Birthright, a pokémon fanfic

summary — jessie remembers that identity and family are too often conflated. she returns home, despite all things. — a tale split in four. au!yakuza team rocket. mild rocketshipping, hinted giovanni/matori.

note — tis a sequel to such great heights. you have to read that before this, or else it'll be confusing. it's really a very, very thorough character study on jessie pre-anime, but honestly, it deviates from the anime too much to even be considered canon-complaint. so it's au, basically. also: this fic got away from me for a long while. if you squint, you can see when i was inspired, and when i was forced. foreign words and their translations appear at the very end in the footnote. i tried my best.

one — honorable discharge

Kanto welcomes her with a grey sky and ocean spray kissing the loose, straggled strands of hair that frame her face. Vermillion is freezing when she steps out of the ship, and her only barrier against the cold is a five-dollar thrift shop cardigan, because as much as she (stupidly) denies that she is forgetful, she fails to remember that spring in Kanto is winter in Hoenn.

She smiles, anyway.

And when she sees some boy of about twelve shaking at the exit of the ship with brochures clinging to his body like a makeshift coat, she bends down and drapes her cardigan around him. He nods with gratefulness and attempts to force her to take a pamphlet of "The Best Kanto Hot-Spots!"

"Tourist?" he asks through clenched teeth. Because — obviously — no Kanto citizen has ever bat an eyelash at him before.

"No," she tells him, standing right back up and giving him the brochure in disinterest. "I'm coming home."

There isn't a need to wander here. She knows Kanto like the back of her hand, knows the mountains that ridge the nation and the oceans that trail the shoreline better than the way her veins map her palm or the way her freckles line the contours of her sullen face. Jessie boards a train with every intent to look back. This time, she thinks, home will be here.

She's sure of it.

(The ticket crumpled in her hand is one way, after all.)

Celadon has lost some of its luster in the time she has been gone, and the dying war between Kanto and Johto had diminished most of its former glory. Buildings and buildings on both sides of the street have shut their doors and pulled their curtains closed long before she arrives — the few stragglers on the sidewalks keep their scarves wound around their heads to conceal their face from both the cold and the unseen enemy. A reflex from the war, she assumes, and mirrors their actions once the wind snaps at the skin around her lips.

One building in particular catches her eye, and a feeling of nostalgia settles in her. Rocketto Corporations, the neon sign reads against the dark of the night. She feels the beginnings of a smile and allows it to form — home, almost.

She walks inside and a woman at the desk perks her head up at the sudden visitor. Jessie swallows and waves off the rehearsed, "Sorry, we're closed," tumbling from the other woman's lips.

"I need to see Mrs. Rocketto. Or — if they still call her Madam Boss, yeah."

The silence tells her that no one has asked this before, and she's afraid she might have arranged her own arrest or death or both once the words have taken effect. Yet the secretary lets her in, after she crinkles her brows in recognition and after she realizes that — no, it isn't her, but she must be...

Jessie's mother, it seems, has not entirely disappeared.

Satisfied, Jessie gives a smile and heads for the staircase that leads to the west wing of the building, a place typically off-limits to the press and the general public, the secretary tells her, but for Team Rocket, there is no restriction. This is said with a knowing glance and a nod to the door between them and the woman who arguably holds Jessie's future in her hands. The secretary departs once Jessie steps inside the office of Madam Boss, and for one second, she stands completely still, awestruck by the room before her.

In the time between her youth and now, Madam Boss had cleaned up. Long gone are the rusted filing cabinets and the dilapidated wood paneling; in their place is a metallic office finished with black and white decor, the only color being a single red plaque that reads the Team Rocket insignia. Across the room, an older woman of nearly sixty sits on the floor by the table, legs crossed and her salt-and-pepper hair pinned up in a bun. She pays no mind to Jessie's abrupt entrance and sips her tea as she reads from the paper in front of her.

Jessie bows, if only because she has no idea what to say. Behind her, the door clicks closed.

"Musashi," the older woman says after a few seconds of silence.

"I have not heard that name in awhile," Jessie tells her, off put by being called by her given name, especially by a woman she hasn't seen in over twelve years. She edges towards the seat the older woman motions to without looking up to meet her stare.

"You are going by Jessica, now? Nani no haji — Kanto is losing their heritage, what a shame," she says absently. She lifts a shaking hand to turn the page in the book before her when the last syllable slips out of lips. After some moments of reading, she looks up at the other woman. "What are you here for?"

Jessie swallows thickly. "I would like to join Team Rocket."

Madam Boss returns to the paper In front of her, a smile spreading thin across her mouth. After a few seconds of consideration, she reaches behind her and slides a packet of papers towards the young woman. "I'd ask you if you're sure, but you wouldn't be here if you weren't," the old woman says quietly. "How was Hoenn?"

The red-head slips the papers inside her bag. Standing up, she replies tersely, "Worthwhile."

It isn't a lie, anyway.

Madam Boss gives her place to stay in the family's compound just outside of Celadon, on a generous gift of land given to some distant ancestor a long while ago. She tells her that she must meet the next head of Team Rocket — Giovanni — in the morning. He is the old woman's son and Jessie's only uncle, and was never a warm man to begin with, but his secretary, a mousy young woman by the name of Matori, warns the red-head that he's been crueler than before and bitter about something that she to explain but shuts up about immediately. Something along the lines of death of his wife in childbirth, something about the very real possibility that the child isn't even his — these are reasons Jessie manages to catch as soon as they leave his secretary's mouth as she leads the red-head to her room.

"He is my uncle," Jessie explains to the woman. "He wouldn't turn me away."

Matori says nothing in response to this. Instead, she bends forward in a bow, revealing an array of cherry blossoms tattooed across the skin that her kimono had failed to cover — the mark of obedience in the mafia, if Jessie remembers correctly. "Get some rest, okosan," the secretary whispers, tugging her robe closer, as if sensing Jessie's discomfort.

Her uncle — Giovanni, as he wishes to be referred to in times of business — sits in the courtyard expectantly, and he is dressed in custom made suits made oceans away and he has aged too quickly, too greatly. Though he a man barely into his thirties, he has the face of one who has seen much pain in a short amount of time; upon seeing her, he pulls his lips upward in a curt smile, his wrinkles around his mouth fading slightly. His Persian, who had long since evolved from the Meowth it was when she was a child, lounges by his legs, its tail curled around his feet and its head resting on top of its paws. Both the cat and Giovanni watch her closely as he absently instructs the servant, a man no younger than she is, to pour the tea for the both of them. Wary of their scrutiny, she takes a seat across from Giovanni at the small table situated in the center of the yard. The servant bows in both his and her direction, and is sent away upon her arrival. Giovanni nods her way and casts his eyes down on the table, shifting his attention to the notebook in front of him.

"Ojisama," Jessie says as she bends in respect. "I have not seen you for so long. How are you?"

He doesn't look at her at first, instead reaching into the inside of his suit and producing a box of cigarettes and a lighter. Nodding towards the box, he asks, "Cigarette?"

She should say no but she doesn't. Instead, she sticks one in her mouth and lights the end and enjoys it, like she had before she promised to quit. Fire fills her lungs, and though she is unaccustomed to the heat after living in Hoenn for so long, where the air is cleaner and the cigarettes she holds between her fingers are banned, there is a certain familiarity to the way she breathes it in. "Thanks," she says, her words entangled in the tendrils of smoke.

"Your father is dead."

Then he drags his eyes to look at her in intrigue.

The cigarette bounces on the edge of her lip. Jessie sits absolutely still and pretends for all she is worth that this is what she was expecting all along. The teacup in her hands feels fragile, and she tightens her jaw in an attempt to stop the tears forming in her eyes — because to be honest, her father isn't what she is here for, but this isn't welcome news. But how could she think any different? Her mother disappeared and who would look for her — and who would die for her — no other than her own father.

She snubs the smoke out.

"I'm sorry," he says.

But Giovanni doesn't look sorry. He looks as if his mother had forced him to be apologetic. He tilts his head and notes his own teacup in front of him, then decidedly fills it again. And it kills her, this apathy, and she wants to scream but she can't.

She tries to keep her voice steady, like he would dare to scandalize her for grieving. "How did he die?"

At this, he clenches his jaw and sets the kettle down. He glances at her and shakes his head. "Gunfire. Your mother did not make very many friends at her time here, and your father was caught up in her trouble whilst looking for her. A shame, a tragedy. My brother was a loved man."

He says this almost bitterly, his last sentence laced with hate and anger. As it is was audacious of him to die, as if it was his choice. It takes all of Jessie to not smack him for his selfishness.

"Oh," is all she says.

He clears his throat and continues, "Jessica, I harbor no familial obligations towards you for the simple reason that I have not seen you in twelve years and that I attest to the fact that you are illegitimate, no matter what your father had felt for your mother. Regardless of this, you are still my brother's child, and I must warn you of the consequences of joining."

She chooses to ignore the first part — if he doesn't recognize her as his niece, she will not recognize him as an uncle. "I am fully aware of the consequences," she says sharply. Offering a bitter smile, she explains, "My parents died for Team Rocket, didn't they? Is that not indicative of what is possible?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Do you have a death wish?" he shoots backs. "Do you understand why I chose to put you in foster care? Your parents wouldn't have wanted this for you. This life isn't for you. Do you understand me?"

Jessie flinches at this, like she's offended by all he's said thus far. She stands suddenly and says, "I understand. But you have no say in what I can and cannot do. As you said, you harbor no feelings towards me — why do you care, Uncle?"

Giovanni averts her gaze and focuses on the teacup before him. Finally, he heaves a sigh and says, "Do what as you wish. But don't expect me to favor you over the others because you are my niece."

Pleased, she bows before she turns away to head back inside.

"Never."

two — no rest for the wicked

She works to prove that despite all things, she can, in fact, become a competent member of Team Rocket.

At dawn, she gets up to meet the rising sun and runs side-by-side with the lightening horizon. At noon, she takes up swimming in the bay outside Celadon, accompanied by no one but herself, something that she pays no attention to. At dusk, she works diligently with Madam Boss — and scrupulously, with Giovanni as well — to build both knowledge and experience in the field.

Already, she is becoming the best field agent without even starting official training.

When she thinks of this, she smiles with a grace that her mother had left her.

And then one day, Giovanni pulls her aside and tells her that she's ready, and then one day, she finds herself in the Academy.

But the problem is that while the Academy is great and prestigious, Jessie is too — for lack of a better word — good at this, and everyone else, well, isn't. She climbs the ranks as quickly as one can, faster than they've seen in years, and goes through potential partners like they're expendable. Like they don't matter. Because to her, they don't; having a partner requires caring for another person, and with her track record, she's not so good at that. She's better off alone.

This, she tells Giovanni.

"I don't care," he says, almost dismissively, in response. "You play my game, you play by my rules."

"This is not your game," Jessie shoots back with a sort of forced determination that even she found hard to believe.

He sneers. "While my mother is as good as dead, it is. Now," he says calmly, "Team-building is a skill that you need to work on. While you are good at many other things, this is the one you need to improve. You know, Jessie, what wonders humbling yourself will do."

And that was that. She never spoke to him about this matter again.

Jessie learns very quickly that the Team Rocket executives are people that she shouldn't involve herself with. They are Giovanni's right hand men, burdened with the blessing of power and glory, heralds of the mafia. None of them go by their given names — all but one were graced with titles of prestige; the other, she is told, goes by the name Ariana because that was the name of Giovanni's lover years ago.

Despite being warned to never willingly accompany them on a mission — never, Matori urges, at all — even Jessie could not pass up the opportunity to experience such a thing. That, and Apollo, Giovanni's personal favorite and his rightfully privileged best lieutenant, had been dangerously waving a gun around her face, but this is of little importance.

Of course, Jessie grows to regret this.

The mission, according to Apollo, is fairly simple and doesn't require her presence ("Or mine," the other, Petrel, quips with a smile), but there is a dark humor in conditioning the prospective agents of the cause, he says with a drawl and a deadly look in his eyes. The jeep they take blends in with the night, obscured by lofty trees and the dark the forrest has provided them. The radio fades into static, and Apollo reaches over Jessie to dig through the glove compartment for something — moments later, he procures a gun and flashes a grin towards her way.

"Necessary roughness," he says with a laugh, reverting his eyes back on the road. "Don't be scared, sweetheart, you won't see anything you won't see later."

This half-assed reassurance does nothing to quell the fear laden in every inch of her body.

They pull up to a dilapidated house that would have been easily missed if not for the fact that Apollo seemed to know exactly where they were going. He and Petrel hop out of the jeep, both of them with a gun in one hand. Petrel stretches his other towards her way and smiles sweetly. "Follow me," he tells her as she grips his hand tightly.

"Whatever you do," Apollo says to her, handing her a weapon that he instructs to keep on her person, "Don't get killed."

"I'll try my best," she replies as she tries to laugh it off, but her humor is lost on them.

Petrel almost laughs, to his defense.

"Trying won't be good enough when your uncle has our fingers on the other side of his knife," Apollo returns gruffly, beginning to walk towards the house. He shoves his gun into his pocket and rolls up his sleeves to point at a jagged scar in the shape of a character on his wrist among the designs of dragons and warriors laid against his skin in ink. "Retribution. The Boss carved it in himself the day I allowed his son to get hurt in an break-in at the house."

The other man holds up a hand for effect, revealing two out of his five fingers rendered as mere stubs. "Same day, same reason, but only because I forgot to rescue his pretty little thing in time and left her behind long enough for her to get really fucking hurt."

"Matori?" Jessie asks.

"Matori? Nah, that woman is only there to raise that brat and take out the trash the morning after," Petrel says, the corners of his lips stretching wide.

The three of them stop in front of the door and stare at the handle, then at each other. Apollo reaches forward to open it, but then pauses to glance at Jessie appraisingly. "Should you find yourself in a... delicate situation, there is no such thing as mercy," he says, flicking his eyes towards the house. "Had we known the concept, we would not be here."

He pushes forward and in they go, weapons brandished and their eyes focused in front of them. Jessie is immediately taken aback by the strong stench of both death and mold, end and destruction. She scrunches her nose in disgust, covering her face with the sleeve of her shirt.

"Ima, detekuru—" Apollo shouts into the darkness of the house. "Come out, you fuck!"

And then, there are gunshots.

She tells herself that she doesn't remember. That the blood on her uniform is hers, that the knife in her hands had cut her deep — this would be an easier truth to accept and she could believe it and live with it, but this is not the case.

The jeep rolls out into the streets of Celadon. Apollo's hands are marked with death. Petrel just shifts in his seat. The road to the compound is not long, and in mere minutes they park in front the gates of the Rocketto household. Just as Jessie shakily steps down from the jeep, Apollo grabs her arm from the passenger seat.

"Wait," he says suddenly, searching her eyes with his.

"Yes?" she asks, trying to sound brave but failing, tries to remain valiant but her voice ends up being smaller than she is.

"Guilt is the side-effect of mercy, the by-product of a consciousness that refuses to yield to reason," he tells her, gripping her arm tighter. "It is the mark of a fool, easily defeated by fear. We do not accept cowards, no matter who you are."

Wounded by his words, she yanks her arm away from him. "You were a defector."

"I am your superior," he rejoins evenly, and then he drives away.

For the longest time thereafter, she stares at the red caked in the cracks of her hands.

Three months.

This is the amount of time she is given to find a partner before she has to leave the Academy for good. She learns this through a horribly passive-aggressive letter penned by the Head Sergeant at the Academy, who implores her to broaden her horizons and look at people with an open mind. He urges her to find someone willing to do whatever she wills because rules are rules, and they will not make exceptions even for her, the best agent they've seen in a while.

Nothing gold can stay, she thinks as she commands the Academy's incinerator - a Vulpix - to burn the parchment.

There is one thing she learns during her three month grace period: Team Rocket is the harbinger of debauchery. It's not to say that the Academy isn't strict about the parties that the trainees and grunts tend to throw in celebration of whatever they deem fit, but there's only so much the syndicate can do when it is, in fact, the biggest underground crime ring in the region. After all, for an organization whose third most successful criminal activity is drug smuggling and manufacture — well, there's little to restrict.

Jessie finds no reason to refrain from indulgence, so she throws herself into the social scene despite everything she has on the line. Because, after all, this life is ephemeral in nature, and she is not one to deny herself enjoyment of the little things in life.

When she wakes, she's half-naked and wrapped tightly in a blanket in a bed she does not recognize. In a daze, she scans the room. Clothes, beer bottles, and plates of food scatter the floor, and there in the corner by the bathroom are her own clothes, stained with something she guesses is alcohol. Panic seizes her as she shoots up and runs her hands over her body — nobody? Did they? No... She throws the blanket off of her immediately and moves to get the hell away from here.

"Woah there sweetheart, slow down," someone says to her from across the room. She turns to face him, and as her eyes settle on a young blue-haired man — the person who caused this, she presumes — she slams her fist into his cheek. He stumbles back and collides with the desk behind him, his lips forming around a profanity as he cradles his face. "What the hell is your problem, man?"

"What the hell is your problem?" Jessie yells back, picking up her clothes and using them to shield her body. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I didn't bring you here, Christ," the man says with an agonized groan. He turns the other way and spits out blood, then throws a disgusted glare towards her. "James did. He came back with you in his arms, all passed out and shit, looking like a prime target for some asshole to take advantage of you — he said he wanted you safe, so he took off your clothes 'cause they were soaked in beer and cleaned you up. Let you sleep here. Nice guy, he is."

And it's like she's been hit by a train.

She falters, "James who?"

"James Morgan. My roommate. I'm Butch, by the way, pleasure to meet you," he says with an eye roll.

Her eyes widen at this. James, here? What could have possibly driven him to this life — after all, between the two of them, it was always her to ruin herself. She had thought he continued on with his training, or at least went back home when it didn't work out. Not become a criminal. He's always been too good for that — always, she thinks as she remembers his aversion to thievery, his dislike for unnecessary violence. Team Rocket is all of that. He'd hate it here.

She recovers when she notices that the roommate is staring at her. Jessie narrows her eyes and snaps, "I need to be going." And with that, she begins to move out of the room, slipping her shirt over her head as she nears the door.

"Aren't you going to stay?" he says, catching her wrist before she steps outside. "Say thank you? Or something. He slept in the common room for you."

"Let go, Biff. Goodbye," she mutters under her breath, faintly noting that Biff probably wasn't his name. Not that she cares. She yanks her wrist back and presses forward, minding the crowd of trainees coming towards her. Hugging the wall, she wraps her arms around herself, mulling over the situation before her. She can't avoid him even if she wanted to. They'd find each other eventually, through the system or the grapevine or something incredibly inconvenient like that. Meeting again is an inevitability. And she's unsure how to go about that.

Madam Boss is dying. She has been for awhile.

After a solemn and quiet dinner at the Rocketto house that Jessie had been forced to attend, Giovanni tells her that Madam Boss confided in her assistant that she had wished to speak to her only granddaughter. "Alone," he adds forcefully when his mother's assistant begins to escort her down the hall.

When Jessie arrives to the room, she is met with the smell of incense and the sound of soft wailing. I can't do this, she thinks to herself as she enters quietly, mindful of the statues of spiritual figures that seem to form a protective barrier around the old woman. She lies still on the bed, unmoving, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Beside her are crying women, hunched over her body as if she was already dead, convulsing as through they were suffering from grief-induced paroxysms. Jessie wrinkles her forehead in both confusion and disgust; these women are shameless in their ability to mourn well, and it's a curse that she cannot do the same.

Her eyes drift down the body of her grandmother, scrutinizing every inch of skin to confirm her superficial health. She is somewhat exposed, her chest tightly bandaged from failed surgeries nights before, allowing full-view of the tattoos she must have received the day she had become in charge of Team Rocket. Only a strip of skin from her sternum down remains untouched by ink; otherwise, patterns of black and blue and images of dragons cover both sides of her chest almost symmetrically. This is the first time Jessie has ever seen a person like this — all her life, she's been told that people with markings of the mafia are to be avoided. And here she is, grieving the death of one.

"Out," the old woman bellows from her nearly catatonic state.

Jessie freeze, confused by the instruction. She turns slowly to do as the woman wanted her to do, but then the old woman says, "Not you, Jessica. The others."

At that, the women stop crying and scatter away.

The old woman heaves a sigh and lifts a shaking hand. "Come closer. I'm not contagious."

Jessie, hesitantly, edges to the side of the bed closest to the door and kneels. Madam Boss's chest shudders as she coughs, and she reaches over to the bedside table to extinguish a candle's flame. With a sigh, she says, "Can you believe that? My son hired mourners so that I may pretend that people cared about me. Even in my death, he still scorns my existence."

"I doubt that—"

The old woman holds up a hand and tuts. "Don't interrupt me, dear. I might not live to the end of my sentence. Anyway... I suppose there's no real way I can't put this in words that won't anger you. Despite what my son has told you, your father isn't dead, and your mother... her fate is unknown. For all I know, they could be alive and well together."

Jessie's center of balance shifts the moment these words slip out of the woman's mouth. "Where—"

"Your father was in Amsterdam two years ago. If your mother is alive I... I assume she's with him," she says. A cough seizes her; pressing a fist tight against her chest to try to relieve the pain, she heaves a heavy breath. "I ask that you not look for them. They will not be found if they don't want to be found and — and Giovanni will not be pleased to have his brother back. I just thought you'd... that you deserve to know, if anything."

Jessie would argue, but there is no sense in arguing with the dying. She reaches over and grabs one of the old woman's hands, squeezing it tightly. "Thank you, thank you, obaa-chan."

"Do not thank me," the woman says sharply. Another cough. This time, blood dribbles down her lip. "Bring in Gio — my Sakaki, bring him in. There is something I need to tell him... I don't think I can make it to breakfast."

And that was that. No goodbye, nothing sentimental, though perhaps it's better that way. Jessie gives the woman's hand one last squeeze before she leaves to fetch her uncle, who pales when she tells him the condition of his mother. Despite all things past, he was still her son — and she was still his mother, no matter how much she resented him.

Matori considers him carefully and resolves to rest her hand on his shoulder before he shakes it off and puts on a brave face — all this after he glances back to meet the secretary's comforting stare. Jessie watches Giovanni walk quickly into his mother's room, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking smaller than he really is.

He walks out ten minutes later, eyes red and cheeks flushed, and a soft, "she's dead," tumbling from his mouth like he could not stop his own sadness. Jessie unfolds her arms and walks over to meet him halfway, as if he wants comfort from her. He steps back. Shakes his head and says a bit firmly, "Stop. I am not sad. There isn't — I am not sad."

So she stops. "Okay," she says.

A hand clasps her shoulders from behind. It is Matori, rivers of tears on her cheeks, off to his rescue, and to Jessie's, too. Shakily, she smiles, "Come. I have made a room for you to stay in so that you don't have to walk back to the Academy."

"Okay," she says again, unsure of what's really right to say. She allows herself to be guided by the woman, through the hall and past the room of the deceased. Jessie pretends she does not hear the secretary's shallow heaves for breath. And both of them flinch when they hear Giovanni collapse to the ground and begin to cry.

A red-headed boy of maybe seven or eight is sitting on the edge of her bed and is staring at her when she wakes up. He grins when he notices that she has been — unintentionally, unfortunately — roused awake by his movements.

"Hi!" he shouts, crawling over to peer at her closer. "How are you? What's your name?"

Jessie, still dazed by the early morning, sits up slightly and rubs her eyes. "Um, I'm good. I'm, uh, Jessie. How about you?"

"Me?" the boy asks incredulously, rocking back and forth on his knees. "Well, I'm kind of tired, but Ms. Matori said that I had to be quiet because we had a guest but — well, I don't know, but I was curious. So I'm kind of looking at you and you are really pretty. Oh! You mean my name? Well — in Japanese, it's Giniro, but you didn't give your Japanese name. They all call me Gin, but that's a drink isn't it?"

Jessie laughs at the boy's confounded expression. "Giniro? That's silver, right? In English," she says. She rubs her chin thoughtfully. "Well, since I didn't give you my given name, I guess it's only fair I call you Silver, yeah? Sound good?"

The boy nods his head. "Sounds great! I've got to tell Ms. Matori!"

"Tell me what, Gin?"

Both of them whip their heads around to meet Matori standing behind them. The woman has a rather youthful face, Jessie notices, whose features are unmarred by any sort of scar or blemish; she is noticeably easy on the eyes, soft around the edges and lithe in form, something that is odd in comparison to those around her. Her kimono is dark in color — a mourning sentiment — and frames her petite body nicely. Jessie greets the woman with a wave and a small smile.

"Jessie says that she's gonna call me Silver now! Because Giniro means silver. Get it?" Silver says excitedly.

Matori gives a nod and a slight laugh. She catches Jessie's eye and winks, then says, "That sounds wonderful, Gin. And I'd love to stay and chat about the etymology of your name, but Chef Ruiko made breakfast for all of us downstairs."

"Even Jessie?" Silver asks, glancing at her as if he'd stay in the case that she was not invited to the meal.

"Yes, even Jessie. However, your father wanted a word with her first, so she'll join us at a later time," Matori explains, mouthing 'Giovanni' to Jessie. She reverts her gaze back to the little boy and sticks her hand out. "Come on, Gin, Chef Ruiko made chocolate chip waffles. Let's get there before the others do."

"Sounds delicious," Jessie says as Silver scrambles to take Matori's hand. She watches them as Matori smiles at the boy, and Jessie notices that there is something motherly in the way she holds his hand tightly in hers, the way she says his name, the way she looks at him. It would only make sense — when they first met, Matori had told her that Silver's mother passed away in childbirth. Coupled with the doubt of Silver's parentage, there is no question that Giovanni would neglect the child in both his grief and his bitterness. So of course Matori would take up the role of the mother — of course.

"You met Giniro?"

Jessie looks up and sees Giovanni in the doorway, back against the doorsill and arms folded across his chest. She is taken aback by his casual appearance — he is clothed in plaid pajama pants and a tattered shirt that reads, "Pokétech Preparatory School Soccer Team" on the front, a noticeable difference from his typical suit and tie. Yet this ease and naturalness is compounded by the grim reminders of his dedication to Team Rocket tattooed on his body, signifying his loyalty until the day of his death — the body of a red gyarados stretches out on the skin of his arms, its elegance surrounded by words like "power" and "fear" and "strength" in script. Dozens of black bands that match his mother's line his limbs, coupled with images of swords and warriors of times past, of ancestors long gone. As if noticing her scrutiny, he rubs one arm lightly.

She smirks. "Lazy day?"

"In mourning," he says with a wave of a hand.

"Mourning colors are usually black," she says.

He only shrugs. "People grieve differently."

Giovanni sticks his hands into his pockets and walks towards the window on the left side of Jessie's bed. He squints as he stares into the sun, then casts his eyes down; like he forces himself to be rough with his words, he says coolly, "Giniro is your brother. Your father is his father, too."

She takes this in for minute, nodding her head absently. Did it matter? Something in her aches at this reveal, but it shouldn't, because after all, her father wasn't important. Not really. She lets out a sigh as she brings her knees to her chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want to you to know what kind of man your father was. Dishonorable. A liar. A cheater," Giovanni lists with a sneer. He drags his eyes to hers and says, "My brother was always good at hide and seek. You shouldn't look for him. He wants to stay hidden."

"Why should I believe you?" Jessie says without skipping a beat. "You lied to me about his fate and for all I know, you could be lying now."

He frowns. "It is in your best interest to be kind to me. I am all you have left, after all."

To this, Jessie has no reply. He doesn't make a convincing argument, but everything he's done for her so far has been nothing but good. She owes him. So then she shrugs. "Giniro — Gin..."

"What about him?"

"Do you love him?" she asks hesitantly. "At all? Does he know?"

Giovanni takes a sharp inhale of breath. "With him... I feel the same way about you."

"So you hate him?" she asks with narrowed eyes.

"No," he says after awhile. "Worse. I... well, I give a shit about him, crudely put. That's more than I could ever give to anyone else."

She doesn't say anything.

He probably doesn't expect her to.

"When you're ready, I'll arrange for a car to take you back to the Academy," Giovanni says quietly. "In the meantime, I hear Chief Ruiko makes great waffles."

She smiles. And for a moment, Jessie wonders what might have been.

three — armistice day

The sergeant in charge of her flank assigns her possibly the only person she hasn't been paired up with yet. On her way to the commons, where she will meet her prospective partner, she thinks that if this doesn't work out, she might go live with Giovanni and Matori and Silver, or something. They'd take her in — or at least, Matori and Silver would. Giovanni might need something to bargain with, but she could always pulls the family card, and despite all things he's said before, she's sure he'd accept her.

Who is she kidding. Maybe she'll be a waitress instead.

Once she arrives the commons, the sergeant begins to tell her the rules about partnerships, and why she needs to participate, and for God's sake, she shouldn't waste her talent by being stubborn as hell, damn it. She's heard this before. It's all nonsense, and she knows it won't work out, but she humors him anyway and follows him to the next room where she sees —

No.

...no.

"James?"

He grins like a fucking Cheshire Cat and has the audacity to stand up and shake her hand.

"Well," the sergeant says aimlessly, "at least you are already acquainted."

"Something like that," James says.

It's all she can do to not punch him.

In his defense, James does try to apologize, and he also avoids mentioning the situation at the club from a month earlier. But it's not enough, at least for her. And it's not like he's personally wronged her, because he hasn't. Five years is a very long time to get over something as petty as the fight was, and although something still bothers her, she knows it shouldn't. Yet knowing and feeling are two different things. She's still mad, and she doesn't really know why.

This doesn't interfere with work, however. She makes sure of it. The two of them continue on in a very business-like manner; it's easier this way, she things, because this way, there is a clear goal and nothing to muddle the vision. And maybe this is why they are so efficient. After all, they often succeed and rarely fail; as fate would have it, they make a very good team.

So when they are assigned the final training mission, she has no doubt in her mind that they will complete it with both efficiency and excellence. She expects nothing else — it is less of their accomplishment and more of hers, and as pompous and selfish as it sounds, it's what everyone at the Academy knows, anyway.

When Jessie tells James this over a brief dinner at the commons, he concedes without much to say, staring at her with the same faraway look in his eyes that, to be frank, pisses her off.

He shouldn't complain.

At least she stayed.

The mission starts off terribly, as it turns out.

"Well, here we are," Jessie says with a heaving breath. "Mt. Hideaway, huh."

The mountain trek hadn't taken very long — it had been two days since they left the Academy, and they're only three miles away from the city and the apartment that holds a rare and shiny Snorlax at the top floor, which, as it is, ends up being their mission to steal. Not too hard, as James really goes with whatever she asks him to, and she knows what she's doing.

"We step up camp here," she says as she kneels down on one knee to hold the map in place. She traces the last trail to Saffron City with a finger. "Then tomorrow we scout the building, look for ways to get in and get out efficiently, and hopefully—"

"Why do you refuse to talk to me?"

Jessie doesn't need to look up to know that he's standing in front of her with arms crossed against his chest and his face scrunched up like he's mad. She frowns, "I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?"

"It's not the same, Jess," he tells her, like she doesn't already know.

"James," she warns, lifting her eyes to meet his. "We're not fucking doing this right now."

"Then when, Jessie? When are we going to sit down and talk about what happened between us, huh?" he persists, his voice edged with both anger and sadness. "Cause I'd like to know, Jessie, really, I do."

That's all it takes, honestly.

"Fine," she says through clenched teeth, slamming her fist down onto the map. She stands and walks up to meet him chest-to-chest, nearly shouting, "You want to fucking talk? Okay. Let's fucking talk. Let's talk about how you left without a goodbye. Let's talk about how I spent five years without you, wondering if you will ever look for me, wondering if I'll ever see you again. Five god-fucking-damn years without a single letter or — or phone call, or anything. I thought that I wouldn't ever see you again. And that felt terrible, alright, James, because my family went on and died on me, or left me, and I never had anyone to give a shit about except for you — and God, James, that's more than I can give to anyone else."

"I'm—"

"No James, I don't want to hear it," she interrupts, poking an accusatory finger into his shoulder. She stares at him intently and watches how his breathing hitches when she steps closer to him, how his chest rises and falls quickly from both exhaustion and excitement. She lets out a bated breath and says, in a tone much softer than before, "I just think it's best for us to — to, I don't know, keep our distance."

"Then tell me why we're doing this," he says, his voice tinged with a mocking lilt and his eyes emblazoned with passive fury. His shoulders perk up in a shrug as he repeats, "Tell me why we're doing this. I don't understand how we're going to be partners if I can't talk to you about anything because if that's the case, then I'm done. I'm not going to live the rest of my life like this."

"James, don't be so ludicrous," she says, frowning. Her hand moves to wrap around his arm, and it feels like nostalgia more than anything.

"You know, Jessie, I feel bad for you," he says after a few moments. "Your reputation gets around, you know, I heard about you before I even saw you. Never could hold a partner down — I wonder why — and, and sleeping with the Boss, of all things. I can't believe you."

And whatever sort of reminiscence she felt previously for him is washed away by these accusations. Her hand that is clasped around his arm slips away, and she stands as still as she can as if that will stop the tears from forming and her voice from catching in her throat when she says, "Is that what you think? After all this time, James? Is that what you think?"

"What am I supposed to think, huh? You leave for Hoenn and you didn't look back — you leave me and you didn't fucking look back. I don't even feel like I know you," he nearly screams, tearing his eyes away from hers at last. He wipes his face with his sleeve and says, "Well fuck you. Fuck you, Jess, I can't stand this anymore."

"Don't make this about you," she fumes. Her eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall. "Don't you fucking dare. You think you're the only one who got hurt? Why do you think I came back to Kanto? You left without a goodbye — I had no one left except my shitty family who put me in foster care because they didn't give a fuck about me. So I came back for them because I didn't have anyone else. I came back and joined their legacy or whatever the hell and that's where I am, in the same place as you. And all that shit you heard about me — well, James, even you must not think that I am low enough to fuck my uncle, right?"

"Jessie—"

He always seems to be at a loss for words.

"Fuck off," she says.

She turns before he can see her cry.

The morning after the fight isn't any better. She tries to initiate some type of planning for the heist, going as far as pulling out a blueprint and two pens, but it goes on awkwardly and it's more passive-aggressive insults than actual instruction. Over breakfast, he glares at her the entire time and she'd rather do nothing more than splash her piping hot coffee into his face.

How unfortunate civility is, she muses.

"I'm sorry," he says on the fourth day.

Jessie is sitting criss-crossed by the campfire, reading the blurbs about Saffron on an old travel guide she had found in her bag. She scoffs, not even bothering to look up at him. "You're only apologizing because we're going nowhere with the mission."

He throws his hands up and asks pointedly, "What else am I to do at this point?"

When he receives no answer, no reaction, he turns back to his makeshift tent before either of them could say anything else. She clutches her mug close to her chest, and refuses to acknowledge the fact that his words had stung terribly.

In an unspoken truce, they decide that their good teamwork shouldn't go to waste. They rid themselves of their Team Rocket uniforms and put on laymen clothes — nothing too outlandish, but nothing particularly cute either, much to Jessie's chagrin. She goes to say something about how the cardigan doesn't even match the shirt, but then closes her mouth immediately. After their spat, it would not be a wise thing to say anything to James, who must be be brimming with anger. It's stupid. It really is.

So it's back to business and as much as she hates to say that he's right, he is. She doesn't know how she can live with stilted conversation about work for the rest of her life. This, however, is another concern for another time — an unwise resolve, she realizes, but whatever.

"We are looking for a place to live," Jessie briefs him as they walk inside city limits. "So we scout the apartment building. And we're pretty rich, so we wander around the penthouse floor. We find ourselves there, just looking. Hopefully no one sees us."

"Okay," he whispers, his voice edged with irritation.

She shoots him a sideways glare and he shuts up immediately.

The morning sun is barely above the horizon, but the city is still booming with reach the apartment after some time wandering around, trying to navigate the crooked streets of Saffron. They stop before the entrance to take it all in — the building towers over them, and Romanesque pillars decorated with colors of gold and black ingrained into the stone line the street around the complex; above them, there are hanging gardens filled with vines and flowers that stream in as if from the heavens. People of all stations move past them on the sidewalks, but only those of class and wealth walk in. Jessie stares at them in slight envy, knowing full well that she will never be like them — not unless some miracle happens, but the world does not favor her at all.

"You think the Boss would afford this place?" James chuckles.

She only shakes her head, still in awe. "No. Not a chance."

Beside her, he laughs. She steals a glance at him and her lips quirk upward at the sight of him — if everything goes right, maybe things will go back to the way they were. His boyish smile brings her back to five years ago, back to the halcyon days when it was just them against the world, and nothing could get in their way. She wonders what might have been if she had never left for Hoenn. Shaking her head, she buries any regret she has about Hoenn — no, she will never regret it, she resolves.

Without warning, James pushes forward, leaving her momentarily until he turns back at her with a lopsided smile. "Well, you coming?" he asks, glimpsing back at the front doors as if to coax her in. "We haven't got all day. I kind of want to have time for lunch."

She relents — if only because there is no reason to protest.

Night falls soon enough — without them really noticing, but she supposes it's because they were actually enjoying themselves and not fighting or being miserable — and they need to head back to the campsite but do they really, is the question James poses. Because all their necessary stuff is on hand and they don't need thrifted camping supplies that will meet their end back at the Academy, anyway, right?

"Right," she agrees. But only because she has her uncle's money to spend and a night of drinking on the town promised in a hotel room.

James drapes an arm over her shoulders and shows her all the bars and restaurants he frequented in the five years they were apart. It almost feels like old times. Almost.

"So did you find what you were looking for in Hoenn?"

She hasn't been keeping time but it's probably somewhere in the AM and somewhere in two and a half bottles of wine. The two of them are lounging on the single — the manager had thought they were a thing and neither of them cared enough to correct him — with James's back resting against the headboard next to Jessie's crossed legs, and Jessie's head hanging off the edge of the bed.

"No," she says with a laugh. "Why do you think I came back? There was nothing in Hoenn, and they were deporting Kantonese citizens anyway."

"Figured as much," James grins, reaching over her legs to retrieve the last bottle of wine.

Laughing again, she rises to stick her hands out as if to beg for the alcohol. She smiles when he gives it to her and asks, "What about you? What did you do in the last, I don't know, five years?"

He shrugs. "Won competitions for awhile. And then the war hit, life sucked, and I probably would have eventually pussied out and went back home if not for Team Rocket."

"You say that as if it's a good thing."

"Is it not?"

"Joining a crime syndicate is never a good thing," she points out with the bottle. Propping herself up on her elbows to look at him better, she continues, "I should know. I'm related to them."

"Well look at you, the little yakuza princess, how did I ever get so lucky to be paired up with you?" James teases, resting a hand on her thigh. "I mean it. I'm lucky. I'm sorry for being an asshole earlier. I'm just glad things are going back to the way it was."

"I am, too," she returns softly.

They look at each other for a few moments before she feels kind of uncomfortable (but it could also be because he's not wearing a shirt and also because she's not wearing pants) and seeks some kind of distraction in the alcohol in front of her. She guzzles what little left there is; when she is done, she lifts her eyes and stares at him lazily, pursing her lips together in a tight smile.

She considers him. He has grown, undoubtedly, and filled in quite nicely. Five years ago, his long limbs had stretched out awkwardly and his skinny figure had made him look lanky and gawky; now, his arms and legs hold sizable muscle definition, and his body presents a sense of grace that did not exist beforehand. He's visually appealing. That much is obvious.

"Give it to me," he says absentmindedly, and she does. And his fingers find hers along the glass of the bottle and he looks at her and it's really all cliché but — well, she can't say she hasn't been waiting for this moment since she was eight years old because she has. His lips press against hers, taut and unsure, wanting but not willing. But they are too old to play this game, too old for uncertainty and gentleness, and if not, it's been too damn long for them to act like this. So she grips his shirt, climbs into his lap, and opens her mouth against his and — it feels right, to be completely honest.

But then her phone rings and she dips her head into the place where his neck meets his shoulder and groans because, as the universe would have it, it was only slightly meant to be. "Should I answer it?" she asks with a smile, and she feels his arms circle her waist in a tight hug.

"Is Matori of any importance?" he whispers as his hands ghost up her ribcage.

She wants to say no but — but there's a sinking feeling in her stomach, but then there's also James right there at her fingertips, so she has to force herself to reach for the phone on the bedside table while still entangled in his hold.

"Hello?" she asks, "Is everything okay?"

(Of course not, a part of her says. She wouldn't call at 4-fucking-30 in the morning if everything was okay.)

"No," Matori wheezes out on the other line, "No — I —"

The secretary breaks down sobbing, trying but failing to speak coherently. Jessie sits idly by, listening to the litany of grief for a few moments because there's nothing she could say. James trails kisses down her neck and she involuntarily presses her chest up against his, and oh god this wildly inappropriate, so she lifts a hand to gently push him away in the nicest way possible.

And then:

"It's — oh my god, it's Gin, he's," — and then another sob, another sob, a rustle of fabric and female voices in the background edged with comfort — "No, no!... I need to tell her. Jessie? Are you still there?"

"Yes, Matori," Jessie assures. She moves out of James's lap and out of the bed, walking in front of the mirror across the room and settling there to have this conversation. She watches James shift in the bed, confused and concerned, intently staring at her from behind. Hoping to sate his worries, she waves her hand, but he remains unconvinced. "Matori?"

"Giniro is gone. We can't find him — oh my god, we can't find him, he's not in the compound, he's not at Headquarters, we don't know where he is," she falters, her voice watery and cracked and panicked. "Giovanni won't let us look for him — he, he just locked himself in his room, and he's just drinking, oh god, please come home straight away, I don't..."

"Matori, just breathe," Jessie says, noticing how rushed the secretary's words are becoming with each second. "I don't — I'm on a mission. I just can't leave, I'm sorry—"

"Please," Matori pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't do anything, but you can."

And then Jessie remembers the flowers on her back and those are just pretty little things that anchor Matori to Giovanni's will. A slave, almost, but with more dignity and less freedom, if there is even such a thing anymore. "Okay, okay" Jessie murmurs, and Matori thanks and thanks and thanks until she physically can't and hangs up the phone.

When she turns, James asks her if there's anything he could do to help. Jessie says nothing and climbs back into his lap and kisses him, because the least he can do is take her mind off a tragedy in the making.

It doesn't take very long for Jessie to find Silver. The boy is bit predictable, because he ends up being at the Saffron train station just waiting on a bench for something or someone to take him home. Waiting for Jessie, namely. The kid looks out of place with his suit and tie, fitted to his size, tailored with such a perfection that only true wealth can buy. But Silver is still a kid, and he's silently crying to himself as he swings his legs back and forth.

It's James who spots him, actually, despite never meeting him before. He tugs on Jessie's hand in his
(they're a thing now, she thinks; well, she's not sure, but that is a different conversation) and points to the red head on the bench. "Kind of looks like you," he tells her as they approach Silver.

Silver doesn't notice her at first. Or if he does, he does a pretty damn good job at ignoring her presence. She squats before him, resting her hands on his that are folded in his lap, her voice seemingly smaller than he is, "Hey, Silver, do you remember me?"

"You're my sister," he says suddenly, his cheeks reddening at his sudden outburst.

He may not be of his blood, but he is certainly Giovanni's son, Jessie muses.

"Yes, I am," she nods slowly, and there are so many questions popping up in her mind but she decides that it isn't time to ask them. "Is that why you're here in Saffron?"

The boy sniffles and wipes his face with his sleeve tugged over his fingers. "Yeah. I asked one of the executives where Father sent you and they said you'd be here. I don't know why I came but now I'm here. And I want to go home but I don't know how. And Father isn't looking for me and no one has ever told me that they loved me and I think that's why I left."

Jessie tries to smile but it ends up lopsided and tinged with pity. She says, "I'll take you home, and maybe you could talk to your father about what you told me."

"Today's my birthday," Silver interrupts, not even acknowledging what she has said. "And he didn't even look for me. No one has looked for me. Maybe I shouldn't go back — maybe I should stay here. I was never his son, was I?"

This, Jessie isn't prepared for. She closes her hands around Silver's and tries the best she can at comfort but really, what can she say that will help him? James grips her shoulder in encouragement, but even that seems to not be enough.

"Yes you are. You are his son. Your father cares so much about you, Silver, you don't even know. He has his reasons, I'm sure. But they all miss you, and Matori is really torn up about you being gone. She's really sad," which is quite the understatement, honestly, but Silver doesn't need to know the grisly details.

"I didn't mean to make them sad," Silver whispers after a thought. "I don't know. I don't know what I meant."

"It's okay, that's okay," Jessie says. "How about we go home. Does that sound better?"

Silver nods his head. Then, he turns to James. "What was your name again?"

"James," the man says in surprise.

After some consideration: "Are you dating my sister?"

"Um," James says with hesitation. He looks to Jessie, who only giggles at his distress.

"It's okay," Silver assures, taking Jessie's waiting hand. "Just get me ice cream and I will pretend I don't care."

Suffice to say, James bought the ice cream, which made the train ride better than it really was.

Jessie tells James and Silver to wait in the car while she goes inside the Celadon base to talk to Giovanni and — if she had been coaxed out of the compound in her grief — Matori. The secretary in front absently notes her presence, simply telling the red-head that the "CEO" — as they call him when the public is watching — is in the building but wishes to be left alone today. It doesn't matter to Jessie, because honestly, Giovanni doesn't deserve a peace of mind after what Silver had confided in her, and barges into his office anyway.

The people of interest are, both coincidentally and as they should be (given their work stations), in the same room. A very drunk Giovanni sits at his desk, his head held up by his hands, and she sees that his eyes are blazing red. The office reeks of alcohol and tobacco, which Matori is working furiously to rid of as she scurries around with an air freshener and trash bag in hand. They don't notice her, and if they do, they are entirely too preoccupied in the fight they are having.

"Your son is out there, Giovanni, alone and lost and scared," Matori nearly screeches as she knocks the bottles on his desk into the trash. "And you're just here drinking — which by the way, when has that ever been good for you? — while your son's life is in danger. Don't you even care?"

"Frankly, Matori, I don't. And you know why?" Giovanni slurs, reaching over the desk to grab her hand with the trash bag gripped tightly in between her fingers. He gives an exasperated sigh, and says, "Because that sake tells me I don't. Life's better that way. And — and he's not my son, I told you."

"He is your son just as he is mine—" Matori starts, batting his fingers away when he tries to dig through the garbage to salvage the last bottle.

"And he's not yours, either."

"Then whose son is he?" she says pointedly. When he doesn't reply, doesn't even look at her, she throws the trash bag at his chest. "Jesus Christ. Huh Gio? Answer me. Watashi wo mite. If not mine and if not yours, then who?"

"He belongs to no one, then."

"You're despicable," Matori bites back, and she's all anger and frustration; Jessie can tell just by the way her cheeks flush into a deep red, by the way her teeth are clenched tight enough to hold back harsher words, by the way her nails dig moons into her skin of her palm.

So Jessie probably picked a really bad time to walk in, but it doesn't matter at this point. Giovanni is the first to realize that she here, and he grin and laughs and orders her to "fuck off," but she will not heed a drunk man's advice. Matori sighs in relief and walks over to the agent-in-training, enveloping her in a tight hug.

"I've had enough of taking care of him," she says blatantly. "Please help me find Giniro. If he will not, then you must; please, I just want him home."

"Actually—"

And then, like a godsend, Silver comes running straight for Matori with James, slightly out of breath, trailing after the boy with his hands in fists by his side. There's a shout of "Matori!" and a surprised gasp by the woman in question. Jessie gives a smile as she watches the secretary fall to her knees to catch the boy and hug him close to her chest.

"—I found Silver on my way home," Jessie finishes in a whisper. From behind her, James nudges her back with his elbow, a grin on his face.

"Sorry. The kid said he had to pee," James explains, rubbing the back of his head. "And, well, he just bolted down this hall."

"It's okay, James Morgan. You've done good," she says sweetly, and she means it.

Matori busies herself with checking every inch of skin on Silver, who stands still, giggling a bit as her fingers skim over the less obvious places of possible injury. The secretary mutters things of assurance under her breath, and when she sees that there is nothing wrong with the boy other than a shaken voice and the tears brimming in his eyes, she slaps the skin of his stomach playfully. She pulls her lips into a thin line and whispers, "All good, no harm," and grips both his cheeks, leaning forward to kiss his forehead soundly.

"Ms. Matori," Silver says hesitantly. He wrings his hands in front of him, as if he is anxious, which if Jessie remembers correctly, he is. Almost immediately, Matori quells his nerves by clasping her hands around his and smiling encouragingly. This, it seems, is all he needs to continue, "Do you love me?"

"Yes, of course," she affirms with no falter in her voice. She glances at Giovanni, who lies with his head on the top of his desk, looking like he's on the brink of passing out if anything else; sighing, she brings her eyes back to his and says, "You are my son. I love you endlessly, no matter what you do, no matter where you go."

And despite the obvious elation that Jessie feels, from both the reunion and the affirmation of love between a makeshift mother and son, there's something in her that stirs in jealousy. If her mother is alive, then why — at this, Jessie stops herself. Her mother had loved her. There was nothing to question — her mother did everything for her, and had died for her, no less. Shaking her head, she turns to leave in favor of the family's privacy.

"Please," Giovanni says almost desperately as he rouses from his temporary interlude. "Leave me."

Frowning, Jessie turns again just as she reaches the door. Who is he to ask for privacy? She settles her eyes on Matori, whose own are filled with tears, but none dare to fall. She shakes her head and stands up, worry etched on her face. "I'm not going to leave you Giovanni. I'm not going to let you do this again."

Giovanni appears to not have heard her; he jumps as if someone had shocked him and gasps for breath, scouring the desk for something — by both his distress and Matori's panic, it couldn't be a good thing for him.

"Please — leave me. Just for a bit, please. I need to—"

Giovanni digs through the drawers and cabinets, and moments later he procures a vial of clear liquid and what looks to be a sterile needle. The man — shrunken down to a mere boy in his state of despair — scrambles to prepare it.

"Stop!" the secretary says suddenly, rushing towards his way. She catches his wrist in a way that forces him to drop whatever is in his hand and pulls him closer to her. Her fingers restrain him enough for her to make him look her in the eyes, and her words are harsh and caustic but sobering to hear. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Do you want you son to watch you do this to yourself, Gio? Don't let him see you so weak."

"Silver, come here," Jessie orders, seeing that the situation unraveling before them is detrimental to the image of Giovanni and Silver's perception of his father. The boy obeys without question and scurries behind her, burying his face into her stomach.

The mafia boss heaves a sob and wrings his hands out of her hold. He combs his fingers through his hair and steadies himself on the desk, his breathing uneven and his chest rising and falling quicker than it should. This is the first time Jessie has ever seen the man act in such a way, but for Matori, it seems as if this happens more often behind closed doors. The possibility of him being weak, less than the man she sees everyday is a concept too polarizing for her to wrap her mind around. But there is always a flaw, she reasons.

"Hey," Matori murmurs gently, resting a hand on his shoulder, "You're okay. I'm okay. We're okay."

"Matori," Giovanni says, his voice breaking as he falls to his knees in a manner similar to what she had done before. His voice is watery as he slurs her name repeatedly, like a prayer misplaced in the tongue of a sinner. The secretary folds her hands over the back of his neck, and the sleeve of her kimono rides up slightly, just a bit, revealing a dark tattoo of Suicune running the down length of her her arm. A sign of steadfast purity and calmness in the face of adversity — nothing more fitting than for Matori herself, Jessie muses.

"I'm so tired," Giovanni says, so soft that Jessie almost does not hear him.

"I know, Gio, I know," Matori replies just as softly, biting her lip as if to hold back tears. She turns her face slightly towards Jessie and the rest of them. She manages to say with a wavering voice, "The Boss requires some time to gather himself. Please allow him to do so."

And if you ask Jessie who she thinks is the bravest person she knows, she will say Matori for this reason among many: she is the only person that is able to bring the most fearsome man in Kanto to his knees.

four — reprise

James and Jessie are given a room to stay for a respite period of five days, and all the trainees at the Academy will undoubtedly question the reasons why, and will undoubtedly spread untrue reasons why. This, however, is a concern for another time. Right now, the concern is mainly on the intense game of mahjong in front of them, which is normally played with four people but, like always, they make it work with two.

And the conversation kind of goes like this:

"You're cheating," James accuses.

"How do you cheat at two player mahjong?" she rejoins.

"I don't know but you're doing it, I swear."

"You're an idiot."

And the game goes on for awhile. Tiles are grouped in no particular order, and both Jessie and James exchange and scavenge the blocks in front of them for a winning piece. Jessie is too focused on the game in front of her — she knocks down the south wall tile by tile, convinced that doing so will result in a pung, knock on wood. James laughs at her intensity, to which she sticks out her tongue when she figures that she's almost close to having a chow, but winning that quickly wouldn't prove a point.

It's a game of self-sabotage with him, really.

"You're just mad that I'm winning," she says, flashing him a quick smile.

"Jessie, what are we?"

She's been expecting a question like this for quite some time, but it's one she can't answer straight away. A part of her knows that this won't work out, at least not now. Because she's too much and he's too little and they're too young to be this preoccupied with games of love. She knows that they are not meant to be right now — for both the reasons said prior, and for the fact that they barely know each other. It's been five years since they've last really known the other. Fifteen was forever ago; they're practically strangers now.

But she really liked kissing him. Really.

So she humors him a bit.

"We are partners," she says slowly, uncertain of her own words. "Friends — childhood friends. Who have fucked each other once," she smiles at this, hoping to coax one out of him, too, "But that doesn't matter. We are slowing things down, because I love you, honestly. I just — let's start over?"

James is silent for awhile. He thumbs the tile in his palm, as if deliberating his next words and his next move. Then: "James Morgan, nice to meet you."

She smiles, because after all this time, he still knows the right thing to say.

"Jessica Miyamoto. But you can call me Jessie," she says in reply. She groups the tiles before her, revealing her victory in his distraction. "And I think I just beat you at your own game."

"You cheated," he echoes with a laugh.

She rolls her eyes, feigning insult. "James Morgan, please tell me. How do you cheat at two-person mahjong?"

"I don't know," he chuckles lightly, "but I swear, you did."

For breakfast, Chef Ruiko makes enough pancakes for everyone to have two and a half, and much to Jessie's pleasure, they are as good as everyone says they are. Jessie and James are joined by Matori and a sleepy Silver in tow, whose charmander pajamas prove to be too big at the leg and drag on the linoleum floor as he saunters over to the nearest seat by Jessie. Matori yawns and request for just coffee, please, and a plate for Giovanni, which, she explains, will be delivered to him at a later time.

"Why isn't Father eating with us?" Silver asks, immediately digging into his food when a servant drops a plate in front of him.

"He had a rough night," is all Matori says, glancing at Jessie as if to hint at something that is beyond her.

And this is what Jessie realizes about Matori: the secretary — whatever she is to Giovanni — means a great deal to him, and the same could be said about him to her. Jessie purses her lips in order to bury her smile; there's something going on between the two, something that goes deeper than strictly business with a side of sentiments. It's amusing, this debacle of a relationship.

Silver hums, "Is he okay?"

"Yes, Gin," Matori nods, smiling. "He said that he will come down by noon."

"Do you think that he will be home by the time I return from school?"

"It depends if he will stay over at Vermillion or not," she answers just as quick, wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"Why does he go to Vermillion so much?"

Children, Jessie notes, are made up of a million silly questions and a few that they are not ready to hear the answers for.

"Business," Matori replies shortly. She sets the napkin down and flicks her eyes towards James, who is busying himself with a third plate of pancakes much to the chef's delight. "James. Archer will not be able to take Giniro to school today as he is leaving for a meeting in Sinnoh. Could you bring him — it won't take more than half an hour of driving, I promise."

James puts his fork back on his plate. "Uh... sure, I guess. Yeah. It's no problem," he says, a bit confused but willing to do so anyway. He looks to Silver and flashes him a grin. "Ready to go to school, buddy?"

Silver only sighs. Rising from his seat, he says, "Let's go, James, before I'm late."

The man twists his mouth awkwardly, slightly baffled by the boy's resignation. He glances at Jessie as he follows Silver to the garage, turning the corner and thus, they are out of sight. Matori closes her eyes in relief and leans back against her chair, slumping into a posture unbecoming for a woman of propriety.

"Is everything okay?" Jessie asks after awhile.

"I'm tired, Musashi," she whispers so quiet that the red-head almost does not hear her given name slip so easily out of her mouth.

Almost.

Giovanni requests for Jessie to meet him in the courtyard at noon.

(And he claims that he is not sentimental.)

The man seems to have completely turned around compared to his state before: gone are the slacks sagging at the waist, the shirt that hangs loosely off his body, and he is instead in his tailored Italian suit that clings to him just as it should, with a watch that glints in the sun at the right position wound tight around his wrist. He is the picture of business, the epitome of a man enraptured by power. Sitting in the middle of the expanse of land, at the same table as before with his Persian lazing by his feet, he looks up to meet her eyes and nods curtly — an invitation, permission.

She comes without speaking much more than a greeting. His stare dulls after a few moments, and he is softer, if it could be said of him. She watches him cautiously, resting her hands on top of the table and on top of the other, and she absently wonders what he could possibly want, or how he could possibly stand to face her after the events that transpired days before.

"You are one the few to witness the crumbling of a god," he says. He wets his lips and considers his words. "Do you feel honored?"

God — it's absurdly sacrilegious, yet it makes her feel unworthy at the same time.

"Honored is not the word I would use. Humbled, rather," and she wants to scream because it's completely, absolutely, lowly for her to even say this.

He stares at her blankly. "I am no god."

"I know. You are not infallible."

"Jessie," he says measuredly, and there's more calculation and coldness than any real human emotion in his voice. "I have located your father for you."

Her heart leaps, but she keeps any hopes at bay because surely, he'd disallow any sort of contact with her father anyway. "Oh?" she asks coyly, feigning disinterest despite both of them knowing that after all this time, this is what she's wanted all along.

"He is somewhere in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur of France, but I presume he is staying at our old vacation home there. I could be wrong, so it is up to you to find out for sure," he tells her, pulling out a small map of Europe and a few plane tickets. "These are for your trips there and back, and you may bring James if you wish. Money is not a problem — your last name will simply carry all costs away."

And for a few moments, there is silence. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, face ashen, expression grave.

Then:

"But," she prompts, disappointment flitting across her features. "There is a catch."

"If you choose to leave, you cannot come back," he says dryly. "Essentially, we will not recognize that you are related to me. You will be turned away, or if you make the mistake of coming again, or contacting Matori or Giniro, killed."

"I am your niece," she rebuts, incredulousness leaking through her words.

He rolls his eyes. "And your father is my brother — your point?"

She is slammed with the bitterness and anger in his voice. His face twists into an expression of pure contempt, not at her but at something beyond her. And while she looks like someone had taken her mother and shrunk her down to the size of a twenty-something, she realizes this: she has the eyes of a Rocketto, big and wide and tinged with the blueness of the ocean that years ago, their ancestors had trickled over from a place countries away. She is her mother with her father's eyes, a sight that must be hard for her uncle to stomach.

"Perhaps," she tells him, looking away at last, "My father was a better man for leaving."

She rises, but is stopped just as suddenly.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that your father deserves some type of honor," he says, his eyes fluttering with something inscrutable.

"He deserves more than you do," she spits out, her words singed with a graceless anger. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that your wife had no role in choosing the father of her son."

Giovanni clenches his jaw tightly and closes his fist in his lap. "How little you know, Musashi, how little you are willing to admit that you don't know anything at all."

"I know that you are bitter that your wife fucked your brother and that you are not ready to admit that it was not entirely his fault. You've fashioned yourself into a cruel man, Uncle, and it is no one's fault but yours," she yells, and that's enough for him to slam his fists onto the table, stand up, and begin to walk away.

She feels slightly accomplished the moment he turns his back on her. But then he turns again, eyes blazing with both fury and sadness, red-hot yet glazed over at the same time. He says pointedly, "She didn't have a say. She didn't have a say in who would father her child — he had been cruel by choice. I, by circumstance. I came back from the war to a son I did not father and a wife who killed herself the moment she became a mother. Do you understand, now? How much I hate him? How much he has ruined my life?"

Still, she persists, "Then why didn't you kill him?"

"His death would do nothing at all," he replies shortly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, her voice breaking under her frustration. There are tears on her face, if only because she is inwardly disgusted at herself for defending this man so fervently before.

"You are your mother's child," he murmurs, walking away with the only answer she will ever hear.

She gives the plane tickets to Petrel that night with the map of Europe and a few thousand euros in cash. Her instructions are clear: her father should be dead by the time she calls in the morning. She wants his name splashed across French headlines, his death at her command immortalized in black and white —Rocketto Frère, il est mort!

"There are people who say that what we do in this life will determine our fate in the next," Petrel says, grinning in excitement. He slips the necessities into his bag, then waggles an eyebrow at her. "What do you think about that?"

"If that is the case, then make his death slow and painful."

"You are becoming more like Giovanni everyday," he says, like it's a good thing, like it is some form of praise rather than an indication of declining morality. Petrel laughs, and laughs, and laughs all the way to the airport. She wonders, then, how he could fathom such sadism.

But then she realizes she is no different. The blood on her hands looks redder with each passing moment, and this time, she does not care to even attempt at turning on the faucet.

The shoji doors close and the tattoo artist leaves for the next room, where James must be waiting to receive his fate. Jessie rises slightly, wincing at the minute pain that still radiates from her back and the upper half of her arms. The mirror in front of her reveals a girl with the Rocketto family crest splayed out across the skin between her shoulder blades, emblazoned with colors of red, black, and white, surrounded by figures of the divine — of Ho-oh, of Lucia, of Entei. She tries to remain brave, and puts on a face as valiant as the tattoos on her person. Her arms ache at every movement, but she sticks them out to admire them properly— red cherry blossoms wrap around bands and waves of black, a design easily concealed but both formidable and vibrant at the same time.

Jessie swallows the regret making its way up her throat, because it is far too late to look back, to ask for the ink on her skin to be rubbed off raw. Regret — like guilt, like mercy — is the mark of the fool.

She is no fool.

So she bows at her reflection, as any person would in the presence of something so glorious.

footnote — i used a lot of japanese terminology to emphasize the differences between cultures in this fic: the contemporary, who speaks mainly english, and the old, who infuse the ways of their past with the increasingly western-centric world they now live in.

nani no haji: what a shame
okosan: (female) child
ojisama: uncle
ima detekuru: come out now
obaa-chan: grandmother
watashi wo mite: look at me

and the few words in french: the provence-alpes-côte d'azur is a region in france, near italy. and the headline, Rocketto Frère, il est mort!, means "the Rocketto brother, he is dead!"

afterword — this is a really, really dark version of team rocket and pokemon in general. i wanted the themes of family and identity to be the presiding influences in this fic, and given that the rocketto family (team rocket, basically) is shown to be a pg-rated (borderline pg-13 in some instances) fusion of the mafia and the yakuza in all medias of the fiction, i decided to play on that. so you see a lot of references to the yakuza here, mainly the recurring motif of tattoos and such. sooo yeah. this was a bitch to write and edit, tbh, because 14k words is a heavy task to complete. as such, this literally took me 3 months to write. so please, review. i'd love to hear what you think.