Content warning: This fic contains death (none of it final: everyone here's undead), depression, anxiety and other mental illness stuff, occasional strong language, some reference to drug, alcohol and tobacco usage, homophobia and transphobia, and characters generally not feeling great. Other things might come up over the course of the story; I'll always put a warning before the chapter in question, and before any chapters that are heavier than usual.

The infuriating thing is that E.V. knows exactly what's going on here. But of course nobody's paying attention to her.

There's a pretty big crowd gathered round the body now. Shoppers, kids enjoying the summer, office workers on their lunch break. All these people with places to be, brought to a sudden halt by the way death has thrust itself unceremoniously into their lives.

And also E.V., of course. She slips easily through the crowd like water through dry sand and pops out in the circle of clear space in the middle. Yes. Just as she thought. Body sprawled on the tarmac, head turned away. Ratty old clothes. Some kind of musical instrument in a case on her back. And one dark, blistered hand, stretched out towards a badly-damaged sword.

E.V. moves closer, ignoring the onlookers and the mounting wail of sirens. First few cops are here now, shoving their way to the front and trying to keep people back, but they're no concern of hers. She's more interested in the sword.

It's shortish – at least to her twentieth-century eyes; she doesn't pretend to be an expert – and snapped off partway down its length. No sign of the broken bit. Old damage, maybe. But what's left of the blade is worn and pitted, almost worm-eaten. Like a swarm of insects burrowed into it to lay their eggs.

"Hey," she says, crouching down. "You okay?"

She doesn't get an answer. The corpse and the sword lie there, lifeless as ever. E.V.'s scowl deepens, and she looks up to see the ambulance is here and disgorging a swarm of paramedics, hands full of medical equipment. The crowd parts for them, she notices. Cops didn't get that privilege. That's Goldenrod for you. Her town, through and through.

"She just fell down," this guy is saying, to the cops, the medics, anyone who'll listen. "I saw her moving really unsteadily, like she was hurt or something, and she looked like she was in pain, so I asked if she was okay and she just fell down."

The medics are all around her now, shifting the musical instrument and turning the body over. Checking for signs of life.

"No pulse," says one, looking up at her colleagues. "Starting CPR."

E.V. rolls her eyes.

"Of course there's no pulse," she mutters, tossing her one hand skyward in frustration. Then, louder: "Hey! Try the sword, mate!"

But they don't hear, and a moment later they're grimly pounding on the chest of a body that E.V. doubts has had a pulse in quite some time.

"I bet she's gonna be happy when she finds you've broken three of her body's ribs trying to bring it back to life," says E.V., exasperated. "I said, try the bloody sword!"

"Sorry," says one of the medics, looking at another. "Didn't catch that."

"What? I didn't say anything."

"Oh, for the love of― the. Sword!" yells E.V., but it's a losing battle, she knows; the sun is too high and the light too bright. This kind of thing is much easier in winter. Now, she sees, one of the cops has come over to investigate the sword, exactly the wrong person for the job, and in a moment everything will be have been successfully screwed up: the person who needs treatment taken to the evidence locker, their accoutrements whisked off to hospital.

It really isn't any of her business. And E.V. has stuff to do. She doesn't go out at midday unless she needs to, and frankly it's not in her best interests to stick around.

But.

"Bloody hell," she sighs, sticking two fingers up at the nearest cop. "I guess I better do your jobs for you, huh."

There are several ways into the Royal Westside Hospital; it's a huge ugly shipwreck of a place, spread out over thirteen buildings and two city blocks. Biggest hospital of pokémon medicine in the country, maybe even anywhere on the Tohjo peninsula. Travelling trainers usually enter via the bridge from the Pokémon Centre on Langbury Road; the general public often go in from Green Street or Hawksbill Square, depending on whether they want the reptile or mammal wards.

None of these are very convenient for the Intangibles Clinic, but that's all right. People like E.V. don't need to deal with the labyrinthine floor plan. It's in contravention of all the hospital regulations, and probably also several laws, but the doc has always said that she'll start paying attention to the rules when they make them fairer, and so there's a special entrance tucked away around the back of the Eckhart Building.

Hard to find; there's nothing here, nothing at all except a shady spot that never seems to get any sun, even now in high summer. If a regular person were to set foot here, they'd feel strangely cold, but of course they never do. There's just something creepy about it.

E.V. steps into the shadows and closes her eyes.

"It's me, asshole," she says. "Let me in."

In her mind's eye, two points of yellow light burst into burning life.

Thaaaat's verrry ruuuude, groans an unearthly voice that echoes through her head like funeral bells. Yoooouuuuur naaaaaammme.

"You know who I am, Domovoi."

The flaming eyes narrow.

Naaaaamme, Domovoi insists.

"Oh my go― E.V. Waraich. No appointment. Emergency."

The darkness behind her eyes shifts and swirls, and then the eyes slide up and down as if in a nod.

Eeeenteerrrr.

"Yeah, yeah."

One step forward into the dark―

―and out of an equivalent patch of darkness in the dimly-lit waiting room of the clinic. Dark blue walls, no lights but a mongrel selection of small lamps. It's a place built for monsters like E.V., and the gloom settles over her like a comfortable old sweater. Out of habit, she looks down at her hand: still translucent, but definitely visible now.

She looks up, sees a wide-eyed teenager in a nearby chair, nervously petting a pied murkrow and staring at the see-through lady who just materialised in front of her. Must be new. People who've been coming here for a while get used to the weirdness.

"E.V.?"

Ugh. This guy again. She suppresses the urge to make a face and stalks over to the window in the far wall, through which she sees a red-haired man in his mid-twenties, leaning on his desk and watching her with raised eyebrows.

"This is a surprise," he says, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Finally decided to book yourself in for a check-up?"

His partner, the biggest gastly E.V.'s ever seen, giggles eerily behind him. Does she understand what he's saying? Or does she just enjoy seeing people being made uncomfortable?

"Sod off, Lorne," she replies, ignoring her. "No, I need you to speak to the doc. Saw a honedge collapse on Westhaven Road, near Pavel's. Looks badly hurt. Paramedics are trying to resuscitate the corpse she was using, cops are taking her away like she's a weapon."

Lorne sighs.

"Jesus," he says, grabbing his phone from its cradle and stabbing at the keypad. "Goldenrod's finest, huh … hey doc, we've got an emergency. Honedge with a body, collapsed in the street near Pavel's. Cops and paramedics jumping to all the wrong conclusions. Uh huh. Uh huh, sure, I'll call the hospital." He puts the phone down and smiles at her. "She's on her way," he says. "Thanks for this, E.V. You might've just saved a life."

"Yeah, yeah," she says, unwilling to accept his gratitude. "'S just what you do, right. D'you need anything else from me, or …?"

"Well, duty compels me to remind you that it's been eighteen months since your last―"

"Anything other than that."

Lorne's smile fades around the edges, wearing thin over his exasperation.

"The doc might want to ask you some questions," he says. "Do you mind hanging around?"

E.V. almost says yes, she does, but as she opens her mouth she sees the sword again behind her eyes, broken and corroded. And she sighs, half annoyed and half pleased that she still cares, and says:

"No, that's fine. Wasn't doing anything important. I can wait."

"Great," says Lorne. "Take a seat, then. Oh – Freya?" he adds, to the teenager. "I'm so sorry, we've had an emergency patient come up and there's gonna be a bit of a delay. You can wait here if you want, or if you'd like to come back later I can call you …"

Never enough help to go around, huh. As far as E.V. knows, the staff here in the Intangibles Clinic is the smallest team in the hospital. The doc's trying to get some people trained up in her methods, but it's hard to get funding for this sort of thing. Ghosts aren't popular partners.

These are problems for other people. E.V. shakes them out of her head and drops into a free chair, wishing it was dark enough out for her to bring her Discman. But it's not, it's mid-July and brighter than Ho-oh's asshole, so she just watches Freya shrink into her seat and settles down to wait.

"E.V.," says a husky voice with a north Johto burr. "Thanks for sticking around."

E.V. blinks and looks up to see a familiar figure standing over her. Dr Spearing's a strange one; it's hard to say whether she's a true phantom like E.V. or some sort of ghost-type, but everybody knows she was definitely human once. She's tall, stoutly built, and made entirely of purple fog that wells out of her stone heart and curls endlessly around her head in a mass of hazy fumes.

"Hey, doc," says E.V., standing up and meeting her gaze. Her eyes are an incandescent, flickering green. Like some weird marsh fire burning behind two windows in her face. "It's, uh, been a while."

The doc raises an eyebrow.

"It has," she says, vaguely amused. "C'mon. I want to ask you some questions."

"Can I see her?"

The other eyebrow rises to join its colleague.

"All right, we'll go to the ward."

And, well, this is what E.V. waited for, so despite her misgivings she follows her down the hall, ignoring the curious eyes of the trainers waiting with their partners, and into the ward. Here the dark is complete and delicious; this place has no windows, no lights, all the better for looking after hurt ghosts, and E.V. almost looks like a live woman.

Kind of nice. But not enough that she'd ever come here if she didn't have to.

"How do you get in and out like that without me ever seeing you?" she asks, trying to cover her awkwardness; the doc just snorts.

"Maybe if you actually came in for your check-ups you'd know all the ways into this place, too."

It's a mean kind of answer, and from someone else E.V. might take it badly. But she and the doc are both assholes, and that means she gets it. Even if part of her is smarting at the insult.

"Anyway, I'm very grateful you called," the doc continues, as they walk down the ward. "I don't think she'd have made it without your help."

"She's okay?" asks E.V.

"Sort of. For now." The doc shakes her head, a few of her curls detaching from her scalp and fading away in midair. "You were right, she's very badly hurt. I've managed to stabilise her essence, but it's going to take a while for it to heal properly. And I've got to somehow convince admin to let me bring in a swordsmith to conduct physical repairs."

The ward moves around them. Padded tables either side like in a Pokémon Centre, only the occupants here are species no regular doctor is able to treat: a dusclops whose papery shell is unravelling, a deflated drifblim waving its fronds weakly as they pass, a gengar that keeps collapsing into a pool of seething purple slime. Ten years ago there was nothing to be done for them. Some might still say they're not worth saving, but at least it's possible now.

"Right." E.V. pauses. She's a little surprised at how much she cares. Is this that obligation you're meant to feel if you save someone's life? "You ever treated a honedge before?"

"No," admits the doc. "Not much data to go on, honestly. They're rare and don't often partner with people. Handful passed down as heirlooms among the royal families of Europe, but they don't let random doctors from Johto get their grubby little hands on their precious swords. Still …" She shrugs. "Ghosts anchored to physical objects are more susceptible to illness if their substrate's damaged. I'd like to get hers repaired before I discharge her."

She stops by one bed and raises a hand; thin tendrils of shadow snake across the curtains around the bed and whisk them back.

"After you."

They go through, the curtains twitching shut behind them. There on the table is … a sword. Cleaner now, but still snapped and pitted. E.V. was expecting this, but even so, the honedge looks so small, lying there on the green padding. So small and so dead.

"What happened to her body?" she asks, staring.

The doc sighs.

"Don't even start," she says. "She doesn't have a black card. Morgue won't release the body to me."

Bloody bureaucrats. E.V. wasn't keen on this stuff even before she died, but the fact that these days she's only one bit of paper away from legal nonexistence hasn't made her any happier about it.

"We have to get it back," she says, without taking her eyes off the honedge.

"Well, look at you, growing a heart. And a sense of responsibility."

E.V. shoots her a look; the doc smiles, shakes her head.

"I mean I agree," she says. "Just not what I expected from you."

"Whatever. What did you wanna ask me, anyway?"

"Sure. Brass tacks." The doc folds her arms. The right one is covered in slashes of the same green light that makes up her eyes, striping it from wrist to elbow. A hangover from when she was alive, E.V.'s heard, though as far as she knows the doc's never spoken about it, and fair enough. "Did you see her collapse?"

"Yeah." E.V. sees it again now: her staggering out from the alley that goes round the back of Pavo's, clutching her swordself close against her chest. "She was in pain already. Holding the sword like … like you'd hold your hand if it got hurt, I guess."

The doc nods.

"And then?"

"It was already snapped. Corroded too, I think. She kept touching the blade and moaning." Her eyes, wide and clouded with pain. People pulling away from her when they saw she had a weapon. "She took a few steps forward and this guy asked if she was okay, then she fell. Obviously her body collapsed as soon as her grip on the sword broke."

"Did you see anyone else?" asks the doc. "Anyone who might have attacked her?"

"You think she was …?"

"I think that this kind of damage isn't something that happens naturally," says the doc. "And until I know how it happened, I'm just guessing. So. Did you see anyone?"

E.V. shakes her head.

"No," she says. "I didn't."

"Pity." Brief sigh. "Okay. Anything else? Any signs of fire, battle, anything like that?"

"Uh … not fire. I don't think. Little bit of black smoke, but I think that was shadows, not flames. So maybe she'd been fighting." She scowls. "And then … yeah, she was dripping. I think. Something coming off the sword. Her hand was all blistered, too."

The doc furrows her brow in a contemplative kind of way.

"Hm," she says. "Interesting. Acid attack, maybe."

"Ain't she a steel-type?"

"I said acid, not poison. Might not be dealing with a pokémon here. I wonder if I've got any tests that could …" She breaks off, waves her own words away. "Talking to myself. I'll check that in a bit. Thanks, by the way." The corner of her mouth turns up a little. "Cops weren't very cooperative when I burst in and demanded they turn her over to me. Didn't seem to be in the mood to offer me any information."

"I can imagine."

Much like E.V., the doc's never got on with the police, though from the way she talks about it E.V. suspects it's more personal for her. The fact that she quietly (and only semi-legally) offers her services not just to pokémon but to phantoms like E.V. probably doesn't help.

"So," she says. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"No, sorry. But maybe there's something you can tell me."

"Such as …?"

"When she wakes up," says E.V., looking down at the honedge again. "Let me know, yeah? I'll, uh. I dunno. I guess I wanna know she's okay."

"Sweet of you," says the doc dryly, but there's no malice in her voice. "Sure thing, E.V. I'll do that if you book an appointment with Lorne on the way out."

"Ugh, look, I'm fine―"

"You looked in a mirror recently?"

"I don't show up in―"

"Well then, you probably don't know that your eyes have turned red."

"My eyes have what?"

Her hand rises to her face automatically, seeking difference, but of course she just feels the same as ever.

"Yeah," says the doc. "So, first thing tomorrow okay for you?"

Slam.

"E.V.? That you?"

She storms down the hall and flings open the door to the darkened living room. Kan's body is sprawled on the sofa, watching TV; she swoops across the room and yanks the plug from the wall.

"Hey, what the―?"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me I got red eyes?" she demands to know.

Kan sits up a little, shrugs awkwardly.

"Well, you know," he says. "I wasn't really sure they'd changed at all. My colour vision isn't very good. And, uh, last time I made any kind of remark about your appearance, you sort of bit my head off."

"That was 'cause I was ill, you dumbass son of a―"

"Okay! Wadjet's eye, chill out, would you?" He stands up stiffly, shedding dust and little flakes of mould that E.V. knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never clean up himself. "I only noticed last night. Figured maybe it was safer not to say anything till I was sure."

So he was scared. Nothing new there; Kan's always been a coward. E.V. understands – he has a lot to be afraid of, same as her – but it's like she's always said, you can be afraid or you can be angry, and she has no patience for anyone who takes the first option.

"Oh, for God's sake," she hisses. "I have an appointment with the doc tomorrow. You better pray it ain't a symptom of anything serious, Kanefer, or I'm going to take a crowbar to your carvings."

He flinches.

"Well, that's just uncalled-for," he says plaintively. "Look, I'm sorry, I screwed up. Just, uh … please don't say my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're my mother and I've broken a jar of beer." His face softens, or E.V. thinks it does; it's a bit hard to see underneath all the grave wrappings. "Are you all right? I'm sure it's nothing bad. You feel okay, don't you?"

"I … don't know," she admits, feeling her anger slipping away from her. "Don't change the subject, I'm still cross."

He sighs and reaches out with one blackened hand.

"E.V.," he says. "I'm not just the annoying undead abomination you flat-share with. I'm also your friend."

"Is that an attempt at a joke?"

"No, I know better than to try and make you laugh. It's just true." Kan gives her a frank look, which is only slightly marred by the fact that the eyes on the body he's using rotted away about fifty years ago. "Are you sure you're okay? You look awful."

And she pauses, and she remembers the way the honedge looked on that table, and acting completely on its own her mouth says:

"I saw a honedge collapse in the street."

The empty sockets widen, showing the shadows boiling within.

"Wait, what?"

"She'd been attacked, I think." E.V. sags a little, the energy bleeding out of her into the grimy carpet. "I called the doc. She's in the clinic now. Still unconscious."

"Oof." Kan shakes his head, his neck crunching in that horrible my-vertebrae-are-made-of-balsa-wood way that E.V. hates so much. "That's rough. She gonna be okay?"

"Dunno." E.V. takes a breath. It's mostly useless, but some habits stick with you, even after you don't have lungs any more. "She was possessing a body. Didn't have a black card, though."

He sucks his teeth with a sharp hiss of mouldy breath. Kan feels this stuff, even more than E.V. If they took away E.V.'s card, she'd be devastated, yes, but she'd probably figure out a way to get by. If they took away Kan's? He'd be screwed. His real self is trapped in his room by the fact he weighs a ton and a half and has no legs: puppeting this badly-preserved corpse is the only way he can go anywhere else at all.

"Well, crap," he says. "What's the doc gonna do?"

"I dunno. Bully 'em till they give in, I guess. Maybe use Newton to threaten 'em with court."

He nods.

"I hope it works," he says. "Hey, if we need to intimidate 'em, I'll come with. You'll have to call me a cab, but. Dead girl and a semi-embalmed corpse should do the trick."

"I'm thirty-one, Kan, call me a girl again and I'll break whatever teeth you got left. But, uh … cheers. I appreciate it."

"Any time, E.V."

They stand there for a moment in the dark, between the ancient sofa and the dead TV. The sun moves a little, sends a finger of light through a crack between the blackout curtains; from overhead, E.V. hears faint noises as someone moves around in the flat upstairs.

"I don't suppose you got the," begins Kan, and E.V. rolls her eyes.

"No, I didn't get you your bloody incense," she says, that furious spark catching inside her once again. "Or your beer. There were more important things to deal with."

"Yeah, no, that's fine," he says, a bit too fast. "Obviously that's … like it's completely understandable and everything."

She looks at him, her hand tightening involuntarily into a fist, and then she sighs and forces herself to uncurl it.

"I'm gonna go get some work done," she says, although she's taken today as her non-working day this week. "I strongly suggest you don't talk to me for the next two hours unless you bring vermouth."

"We don't have any ver―"

"Exactly," she says, and stalks out.

"Hey," he calls after her. "Can you at least plug the telly back in?"

And E.V. shuts the door.

The fury of E.V. Waraich is vast and pitiless, and also completely ignorable. Not like she can do anything, after all: unless the light is low she can't even touch you, and if you shine a torch in her face she'll hiss and flinch like a cartoon vampire. So the anger just sits with her in her office, at first attached to Kan and then, more honestly, opening itself up to Goldenrod, Johto, the whole damn world. She pounds her keyboard for a while, writes half an excoriating editorial that she knows she'll delete when she's calmer, and then gives up and puts 'honedge' into the online Pokémon Index Project.

They are old, it seems, and they are rare. Every culture that's come up with the idea of a sharp bit of metal for whacking people you don't approve of seems to have also come up with the idea that these bits of metal could be cursed or blessed or powerful in some way; that idea has bled out into the world, and so, honedge. Some of them form naturally. There's one attached to the Galish royal household that used to be a knight struck down while defending his king, and whose loyalty was such that he rose again to continue his service; there's another in Alola who was stabbed and refused to accept it, who became her attacker's blade and cut off his head with a single perfect Night Slash.

("Nice," says E.V., without hearing herself.)

Others are artificial. E.V. gets two-thirds of the way through an account of someone ritually murdering someone with a cheap sword he bought online in order to create a bargain-basement cursed weapon, then gives up, disgusted at herself for being interested. Why is this even up there? The honedge that resulted probably just wants a quiet demi-life, now that it's all over.

Less grotesquely, they are apparently functionally immortal. As long as their sword remains intact, so too does the spirit within, though without feeding their powers do diminish over time. They form parasitic relationships with humans, melding with their wielder's minds and turning them into warriors of legendary repute, all in order to shed blood and drink it in through their blades.

They have blood at the hospital, right? They must do, for transfusions and stuff. Would they let the doc have some for the honedge? She needs to get her strength back. E.V. disconnects from the internet and stares at her flickery old monitor for a while, the icons on her desktop blurring through one another as her eyes unfocus.

It isn't that she's a nice person. E.V. has no illusions about herself; she's prickly, cold, difficult to speak to and harder to live with. It's just that once, a long time ago in the bad old days, E.V. arrived in Goldenrod and needed saving too. She's older now, and crueller, but still. She has an obligation, and she's damned if she's going to let it slide.

"Back so soon, E.V.?"

"Not a bloody word," she growls, and Lorne mimes zipping up his lips.

"Go right through," he says. "Room 2. You're up first. Privilege of being someone who has to go to work today."

"How kind of you," she says, and leaves him chuckling to himself behind his desk.

In Room 2, the doc's already turned off the lights in readiness and sits flicking through a file in the dark.

"Eighteen months since your last check-up," she says, without looking up. "Which, if my maths is up to snuff, is three times as long as I recommend for a phantom of your age."

E.V.'s been dead since 1991; she sometimes jokes that she was the last trans woman Roaker got before he left office. That's eight years of this. Eight years of creeping around in the dark and looking longingly at bottles of vermouth she can no longer drink.

"Yeah, well." She shrugs. "Been busy."

"Been too proud to come to a pokémon doctor for medical treatment, more like," says the doc, with savage accuracy. "Here. Have―"

"How's the honedge?"

"Still asleep. I'm guessing it's a healing mechanism. Retreating into her physical substrate till her essence is stable enough for her to get up again." The doc gives her a look. "We can talk about her later, E.V. This is your appointment."

"Right," she sighs. "Guess it is."

"As I was saying: have a look in this."

She hands E.V. a square of … something. It's black, highly polished, and cold as ice, even through the thick padding round its edges.

"What is this?"

"Just look in it."

E.V. looks, and almost drops it: that's her looking back. Washed-out brown face, big beaky nose – and violently red eyes like an absol's.

"How …?"

"It's called a dark mirror," the doc explains. "Fresh from Silph's spectral technologies department. They send me stuff for testing sometimes." Her grin flares up like a streak of green fire. "I'm guessing it works."

"Yeah, it's – it's …"

Hard to speak. E.V. can count the number of times she's seen her reflection since she died on the fingers of her one hand; she's shown up in still water on moonless nights, in a puddle of spilled chandelure fuel, in one shard of broken glass when someone nearby was afraid of her. But here she is, in an actual mirror.

Her, and her new evil eyes. Bloodless whites, vivid crimson irises. Pupils just a little too oval to be human.

"What's wrong with me?" she asks, unable to entirely squash the note of alarm sounding deep inside her.

"Could be any number of things," says the doc, which E.V. will admit doesn't do much for her peace of mind. "Put the mirror down and take your shirt off."

"Bet you say that to all the girls," says E.V., trying to put off the moment in which she actually has to give herself over to the vulnerability of being examined, and gets a sharp bark of laughter in response.

"You're too young for me, kid. Now get a move on. I know the shirt is technically part of you, but I need to get as close to your core as possible."

E.V. sighs and obeys. She does need to know. And she can't waste time. She's got work, and the doc has other patients, most of whom are probably much sicker than her.

"Okay," says the doc, examining her in that dispassionate medical way. Her fingers are warmer than you'd expect of a dead person. Warmer than E.V. remembers, anyway. "Still differentiation. Skin, muscle, bone, fabric, all feel distinct … no change in shape either."

"Were you expecting any?"

"Not really. Lift your arm while you're at it. Yeah, like that. Now open and close your hand. Right. That's good."

"It is?"

"Your muscles and tendons are still shifting when you move. Together with the different tissue types remaining distinct, that means your physical form is still holding together, even beneath the surface." The doc indicates herself, all vague and wispy at the edges. "Not always a given, if you've been dead a while. Although I wasn't exactly solid to start with."

E.V. vaguely remembers that. When she first came to town, the doc definitely looked more human. Younger, too. The blurring of her form has made her look ageless, in a way that E.V. associates with older spirits.

"Right," she says. "So that's a good thing."

"It is." The doc's voice seems to be losing its Mahogany burr, growing softer and more west Johto. Force of habit, maybe. She probably wants to put patients at their ease when they visit her, and E.V. suspects that means pretending to be a nice middle-class Goldenrod doctor. "People like us are mostly made of feelings," she says. "Our physical forms are more tenuous; they're the first thing to collapse when we get sick. Remember your hair turned to mist a few years ago?"

E.V. nods. That was utterly terrifying. For her, mostly, but also for everyone she ran into. Apparently a ghost with her head wreathed in luminous smoke is 'hideous' and 'a public nuisance' and 'can I see your black card please, sir'.

"Like that," says the doc. "But if your form's holding even under the surface like that, it's a good general indicator of health. I'll need to take a sample anyway, of course. It's been a while and it's important to know if your composition's shifted."

"If you have to," sighs E.V.

The doc smiles in understanding; E.V.'s sure she's been on the receiving end of this process herself.

"I'll try to make this quick."

She's as good as her word: out come the psychic forceps, and a moment later E.V. is rubbing her neck and grimacing.

"Ugh," she mutters. "Ain't there some kind of law against those things?"

"Nope," replies the doc cheerfully, transferring a wriggling lump of E.V.'s ectoplasm to a vial. "And I'd break it if there was."

"Figures." E.V. takes her hand away. Habit makes her look at her palm for traces of blood, but of course there aren't any. "So what's next, doc?"

"Next, I'll get this processed and have Lorne call you with the results." It's not the full story; the doc has that particular look in her eyes, the one that means she's got an idea percolating somewhere deep in her mist. "For now, I've just got a couple of questions," she says. "How's your light sensitivity?"

"Uh … bad. You know."

"Worse than usual?"

"I mean I guess. It's July, you know?"

"Mm." Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Scale of one to ten?"

E.V. tosses her hand up in exasperation.

"I dunno, doc, a seven, maybe? But three or four when it's dark."

"Okay. Tangibility? On the same scale, how hard is it to interact with physical objects?"

"Like a six or seven, I guess. Four in the dark. I have to really want it, but once I've got it it's okay."

"And have your senses changed at all?" asks the doc. "Night vision? Sense of smell? ESP?"

E.V. frowns. She thought Kan's body just needed a fresh shot of preservatives, but maybe her nose is sharpening.

"How'd you …?"

The doc leans back in her chair, twisting her lip between her fingers.

"Well," she says, taking her hand away again. "I'm going to run those tests anyway to make sure you're not ill, but if your essence is holding together, your scores are going up and your senses are shifting … that seems to point to one thing."

"What?" asks E.V., her unbeating heart in her mouth. "What is it?"

"You're getting older, E.V.," the doc replies. No trace of her real accent now. "Like any ghost – maybe excluding sableye and jellicent – you're going to get stronger and stranger as you age. Less human, too." She pauses there, just for a moment. Gauging E.V.'s reaction, though E.V. is currently focusing hard on not reacting at all. "Physical changes are probably going to be very slow, since you have such a strong sense of self. But your tangibility and light sensitivity are going to get worse, and you might find you start to pick up some new powers. This is where stories about ghosts making the lights flicker or breaking things come from."

Another, longer pause. Somewhere else in the clinic, a ghost starts babbling in that weird semi-human way, stops again.

"E.V.?" asks the doc carefully. "You all right?"

It's a very good question. E.V. turns it over in her head for a few seconds, breathing shallowly, and then decides to hell with it. She was always a monster, even when she was alive. She can be a monster now too. Especially if she gets to keep her face.

"Yeah," she says. "I, uh, I think."

Little more honest than she wanted, but fine. She trusts the doc, as far as she trusts anyone, and she knows that nothing she says now will ever leave this room.

"Okay," says the doc. "Okay." She hesitates for a moment, her hand rising slightly as if back to her lip, then she lets it fall, faux-casual. "I'm going to make a recommendation now," she says. "I want you to not turn it down immediately."

"No promises, doc."

Wry smile.

"Guess that's the best I can expect from you," says the doc. "All right. I have some resources available for phantoms in your position. I'd like to offer you an assistance pokémon."

So that's what this is. Help for the washed-up old ghost who struggles to get her shopping done before sundown.

"I don't need a bloody guide dog," E.V. starts, but the doc cuts her off before she can wind up properly:

"No, E.V., I need you to understand. When I say your tangibility and sensitivity will get worse, I mean it's going to get harder for you to maintain your current lifestyle." Her eyes are hard, warm, serious. "You will find it difficult to go out during the day and to do your job, especially at this time of year. And you need to start building up a rapport with a pokémon before you get to that point, because nobody offers specialist training for pokémon supporting ghosts. So you and I are going to have to do a lot of the work ourselves."

She's leaning forward now, no trace of her usual good humour in her face or bearing. E.V.'s made a life (or at least an existence) of staring authority in the eye without flinching, but it's a lot harder to keep up the fight when you suspect the other person might actually be in the right.

"I don't expect an answer right away," says the doc. "I don't even expect you to say yes. But I want to know you've thought about it."

E.V. opens her mouth to argue, forces herself to close it again. The doc's right. She has to think. It's so much easier to be angry – especially now that she's made of emotion rather than flesh – but she has to calm. Down. And think.

Honesty? She wasn't going to be able to get Kan his beer and incense yesterday, even if she hadn't got sidetracked by a rescue mission. Or her cigarettes, for that matter. Kan asked her if it was okay, if maybe she wanted to wait, but she just went out anyway. There's only one place that has Kan's incense, and it doesn't open late.

She had to try, is what she told herself. But maybe what she meant to say was that she was too proud to admit she couldn't do it.

"E.V.?" asks the doc. "You okay?"

E.V. drags her eyes up from the floor to meet hers. She takes a breath. And says absolutely nothing.

"We can leave it for the time being," says the doc, her face softening. "Just think about it, okay?"

E.V. nods. It's been a long time since she felt this weak, this useless. Not something she missed at all. She tries to offer herself her old ultimatum, scared or angry, but she can't seem to take either choice. Right now, all she's got is exhaustion.

"I'll let you get to work now," the doc continues. "Take the mirror with you. You should be able to carry it, even in the sunlight. I'd like you to keep an eye on yourself and make a note of any changes in your appearance; I know Kan isn't exactly the most reliable."

"Are … are you sure?" asks E.V., struggling back towards her usual self. "Seems like you'd need it."

"Yes," replies the doc. "I need it to give to patients like you so they can self-assess." She raises an eyebrow, and just like that the Goldenrod falls away from her voice. "Surprisingly enough, kid, when I want to know what my in-patients look like, I can just look at them."

"Fine," says E.V., snatching the mirror off her with her best feigned ingratitude. "Whatever. Can we talk about the honedge yet?"

"This again?" The doc shakes her head. "I've told you everything I can, E.V. She's resting. Her essence is weak, but stable. I'll give her a day or two, and if she hasn't woken up by then I'll try to wake her myself. If only to get the cops off my back." She makes a sharp, dismissive movement of her hand. "They showed up yesterday with questions. Told them she can't talk yet, but they phoned this morning asking for an update."

E.V. nods. As expected, really. Mostly she's just glad that the doc seems to have kept her name out of it.

"And her body?" she persists.

"Her body is … in the morgue still." Her hand tenses on her desk, stretching out one of her scars. "They say they're trying to ID her. I've submitted a request that I be allowed to examine the body, but it's been denied."

"Why? You're the only ghost doctor in town. In the world, even."

"They believe that the coroner is better qualified," says the doc, the Mahogany rising in her voice again. "I'm a pokémon doctor, after all. And the, you know. Risk of bias."

E.V. almost argues, but of course there's no point. The doc's on her side here; she doesn't need convincing. And anyway, everything E.V. might have said is already visible in her face, if the look in the doc's eyes is anything to go by.

"Yeah," she says. "I know, kid. I'm not happy either. Gonna speak to Newton today and figure out if we can mount an appea―"

Someone knocks on the door. The doc's brows knit together in a dangerous kind of way, and she flows up onto her feet, holding out a hand for E.V. to remain seated.

"'Scuse me," she says. "Better go tell whoever this is that they don't interrupt me when I'm consulting."

"Dr. Spearing?" calls someone. The doc opens the door a little. Not far enough for E.V. to see who it is, or for them to see in.

"I'm with a patient," she says, blasting him with the full force of her accent. Voice so cold it almost hurts your ears when it goes in. "What is it?"

"League business," says the someone. "Christine sent me to ask about the ghost you brought in yesterday."

Christine Summers: current leader of the Goldenrod gym, and therefore the eyes and hands of the Indigo League here in town. E.V. trusts it very slightly more than she does the police (it organises trainer journeys, which is at least sixty-five per cent a good thing), but that's not exactly saying much. She's absolutely certain that the honedge doesn't need their involvement right now. Possibly ever.

"I am with a patient," repeats the doc, slower and more dangerous. "Is this a medical emergency?"

"No, I just―"

"Then take a seat in the waiting room and I'll be with you when I can," she says. "Cheers."

"Dr―"

She shuts the door and leans against it for a moment, eyes closed.

"Ricky," she mutters, looking altogether too tired for eight forty on a Friday morning. "I hate Ricky." Eyes open; and she's up and energetic again, clapping her hands together decisively. "Right," she says. "I actually don't have too much else to say. I, uh, just wanted to teach him some manners."

"No, that's fine," says E.V. "Not gonna complain if you want to make some League guy's life harder."

"Look at you, single-handedly keeping the punk flame alive." The doc clicks her tongue. "Right. You keep an eye on yourself, all right? And call me when you want to talk about what we discussed." Wry grin. "If you don't get back to me within a week, I'll show up at your front door, so. Consider yourself warned."

E.V. pulls a face.

"Whatever," she says. "See you, doc. Gotta get to work before they fire me."

"Yeah, and I gotta speak to Ricky bloody Whitehead." She holds out her hand. "See you. And don't worry. We're gonna sort things out, okay? For you and the honedge."

Maybe it's the way she says it, but it really does make E.V. feel a bit better. She slaps her palm against the doc's and walks out with the question of her evil new eyes sitting in her a little lighter than before. She even comes close to smiling in the waiting room, where she sees Ricky sitting and staring uneasily at some kid's haunter.

"Right," says the doc, emerging from the passageway behind her. "Ricky Whitehead, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah," he replies, deliciously uncertain. "Dr Spearing, I―"

"Dr Spearing?"

E.V. pauses by the doorway – she can't take Domovoi's secret exit, not with a League rep right there to see – and turns to see a nurse hurrying down the corridor from the ward, his eyes wide and his arms full of unconscious mismagius.

"Dr Spearing, the honedge has woken up," he says. "And, um, she's not very happy."

For the briefest of moments, the doc's eyes meet E.V.'s across the room.

"Absolutely not," she says. "I will deal with this, E.V."

"That's funny," replies E.V., her anger falling into step beside her like an old friend. "I wasn't asking your permission."

She starts down the corridor. Behind her, the doc curses and glides over to catch up.

"E.V.!" she snaps. "How about you go to your work and I go to mine?"

"Nice idea, doc. Now c'mon, that honedge needs help."

"Dr Spearing―?"

"Not now, Ricky!" She surges forward in a burst of shadow, reforming in front of E.V. a moment later. "E.V., while I'm thrilled to see you motivated again, I have enough in-patients without you taking a Night Slash to the throat. I don't have time to argue with you, so if you're not going to go to work then sit down and wait."

Her hair lifts and extends, lashing at the air like a nest of serpents, and for once E.V.'s furious onward motion falters. Part of her wants to keep fighting, the way it always has done, but of course there's a big difference between punching the guy harassing her friends coming home from the 88 and interfering with essential medical care.

"Good," says the doc, seeing her hesitation. "Back soon, kid."

And she's gone, all the shadows in the hall bucking like wild horses at her passage. E.V. stays there for a moment, slowly crushing her urge to go after her, then turns and tosses herself roughly into a seat, opposite Ricky.

He and the voltorb wobbling back and forth at his feet stare at her. She glares back, doing her best to give him the impression she could peel them both with her mind if she wanted, and drums her fingers restlessly on her knee.

Honestly, she doesn't even know whether she wants to cry or break Ricky's nose.