"I'll tell," Red says, impulsively. He tells himself he isn't shaking where he stands.
Lance smiles lazily at him. His hand comes up to cup the side of Red's face; one of his thumbs brushes slowly over his cheek, gently, very gently. "Who will you tell?" the man asks, sounding amused.
Red bites his lip, silent. In his mind he races through all the people he's met throughout Kanto, wondering who he can trust. Who would Lance be afraid of?
And Lance waits for him, patiently, like they have all the time in the world.
The Gym Leaders, Red thinks, first. But, he remembers, they never cared about Team Rocket. And Lance is stronger anyway.
Bill, maybe? He's a researcher, though, not a battler. And if people respect his work on pokémon, they also think he's completely insane. Remembering uncomfortably the incident with the gene splicer, Red privately can't be sure he disagrees.
Desperate, he claws through his memory for more possibilities. Mr. Fuji in Lavender Town, Red thinks—but already, there's a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. He remembers the grainy photo in Cinnabar; the bronze plaque, hailing the founder of Pokémon Lab. The burnt-out mansion and the diaries.
Lance is still smiling at him. His touch burns like a brand on Red's face, rubbing his thumb in slow, soothing circles, stroking his hair. Red feels his resolve crumbling at the edges.
Then it hits him.
"I'll tell the president," he says, too quickly. "Of Silph Co. I'll tell him you knew about Boss Rocket. And then he'll make you pay!"
That one gets a reaction. Lance's face quickly twists into something ugly, arm stiffening, and for a moment, Red thinks he's actually going to hit him. He screws his eyes closed out of instinct, cringes at the sharp press of nails digging into his skin.
The moment passes, and nothing happens. When Red dares to open his eyes again, Lance's ugly expression is gone. The man's serene smile is back. Instead of a blow, there's only the gentle motion of Lance's fingertips, stroking down the side of Red's face.
"And who do you think markets their products, Red?" Lance asks calmly. His smile curls malevolently at the edges. "Who do you think decides what gets stocked in the marts? Who decides what items are allowed in battles? Who decides what products trainers hear about, want to buy?"
Without warning, he seizes Red's arms and drags him in close, so that their faces are nearly touching. Red pales, trying to pull away, but Lance leans in close to his ear: "That's right. The League does," he says softly. "The League decides everything."
Defeated, Red crumples. He hears Lance laughing as the man draws him into an embrace, kissing his forehead. He pulls Red under his cape so that it's covering them both, and when he speaks next, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Don't fight us, Red," the dragon master says, the words strangely tender. "You'll only lose. You may be a good trainer, very talented, but you're still only a child. Don't try to test the limits of what we will do."
And it must true, Red must only be a stupid kid, because all he can think about in this moment is how much he'd rather be home with his mother right now than standing at the summit of Victory Road. Why did I have to step out into the grass that morning, he wonders to himself, feeling sick. His pokémon can't help him now. Professor Oak can't help him now.
As though he can read Red's thoughts, Lance smiles into his hair like he knows he's won. "Don't worry. You'll make a wonderful Champion," he says reassuringly. "All you have to do is obey exactly what we tell you."
His hands shift, tightening their hold on Red's shoulders. And that's when Red actually begins to cry.