The President stood in his office staring intently down at Saffron City from the top of the eleven-story building. He turned behind him and asked his assistant if there were any upcoming appointments. "Well, sir, there is a man named Bond waiting who has an appointment in twenty minutes." "Send him in."

A few moments later a tall and slender man in a long coat entered the office and politely waited for a nod from the President before taking a seat. "Well," the President said, "what brings you here today."

The man's eyes widened slightly and he took in the room in a way that suggested he was indicating more than just the office. "I'm here to make an offer on your company, sir."

The President blinked, surprised. Slowly: "You mean to say you're going to buy out the world's largest manufacturer of Poke goods?" The man, Bond, chuckled and rose from his seat.

"Silph Co.," he said, "is indeed a vast empire, spanning–what?–five regions, is it? But let's face it: You're the only one competent enough to run this project." He looked the President up and down derisively. "And, let's face it, you haven't much time left to find a successor."

He spoke carefully but confidently, pausing between certain words almost disarmingly.

But the words rang true.

"That may be but I'm afraid I can't be bought out. What would I do with the money?"

"You've got a few good years left. Think. Cinnabar is nice this time of year." A chuckle.

The President leaned back in his chair. "What's the offer?"

"2 billion credits."

The President rose. "Sir, I respect you. And I don't know why, but I can't think of a good enough reason to stay with this company. And I've run it for countless years…! But no matter." He looked all around the office. "I think my time here has ended as it is. It doesn't feel like home anymore." He shook hands with Bond, who afterward gave him a check. The President had never seen such a tiny piece of paper mean so much.

Something small meaning so much…

—–

A small explosion shatters the vial and suddenly I'm on the ground, coughing, disoriented, head spinning. Springer helps me to my feet. "Well," he says, "that chair's busted." I look at my formerly pristine office chair, now a twisted hulk of pleather and plastic.

I look at my desk and see a thick green fluid covering my workspace, which I quickly clean with a special washcloth. I then put the cloth in the BIOHAZARD wastebin. The memory hole.

I scratch my head and muse, "I guess Carbos and X Accuracy don't mix well."

"Well, yeah," Springer says.

"But at least we know the Poke Blender works well." I stare at the large, bulky box at the back of the workstation, and watch the exhaust rise from its back. Something occurs to me. I rush to the requisition forms and fill out a request for a Poke Ball, a Power Aprijuice, a Sweet Pokeblock, and a random Poffin. I throw the request down the chute and wait.

"Heh. What're you gonna blend now?"

I just look, innocently, at Springer. "Who knows?"

After a while an assistant arrives with the items I asked for. "Thanks," I nod, then turn to the Blender. Bemused, Springer watches me carefully. I throw the items into the apparatus. "Here goes nothing." I activate the machine.

With sickening grinds and shudders, the Blender begins whirring and whining, a thin purple exhaust fuming out from the rear of the device. With a few violent shakes I hear an intense grinding inside the machine and slowly inch away from the workstation, scared.

A large CRUNCH emits from the Blender then the whirring stops and a tiny ding! signals the end of the process.

Cautiously, I approach the Blender and open the lid, and inside I see a Poke Ball, with a black-and-white splatter design marking it. Frankly, it looks pretty cool.

"Lemme see!" Springer rushes forward, as eager as a scientist playing around with tiny particles might be.

But there still remains the obvious question: What's it do?

—–

We take the Ball–nicknamed Graffiti Ball–down to the Experimental Tests lab. Mercy, the department head, is immediately interested. "Where'd this thing come from?" "Our Poke Blender." "What in the world is a Poke Blender." I grin, proud. "Our invention."

She takes the Graffiti Ball from us and places it in a small chamber, which engulfs the Ball in an intense white white. A bunch of strings of data it's not my job to be able to comprehend appear rapidly on a computer terminal next to the chamber, which Marcy studies intently. "I can't believe you two created a Poke Ball without using the Lock-and-Pistol." Springer and I glance at each other, laughing silently. Marcy glares at us. "Nice, a bromance between scientists." Sneering, Springer says, "Nice, jealousy between scientists."

Lame.

I shake my head.

Finally, the terminal beep!s and the chamber unlocks, allowing us to take the Graffiti Ball. Reading the statistics, Marcy says, "The thing can hold two Pokemon at once! And… and they can battle each other and train!" Then she turns to us. "You two just revolutionized the Poke Ball industry. Congratulations." Dryly. Anticlimactically.

"What'll we call it?" Springer asks, extremely excited. "The Duo Ball? The Pair Ball? Oh! the Hyper Ball! Yeah!"

"I like 'Graffiti Ball', don't you?" I say. "Yeah." His eyes widen. "Yeah!"

Marcy shakes her head.

—–

My name's Carter by the way.

—–

As I exit the Silph Co. building I'm swarmed by protesters holding signs high above their heads, chanting something unintelligible. I try to push through the crowd but they slam me against the glass doors, poke my chest hard, and speak in incriminating tones. Panicking, I begin to reach for the fake pistol the President issued to all of the employees, but eventually they tire of me and pace around the front of the building, screaming, throwing their signs above them and sweating profusely.