that had made his childhood dream of owning a Pokémon something approaching true wading in with its own weapon as fear and suspicion aimed at that very same organisation watched from above, taking potshots at whatever soft bits presented themselves.

  He breathed, and the sea inside his chest parted to reveal a maelstrom of colour, pastels and subdued near-greys mixing haphazardly with vivid, purer shades, all of them eating each other like an orgy of cannibalistic snakes. I want…

  I want things to make sense again. I want the world to be black and white, even if that means I’m on the black side, because at least then, there’s a line in the sand. I want the things around me to mean something.

  But want wasn’t enough; all Hoshi had to work with was what was in front of him.

  He opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said, then immediately repeated himself. “Okay. Okay, there’s a way this can work, I just have to find it…”

  Danny smiled his crooked smile. “Hah. Yeah, I didn’t think so. Thanks for the fish, kid, it’s been real… unless you wanna come with?”

  “Just a sec.” There has to be something. Come on, I’ve got tools to work with here – my Pokémon, the other Rockets, maybe if I string Dirk along I can..? Frustration welled; if he had time, a few hours to sit and put everything down on paper like he had with the Gym Job, then maybe… “I- I can’t go. It isn’t done yet.” The dream, with its tauros and wide-open space and maybe kids seemed further away than ever. “Just- don’t leave yet. Whoever you saw, they didn’t see you, right? Let me get my shit together, I’ll come by the junkyard in a few hours – we’ll figure this out.”

  Danny was infuriatingly calm as he stood; the black was gone, his aura or whatever showing only a thin film of acceptance. “Kid, I’ve been running from this for thirty years. I ain’t gonna chance it after as many close calls as I’ve had; I don’t gamble with this shit. Plasma went off the deep end, man, if they catch me…” His smile was as ugly as ever, and Hoshi desperately wanted to catch it and keep it from leaving.

  “A few hours, Danny. Come on. At least let me scrape together some cash so you don’t leave empty-handed.”

  The old man took a breath, and Hoshi could see the rejection in the curve of his sunglasses – but then he must’ve seen the desperation in Hoshi’s eyes, because he stilled. “Ugh,” he groaned, the non-word as slurred as anything he’d ever said. “Kid, c’mon, don’t make that face.”

  “I’ll be there before sunset, Danny. Promise. Please.”

  A long, so-low-it-was-barely-audible groan issued from Danny’s chest, and he stood. Crow’s wingbeats had been throwing wild shadows over the room during the conversation, but all at once they ended. The golbat descended, alighting where the scrap merchant had been sitting, and answered with a similarly-toned hiss of her own.

  “Arceus, Hoshi, quit the bellyachin’. Fine,” he surrendered, scratching at his covered scalp. “Fine, a few hours – but if I get caught ‘cause’a you, I’m kicking your lily ass.”

  He left – and when nobody came back in, Hoshi took the opportunity to head to the bathroom and splash water on his face. He returned to see Guts nosing at Casca’s suitcase as Crow sat hunched on her perch, obviously sour that the spot no longer fit her larger body.

  “Things change, huh girl?”

  A sombre cry answered, and Hoshi drew an eye over his apartment. It really has changed a lot, hasn’t it? Months ago, the scene had been entirely different – emptier, without Casca’s controlled mess or the nest he’d made for his rattata taking up a corner. No childish drawings on the fridge, no second drawer for the extra clothes, no stand for his zubat…

  He turned to his Pokémon, and felt his lips curve. “It’ll be fine,” he said, not quite sure if it was the truth. “We’ll be fine. We’ll make it through, whatever happens. All of us.”

  Two brief flashes, and the raticate and golbat were returned to their balls. Hoshi took a breath, let it out, and walked to the broken door. We will. I’ll make it happen – I don’t have a plan, but I’ll make one. “Casca,” he half-muttered as he pulled it towards him, only mostly avoiding the splinters from where the handle had broken away. “You alright? Danny left like a minute-”

  The doorway opened, revealing six people and two Pokémon – the former consisted of the three gamblers, Casca, Danny, and one other. The final man was thin, bore hair with a muted red colour, and had a League identification card pinned to the breast of his button-up shirt. He was also the only person standing; the others were slumped on the floor together with Candy, while the other Pokémon gently bobbed to some unheard rhythm: a vileplume.

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Hoshi Mutsu,” the man whose nametag read Owen Haw said, his voice quiet and reserved. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, but I’m afraid-”

  “Candy,” Hoshi sent out, his voice equally calm despite his rocketing heartrate. “Rapid Spin.”