His shoulders were starting to ache from standing up so straight. He had been in the same position for almost ten minutes without fidgeting, something that he was only capable of doing through years of subtle conditioning. Across from where he stood was a large desk, covered in piles of paperwork that needed to be filled in, signed, stamped, and posted off all around the region. Beyond that sat a man who simultaneously petrified and captivated the boy, his young brain unable to comprehend his own feelings about him.
"I want you to tell me," the man began to speak without so much as a cursory glance at the child, "exactly how old you are now."
"Seven in two weeks, sir."
"So how old are you now?"
"Six."
"Six, what?"
"Sir. Six, sir."
"Do you think that six is old enough to understand the difference between right and wrong?"
"I think so."
"You think?" The man looked up then, his eyes narrowing at the boy's words. "What if I were to kill a man with my bare hands?"
"Wrong," the child answered quickly, perhaps too quickly. The man raised an eyebrow at him. "It's wrong."
"And if he had tried to steal what was mine?"
"Right."
"Good boy. Tell me then, if you understand the difference between right and wrong, were you actions earlier today right, or were they wrong?"
"Wrong, sir."
"How wrong?"
"Really wrong."
"But you spoke anyway, despite knowing it was wrong."
"I, sir," the boy faltered, unable to answer the question. He reached up a hand to brush his crimson hair back off his face. "I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
"I didn't mean to!"
"So you're telling me that everything I have ever taught you about self-control is worthless."
"No, sir, I didn't mean to, and I said sorry, a lot. I'm sorry. Sir."
"You put yourself and my entire organisation in jeopardy. You know fully well that you are never, ever to acknowledge the relationship we share outside of this office, or the house. If you were a Grunt, you would have been fired then disposed of in the Forest. If anyone present had not already known about your existence, I would have needed to dispose of them and then lock you away for the next ten years. If you fail me again, Silver, in any way, I will not hesitate to send you to live in Unova with only Proton for company. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes. I mean, sir. Yes, sir."
"Now repeat what I just said."
"If, um, if I ever say that you're my dad and the person that I say it to didn't know it before I told them, um, then you'll, um, send me away with Proton," the boy paraphrased; his voice squeaked when he got to the part about being sent to live in another region.
"Good. I'm certain that you do not want to suffer through that punishment."
"No, sir."
"I'm glad that is all clear to you now," Giovanni said as he finally looked up from his paperwork. He put the pen down and clasped his hands together, then, with elbows on the desk he rested his chin on his knuckles. "Archer will be here to collect you in five minutes. You are to go home and stay in your room until I get there late tonight. You may leave only to use the bathroom twice so choose your times wisely. Archer will be informed of these conditions and he has all the permission he requires to punish you however he sees fit should you disobey me. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Silver said, his voice barely audible across the room. He didn't move when Persian left his place behind the desk, a low hiss coming from the Pokémon as he circled the boy.
"Get out. Persian will stay with you until Archer arrives."
Silver only nodded in response but his father didn't notice – he had already picked his pen up again and returned his attention to the mountains of paper. He stumbled a little on his way out of the office since his left foot had gone numb from standing so still. Persian sat in the open doorway next to the boy, who was slumped against the wall. By the time Archer arrived to lead him away, precisely five minutes later, his sleeve was soaked with tears. His face, however, was as stony as his fathers', his expression blank as they walked down the halls of the Rocket Headquarters.