Prologue – Late Night Sojourn

An undisclosed location, deep in the heart of a large city

"Man, I hate having to make these frickin' late night runs," grumbled the heavyset man behind the wheel of the grey truck.

His companion, a slender man who like the driver was clad all in black, grunted in agreement from the passenger seat. The men had been driving since sundown, and it was now approaching 3:30 AM. They were bone-tired; in fact the heavyset man had been forced to take over driving when the thin man had fallen asleep at the wheel, nearly causing them to drive right off the highway into the flocks of roosting Starly which inhabited the median.

"Well, at least we're almost there, eh?" the heavyset man said with a hint of sarcastic cheer. When no response was forthcoming, he glanced to his right, only to notice that his comrade's guttural mutterings had in fact been those of a man in a deep sleep. Sighing in exasperation, the driver turned his attention back to the road, and pulled a left at the abandoned intersection that the truck was approaching. He coasted to a stop further down the block, in front of a grimy warehouse that was almost too inconspicuous in this city of drab, dingy buildings. Putting the truck in park, opening the door, and clambering down, he ambled over to the pull-down sheet metal entrance to the warehouse and knocked four times.

The heavyset man waited impatiently for a few seconds, then abruptly barked at the door, "Open up, dumbass!" He accentuated the harsh sentence with a loud whack of his fist on the garage door, and was rewarded with a yelp from inside followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. After a brief moment of fumbling inside, the door began to creak open, revealing an overturned chair and a disheveled, bleary-eyed, scrawny man, also dressed in black.

"Hey, what the hell, Grayson?" whined the door operator in a high-pitched, nasal voice that could make a Whismur writhe in agony. Grayson pushed past him contemptuously, tossed his keys at the man over his shoulder, and ordered, "Drive this rig into the warehouse and unload the 'cargo'. I'm gonna go see the Boss."

As he began to stomp off, he remembered to add, "Oh, and wake up Nigel. That useless shit'll sleep all night if you let him." Grayson strode onward, studiously ignoring the hate-filled stare that he could feel burning into his back. He walked deeper into the dimly lit warehouse, hearing the sounds of scampering Rattata and rustling Pidove, dodging the occasional crate, heading toward the rectangle of yellow light at the back of the warehouse.

Approaching the open door, Grayson felt a sudden chill travel down his spine. He cautiously peered into the office. The interior was lit by a single desk lamp, which cast more shadows than light in the crowded room. Behind a tall, ornate desk in the center of the room, a high-backed chair sat with its back toward the door. A single red eye glared from the bulky figure of a Dusknoir standing in one shadowy corner. Grayson shuddered when its gaze met his.

Moving on, his eyes focused on the chair, which had begun to spin around, revealing its occupant: a tall man in a stark white suit, with gleaming white skin, silvery hair, and piercing red eyes, clearly an albino. He sat slightly hunched over, for he was stroking a purple Glameow – an extremely rare Shiny variant. Grayson groaned internally despite his apprehension. Great Arceus, I respect the man, but must he dress and act so stereotypically? He looks like every frickin' villain ever – which is dumb. It gives the wrong impression of the Company.

Interrupting Grayson's train of thought, the Boss spoke in a gruff British accent. "Ah, good morning, Mr. Mitchell. Had a pleasant trip, I trust?" Grayson bit back the urge to reply sarcastically, fingering the single Pokeball on his belt. Instead, he simply nodded, and muttered, "The cargo is being unloaded right now."

"Ah, excellent," exclaimed the Boss. "Everything is right on schedule…or something like that." He laughed at his own clichéd response, and then suddenly turned cold and serious. "Now leave, please. I have a lot of work to finish by morning." He swiveled around in his chair once again.

Grayson gratefully retreated from the open door, receding into the darkness of the warehouse, still feeling the single eye of the Dusknoir still upon him. That thing really gave him the goddamn heebie-jeebies.

On the way back to the truck, he noted Nigel and the door guard struggling with a heavy crate. As Grayson approached, Nigel squealed as he dropped his end of the crate. One side fell off, various Pokeballs spilled out and rolled across the warehouse floor like marbles, and Grayson's headache grew just a bit worse.

"Goddammit, Nigel!" he exploded, the thinner man cringing from his outburst. "Pick those things up! You really want them busting open all over the frickin' place? They were hard enough to steal in the first place!" The two smaller men and Grayson began scanning the floor for the fist-sized objects, picking them up as they went.

None of them noticed the single red-and-white Pokeball rolling toward the open garage door and into the street, coming to a stop in a pile of trash on the side of the road. It would take an unusually observant eye to distinguish it from the rubbish.

The eye of a streetwise kid, perhaps.