Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
I watch the clock on the wall slowly work its arms around in a circle. It moves endlessly, always advancing, yet it keeps coming back to the same spot. The only measurement that something has been accomplished is the movement of the other arms, and memory. It reminds me of Magnum's pendulum, forever swinging back and forth in his yellowed hands.
There is a whisper from the side door, and a girl comes in, the blank glass door silently sliding into place behind her. She is on the brink, old enough to be an adult, but young enough to have the mentality of a child. She walks hesitantly, unwilling to leave the family I know is behind the doors and anxious of what Magnum will do, yet she knows she is expected to come forward. She drags her eyes away from his swinging charm to examine mine, and sits across from me. I take the chance to examine her more closely; her eyes are not sore from crying, like the many I have seen before, but I can still see fresh pain in her. Now, she is simply drained, hurt enough to stop fleeing from it.
"Sir? What are you doing?"
I give a start – I had been staring without realizing it. Hurriedly, I clear my throat and look away, bringing out an old-fashioned tape recorder and a folder. Glancing back, I note her confusion; such objects are not common in her world, replaced by more modern devices. I set the tape recorder on the table and start recording.
"What are you here for?"
She pauses, uncertainty showing through her face. "I'm not sure. I was told to be here, I don't know why. I've never done anything like this before."
I sigh and lean back. Everybody comes here the same, with no idea what questions will be asked, or why. Nobody knows why, nobody ever is told why, because nobody knows. Not even those that come and then leave. I pull out the folder and flip through it. A social security card, a birth certificate, awards. All that remains of an old man. John Withers, 62. Terminal cancer. Diagnosed and treated two hours prior to this conversation.
"What was your grandfather like?" I ask. No use in subtleties at this point.
The hurt comes forth in her eyes, but she doesn't cry. "He was good. He always had time for us. He was always nice, even after he had a bit of a drink. He always was the one in control. Other people sometimes talk about how their grandparents are rebellious, getting them in trouble with their parents over small bits of fun. He never had to do that; he knew how to have a good time within the boundaries. I'm going to miss him."
I lean forward and put an arm on her shoulder. Anything else is useless. "Don't worry, all will be better soon. Magnum, come forward, please."
The Hypno does so, stepping to the girl's right, my left. The girl's eyes are immediately drawn to the pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth, her pupils following the charm's motion as her face becomes blank. I remove my hand from her shoulder and pick up the folder from the table, the folder with all that remains of John Withers. My other hand brings yet another ancient device from my pocket.
This is my job, to bring comfort to the troubled, peace to the worried. But how do you stem the tears brought by Death, by the pain of loss?
"John Withers never existed," I tell the girl as I light the folder. The flame winds its way up the paper, reflected in both the charm and the girl's blank eyes. John Withers is burnt out of existence. No body, no memory, no trace. No death, no pain.
I leave later that day. The girl has left, the ashes have been disposed of, and the room is again a sterile white. It's happened often enough that I am no longer even sick of it, simply exhausted. I have heard of maulings, unspeakable acts of inhumanity, and peaceful deaths, and nobody remembers them but the Peacekeepers. All traces are gone except me, and my memories. And the recorder I have been smuggling in for five years now.
Magnum remained at the facility; he belongs to the Peacekeepers organization, and never leaves. It was a stretch to even allow the Peacekeepers to leave, but it was one that was deemed required for us to be able to function.
Matt passes by me on my way out. He is bright and happy, smiling, glad to be alive. He gives me a nod and a grin, then vanishes as the Kirlia next to him teleports him to his assignment. I remain standing there a moment, staring at the bright red bricks of the building opposite, where he just left.
He gave in! Gave in, gave up the unspoken oath to never forget those that only we remember. He gave up his memories for his happiness, and I pity him for it. I walk down the street, taking a turn there and there, now going straight, ignoring the whitewashed sidewalk, the glistening cars flying by. All I can see is his smiling face, free of sad knowledge.
My home is nothing special, no different from those around it. A red door, three windows, two floors. A small apartment in the large complexes of Saffron, shadowed by the Silph Company's huge building. There is an armed guard outside of it, though few understand why. The Rockets never killed anyone in their attempt to take the skyscraper; it was mostly harmless, and quickly brought to an end. Or so memory tells.
I quickly walk up the steps, acknowledging the greetings called by neighbors with a nod, and then I am inside, staring at the empty rooms. Empty like the memory room, with faded white walls and the bare minimum furniture. Nobody has ever been over to my house. How can I have anyone inside, entertain anyone? I know you, your child died at birth. Your cousin perished in a fire. Your parents died, it was their time, but you don't even know their names, their face. How can you laugh?
I move to the back room, pull out the table, open the trap door. Cliché, obvious, but nobody remembers it, so it does not need to be complex. I climb down the short ladder, arriving in a small dirt space. I dug it out myself, over the course of a month, making sure it would not collapse. It is just large enough to hold a computer, a generator, and myself. It is not connected to the outside world in any way; completely isolated, contained. The world is safe from the sadness it holds secret.
I place the tape recorder in a special port, built specifically for that purpose, and the recording transfers. Her pain and memories are enshrined in an altar to the past, a time where we knew pain, and hunger. I begin typing, taking care not to allow any errors to tamper with the memory. John Withers, born June 2, 2034, died November 19, 2096. A father of two, grandfather of seven. Slowly, arduously, John Wither's life is transferred from memory to screen, the blinking cursor spelling out his accomplishments and dreams.
Finished, I save the recording and data, ensuring it is complete before shutting it down and once again climbing the ladder. The door is shut, the table is moved, and again the past is buried. But it will not remain so.
I slip out of the Peacekeeper uniform – the cap with the peace sign laid over a poké ball, the jacket with the same insignia, the belt. I am once again just a man. I walk to the mirror and run my hand through my hair, surveying my face. The task is not easy on any of us; we all have circles under our eyes and a perpetual gaunt look to our face, like that of a skull. I am no exception.
The house is silent. I have no companions; no wife, no children, no pokémon. Those outside would call me insane, for who can survive without some form of companionship? How is life meaningful without contact?
I sit at the table, unable to eat yet. Instead, I count the days to freedom. There are forty-one of them. I do not know why the date was chosen, simply that it was. On that day, my dirt room will be connected to the outside, the shell breached. The others will do the same; it has been arranged through the passing of notes, the sharing of whispers. On that day, we will tell the world of what they have lost, and they will weep. They will hate us for revealing to them pain, for telling them of death and violence, for opening the box and releasing the monsters that are already in the world.
On that day, we will break our shackles to happiness.