N.B.: For those of you who see a pattern or something that makes you say, "Hey! Is that … ?", then the answer is "Yes." I don't know how the later ones will turn out, but this opening story must be read all the way through to get the full effect. Kinda like a whodunit: if you don't have all the clues, how are you going to be able to make a good guess at who the culprit is? Of course, oftentimes (and especially if you're reading Agatha Christie), the denouement is a real surprise.

I. Moon/Blossom

Summary: What blossoms when an ailing Flannery is forced to stay at Steven Stone's house? Hint: not bougainvillaea.

It was a dark and stormy night. Outside, buckets of rain drenched the windows, obscuring any view from them. Inside, Flannery and Steven sat discussing business. Most of it dealt with the Hoenn League: expenditures, budgets, red tape, new regulations, health care reform—no, that last one wasn't part of the discussion.

The house was Steven's, and he and Flannery were the only ones left from the meeting that had taken place there a few hours ago. Flannery had brought up some points; Steven had wanted to go deeper into them. Steven had brought up some files; they had found that there was much more to the whole thing than they had expected. Steven had complained that they would have to spend a good deal more time at their next meeting discussing their new course of action in light of these findings. Flannery had suggested that they work on as much as possible there to save others the time. Steven had liked Flannery's ideas. Time had passed.

"Wow, it's really coming down now," said Flannery. "Oh, my! What time is it?" She sneezed.

"Gesundheit. It's—" Steven glanced up at the clock. "Why, it's nearly nine-thirty."

"Have I really been here that long?" gasped Flannery. She sneezed.

"Gesundheit. You look rather beat," said Steven.

"I'm exhausted," said Flannery. "I'm just getting over a cold. Achoo! Achoo!"

"Gesundheit. Now that you mention it, you don't look well at all," said Steven.

"I'm fine," said Flannery. "But when I—achoo!—get home, I'm going to take a hot bath and make myself a cup of chamomile and curl up with a good chick lit book."

"Comfort food?" said Steven.

"I laugh myself to sleep," said Flannery. "Achoo! … Excuse me! Oh, well, I guess I should go now. Thank you for those nice mini Pop-Tart-and-Lean-Cuisine-chicken sandwiches. You do make good refreshments. I wonder why there were so many left."

"Will you be all right, driving in this rain? I can barely even see out my window!"

"Oh, I'm not driving," said Flannery. "I rode my bike here. (Achoo! Achoo!)"

"You're going to ride your bike? In this weather? And with your cold?" Steven stared at Flannery.

"I'm fine," said Flannery. "But if you don't mind, I'm just going to sit down a second." She lowered herself onto the couch.

"You don't sound very good either," said Steven with a frown. "Flannery, you don't have to prove anything to me. If you're not feeling all right, maybe I should drive you home."

"Oh, thank you," said Flannery in a half-mumble. "But what about my bike?"

"I have a bike rack on my car," said Steven.

"Well, I guess so, then. —Achoo!"

"Gesund—I'll go hook your bike up. Where is it?"

"Front porch," mumbled Flannery.

Steven left to fetch the bike. Flannery sniffled and leaned back on the couch.

Ugh, I feel terrible. Well, maybe for a few minutes …, she thought, and with that, she pulled her legs up onto the couch and rested her head on one of the arms. The next thing she knew, Steven was tapping her shoulder.

"Flannery? Are you sure you're all right? You dozed off."

"Well, maybe I'm not feeling so well," sniffed Flannery.

"I made you some tea," said Steven. He handed her a cup.

"Thank you," said Flannery, who was by now too sick to make any pretense of not needing any.

"Is there anyone at your house—I mean, anyone who can look after you? Like your grandfather?"

"No," said Flannery. "He went on a cruise to the—sniff, sniff—Orange Islands last week. It's just me and my Pokemon."

"Well, that settles it," said Steven. "Torkoal can't make tea. You'll just have to stay here until you're well enough."

Flannery blushed slightly, but didn't object.

"Listen," said Steven, "we were talking for about three hours, and you haven't had dinner. Do you want me to make you something, or send out for something?"

"No, thank you," said Flannery. "I'm not too hungry, and besides, I ate all those little sandwiches."

"Well, I'll make you some more tea," said Steven, "and get you a blanket."

"Thank you," murmured Flannery, still sniffling. When Steven had gone, she propped some throw pillows up against the couch arm and sank in a little deeper.

Drowsily, she began to think of all that just happened. This was a softer side of Steven, a side she had never seen before. Would he have been this attentive to anyone else? she wondered. Steven had very charming manners. She had never realized this before—but then again, she had only really been around him at business functions. He was tough—that was the impression Flannery had always gotten from him. Sure, he could be business-polite, but he was always so stern, such an imposing figure—like a mountain.

But then. Today, he had smiled at her. When he had brought her tea. Perhaps she was too exhausted, too caught up in whatever at the moment to realize it, but he had a very—disarming smile. It wasn't a wide smile, and perhaps some people might not even think it a smile. But she could tell from his eyes; they had lit up. It was a shy smile, and it made Flannery wonder—

"DERANGED DESTROYER ROBOT TOILET!"

Flannery was roused from her reverie with a start. But before she had time to make sense of what was going on, Steven flashed past her, screaming, "THE MAGNUM! THE MAGNUM!"

Flannery stared. What in the world was going on? she puzzled. She turned in the direction that Steven had come from and saw …

… a deranged destroyer robot toilet. It was the toilet from Steven's guest bathroom, but it was bling-ed out with robotic appendages that seemed to come straight out of Transformers. It growled, and as it did so, the lid flapped up and down, as if it were a mouth. One of its robotic arms held a sinister toilet plunger and was draped with Martha Stewart face-towels from Linens 'n' Things. On its tank was a box of Kleenex, an issue of National Geographic, the Hoenn News Journal and Gazette, and the Official Nintendo Power guide to HeartGold and SoulSilver. They all must have been glued on, Flannery later recalled herself as thinking, because they stayed on the toilet even as the deranged destroyer robot toilet swayed to and fro. Then, suddenly, from the other robotic arm, a red light-sword beam extended.

Flannery was paralyzed. To run or not to run, that was the question.

"LUUUUUKE," growled the toilet (lid flap), "I AM YOUR FATHER."

Flannery decided to run. With a scream, she bolted from the couch, ran into the garage, grabbed her bike, ran back into the house (bike in tow), yanked open the front door, slammed it shut, jumped on her bike and pedaled all the way back to Lavaridge. Approaching her house, she zoomed up a wedge-shaped rock, went airborne, crashed through her bedroom window, dismounted, ran into her bathroom, tore off the shower curtain, and hung it up over the window to cover the gaping hole. Then, settling into bed, she proceeded to resume where she had left off in Twilight. Chapter two. Exhausted, she barely had made it past the first few paragraphs when she began to doze off. The world of dreams was populated by werewolves fighting vampires fighting deranged destroyer robot toilets.

The notes of bullets striking ceramic drifted on the cold, lonely night breeze, drifted through the hole in the window, drifted under the austere glare of a foreboding, softly gleaming moon.

End Moon/Blossom