Chapter III: Hate This Place
He arrived early to the Celadon Game Corner the next morning, scanning his keycard in the access door off to the side of the building, hidden behind the air conditioning unit and a clump of evergreens, while struggling to keep the crutches under his arms. His stomach was still churning, the smell of dead lapras and pungent seawater clinging to the back of his throat as he slammed the door shut behind him and limped down the narrow hallway. Another door opened up into the empty slot machine area, which was being mopped by one of Team Rocket's low level undercover agents. The other agent nodded curtly to him as Dodger reached under the colorful poster on the back wall and flipped a switch. The hidden panel in the wall slid open and, ignoring the other agent, he thunked his way down the staircase.
He didn't want to be here today. His leg ached from the break, his arms ached from the crutches, and his stomach ached from the combined nausea of what he still smelled and the medicine that he had been forced to take without food because all he tasted was blood and seawater. He cursed repeatedly as he hit the first floor and made his way towards the small break room where he knew they had applesauce somewhere that he could eat before he blew chunks all over his freshly laundered uniform.
As he spooned the refrigerated applesauce into one of the bowls he pulled from the shelf hanging over the sink and grabbed a spoon that didn't look recently used, he heard the door upstairs open and close. A few agents strolled by the break room, headed to their separate offices to go over the new day's tasks. He sat down on the bench and ate slowly, feeling his stomach calm down a bit. He didn't know what he was supposed to do today, honestly. He couldn't remember much except Giovanni on the viewscreen throwing a fit due to Al's shoddy job about the lapras. They had gotten the carcass to shore in enough time to have it butchered and the evidence buried, but the mess of the sunk boat near Cinnabar would have to be cleared up quickly before the police found out about it.
He went to the counter again and refilled his bowl with applesauce, listening to the sounds of movement from the hallway upstairs. He was surprised to hear the upstairs door open again and this time, large groups of agents came clattering down the stairs, talking in muffled voices. More doors opened and closed throughout the underground facility, and Dodger almost hit himself in the forehead for forgetting that today was initiation day for the new recruits and Giovanni had commanded that all agents be present at the event.
Stupid, he thought. I hate initiation days.
Dodger fixed his hat more firmly on his head, pulling the brim down nearly to his nose as he slumped over his bowl. He listened to the shuffling footsteps of the other grunts as they filed past the small break room and waited until he was alone again before he got up to leave. To his surprise, Jilla was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest.
"What'cha dragging your feet for?" she asked him as he rinsed out his empty bowl and put it back on the shelf with the others. He shrugged and limped past her into the hallway, muttering angrily under his breath when she joined him, walking side-by-side towards the auditorium. "Today's the day we all get new flunkies to kick around! Isn't it the best?"
"I don't see why it's so great," he said as they turned a corner and pushed open the double doors that led into the large open space that had already been packed to the brim with people. The room was crowded but not disorganized; everyone stood in their designated ranks in straight rows of ten, creating a regimented ocean of black in front of the polished wooden stage that rose above their heads at the front of the room. Upon this stage stood the twenty or so new inductees into Team Rocket, each of their unique starter pokemon fidgeting at their sides.
"Aw, look, they even left a space for the crippled one up at the front," Jilla laughed as she pushed him into an open space before a row of nine other men that Dodger did not know. "I'll see ya later!" She disappeared into the forest of black uniforms, her orange ponytail bobbing beneath her hat. He glowered after her and stared as his feet, his mood souring even further as he stared at the cast on his leg. Six months, jeez.
"Hey, Dodg, I heard what happened to your leg," said the man next to him, speaking in a low voice as the last few stragglers took their places in the ranks around the platform. "What the hell were you thinking, getting that close to a rhyhorn? You could have been killed!"
A rhyhorn? "It wasn't a rhyhorn. It was just some stupid marowak that got in my way."
A snort of laughter. "Looks like you got into its way, man. Jeez, only a marowak? For a second I thought you had actually been assigned a good mission."
"Shut up, loser," Dodger told him under his breath as the room quieted when the lights dimmed and then intensified on the stage. The twenty recruits all stood up straighter, the pokemon at their sides shrinking down. One of the recruits, a young man in his late teens, reached down and patted his sandslash affectionately on the head. It looked up at him with liquid brown eyes and rubbed its nose against the boy's leg.
A line of high-ranking Rocket officials filed onto the stage in front of the recruits. They were joined soon after by a persian, its padded paws making no sound on the polished wood. It sat back on its haunches next to the podium and began cleaning its paws.
"How long d'you think this is gonna take?" asked one of the grunts behind Dodger.
When Giovanni strode out of the wings, the hush that fell over the entire room was awkward and tense. The fabric of the Boss's impeccable black suit gleamed under the harsh lights, and when he raised a hand to greet his phalanx of ne'er-do-wells, the ring on his middle finger gleamed like a star. He took one sweeping glance around the darkened auditorium before he turned and gestured to the figures behind him.
"Today," he said, his voice made even more powerful by the mic attached to his lapel, "we induct these men and women into the coveted ranks of Team Rocket. For the past six months, they have undergone the fiercest training rituals and tests of loyalty that have ever been conceived. Their dedication to furthering Team Rocket's cause has only been surpassed by their desire to devote their entire lives to the glory that I envisioned so many years ago when I began this enterprise. The men and women that stand before you are the finest men and women you will see anywhere, and you, my loyal friends, should be honored to be in their presence."
Dodger could see the new recruits puffing up with pride, and his stomach churned around the applesauce he had eaten earlier.
Giovanni continued, his polished black shoes clicking faintly as he paced up and down on the stage. "What the recruits realize is that, in order to join these esteemed ranks before them, they must sacrifice everything—and they are quite ready to do so. They have, each and every one of them, volunteered to give up their homes, their personal belongings, their loving connections to their families and friends; in short, they must give up themselves to be a part of our cause. And so, in the spirit of Team Rocket, we shall demonstrate our last lesson to these twenty men and women: that all pokemon exist for our glory."
He turned, and the Team Rocket officials each pulled out a whip-thin piece of twine from their suit pockets, handing them to the baffled trainers.
"You in the audience know well that there must be no love between a pokemon and its master. There must only be obedience and discipline. That is why we pool our pokemon and assign no one pokemon to no one Rocket agent. To make a personal connection with a pokemon is to give your love to an entity other than Team Rocket. This is unforgivable."
He turned to the twenty new recruits on stage. Each of their faces had blanched. Dodger's eyes fell to the sandslash, who had backed up and was hiding behind its trainer's legs. He hated this part, hated the pokemon for looking so innocent, hated the trainers for being so emotional about the whole stupid thing, hated the way it made him feel—like he still cared about the stupid creatures.
"You new recruits will kill your starter pokemon as your final initiation to Team Rocket. To refuse to do this is to refuse your will to live, since you have given your lives to our cause."
The look of horror on each of the recruit's faces twisted Dodger's stomach. The method had changed this year, but it was always the same; the secret initiation ceremony that nobody outside of Team Rocket knew about. He had done it, Jilla had done it, every one of the hundreds of black-clad agents had shot or stabbed—or, this year, strangled—their precious starter pokemon from their 'previous' lives of non-crime and happiness. And every time he watched this scene, his mind would force him to remember how his own friend—no, slave—had looked when he had taken aim with the pistol. He had had to use two shots because Water Whip—no, the dewgong he had trained up from a seel—had dodged the first shot and the bullet had glanced off, making a red streak on the pokemon's snowy face.
He took particular interest in the rubber pad on the bottom of his left crutch as the first sounds of struggle began onstage. He began humming absently to himself as the chorus of strangled sobs joined the sound of flailing limbs. He looked up once, to see the now-limp sandslash being dragged offstage, and then the sounds of applause began in the organized ranks around him as the twenty murderers stepped forwards, their tear-streaked faces anguished and sick and happy as they joined hands and raised their arms above their heads. Even Giovanni patted his fingers together politely before spinning on his heel and walking offstage briskly, being joined by the persian before he disappeared behind the curtain.
As the applause thundered around him, he hunched his shoulders and blocked out the noise.
"DODGER!"
The addressed agent spun around at his station, dropping the stack of paperwork he had been going through. The words, "Shit, whaddaya want!" were out of his mouth before he realized that it was Elliot, Team Rocket's vice president, who had addressed him. He winced visibly and stood up, bracing on hand on the table. "I mean, yessir," he said, defeated.
"Indeed," Elliot said smarmily, striding into the open office area. The rest of the agents busily returned to their tasks. "I saw you at the ceremony this morning. Your enthusiasm, was, shall we say, less than evident."
"Sorry," Dodger muttered. Elliot's perfectly arched eyebrow rose.
"I've noticed your work getting shoddier and shoddier as of late, Dodger. Giovanni was extremely disappointed to learn that you were responsible for the excessive load of cubone skulls in your last command mission. Because of you, the price for each skull dropped by three hundred dollars. It'll be a while before you get another mission of that kind of import again."
Hooray, Dodger thought joylessly, but he nodded and said, "Yeah. Sorry."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, Dodger. We'll be keeping our eye on you. One more wrong move and you'll be out."
Out. Synonymous with dead. Dodger nodded, and Elliot sighed.
"What happened to you, Dodger? You used to be the best agent we had. From the very start, you showed such promise, and now, you're wallowing on the bottom with the rest of these nobodies." When Dodger didn't reply, he cleared his throat and reached into his pocket, handing him a folded piece of paper.
"Here's an assignment that'll help you get back in the Boss's good graces," he said as Dodger unfolded it and looked over the map with a scowl. "We got sensor warning in the woods on Route Seven. Something's triggered a snare, so go take a choke collar and a coupl'a pokeballs, find out what it is and bring it back."
"But I gotta busted leg!" Dodger wailed. Elliot smirked and walked away.
"Think of it as exercise. Do it, Dodg!"
Twenty minutes later, Dodger, decked out in full Rocket uniform because he forgot his plainclothes disguise, was limping through the waist-high grasses on Route Seven, his crutches sinking inches into the wet mud. He had a choke collar looped around his elbow and a knife stuck in his belt loop in case the pokemon was feisty.
Making the guy with the broken leg go for a walk, yeah, real funny, Elliot. You'll see. When I find this thing I'll make it wish it was never born. Stupid things. Stupid ceremony. I hate this place.
He turned the corner and came into the clearing where the snare had been marked on his map. Pushing aside a leaf-laden branch, he stopped short, his breath arresting in his throat. All thoughts of punishing the pokemon vanished from his mind.
A ninetales was staring at him from across the clearing, a golden vision against the backdrop of green foliage. It stood stock still when it saw him, three paws planted firmly on the grass, while its hind left leg was lifted off of the ground, held almost against the underside of its body; its foot had been caught in a wire snare set into the grass. It jerked its foot several times as it saw him walking closer, but the wire merely tightened painfully against its burnished yellow fur. It was then that Dodger saw that one of the creature's nine beautiful tails had been caught in the snare as well, close to its haunch, and that the wire had cut into it and made it bleed.
Dodger had never felt so unlucky in his life. He knew the legends; a ninetales could curse a human for 1,000 years if the human even looked at them funny. If he even touched one of its tails, he'd be a dead man walking—it would curse him and possess him and take over his mind and make him do horrible, inhumane things. But he couldn't leave it in the trap. Giovanni knew there was a pokemon in this particular snare, and if he didn't bring something back to show for it, he'd be fired. If he let it go for the same fear of being cursed, Giovanni would have him butchered.
It was officially the worst day of his life. He felt woozy somehow, especially since watching the ceremony, and now he was faced with being cursed for forever. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, watching the ninetales as warily as it was watching him, its ruby red eyes following him as he limped around the clearing. It had set its pinioned foot down and its free tails flowed like banners in the breeze.
"Why'd ya have to get caught inna snare, man?" Dodger suddenly shouted. The ninetales tossed its head in alarm at his voice. "I thought ninetales was supposed to be smart and stuff. You're just not supposed to do this!" He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to calm himself down.
"Look," he said, in a much lower tone, "I heard somewheres that you ninetales can unnerstand human talk. Can ya? Nod your head yes if ya can."
The ninetales yawned, the fur on its body gleaming in the setting sun. Dodger pushed his lower lip out and scowled. "What the hell am I doin', talking to a pokemon," he muttered under his breath. "Thinkin' these things can listen an' talk back to people." Pulling out a knife and a choke collar, he hesitantly approached the fire fox. It took one step back and bristled, the hackles on its back raising.
"Yeah, well, you're the one that gotchorself into this mess! I gotta get ya out whether you like it or not and ya can't be a bitch about it," he complained. Clumsily, he knelt down on his good knee as close to it as he dared, reaching out with the knife to cut the snare from the stake in the ground. He suddenly sat back as the pokemon whirled its body around and faced him directly, hiding its pinioned foot behind the sweep of its many tails.
"I mean whaddaya want me to do?" Dodger said, exasperated. "I can't just let you go! I'll get busted for sure! Giovanni would kill to have a ninetales—literally, he would kill! Besides," he added, partially to reassure himself, "I bet alla those stories about nintales cursin' folks is just that—stories. You can't really curse me, can you? You're just a pokemon. And all pokemon—" and here he reached forward with the choke collar opened "—exist for the glory of Team Rocket."
Do not.
The strange voice in his head sent chills down his spine and arrested the movement of his hands. He scowled, his bushy eyebrows furrowing with something that was more confusion than fear. It was his voice, but it did not come from him. He knew that people had something called a conscience, but he also knew that his had been dead for twenty years. He met the ninetales's crimson eyes as it stared him down. It didn't seem to look any different, save that it was still bristling with him being too close, and he didn't feel any different, which meant that maybe he hadn't been cursed just yet. He sighed and swept off his hat, scratching his head as he sat on the grass to think over his problem.
"Well, shit," he said as he mused. He reached out with the collar again and then there were the words in his head again, branded on his brain.
DO NOT.
It came from his head, but it wasn't something he'd say to himself. Glowering, he figured that he had spooked himself into thinking that something bad was going to happen to him if he put his hands on the ninetales. He realized that he would have to touch the ninetale's precious tail anyway, even if he wanted to free it from the snare, no strings attached.
As if it knew what he was thinking, the ninetales hopped a little on its free foot, jerking its pinioned foot against the wire. It spat out an impatient lick of flame from its muzzle and then yipped at Dodger, either a warning or a command for help he could not identify.
"I know what'cher feelin', though," he said, looking at the pokemon's trapped foot and tail. He reflexively rubbed his thigh above the cast and then tapped the choke collar in his hand. As far as he was concerned, he had three choices. He could bring back the ninetales to Giovanni and get cursed, he could free the ninetales and get cursed anyway, or he could walk away from the whole thing and get—well, probably shot in the back of the head and thrown out of a helicopter for insubordination.
I mean, it's not like I like kissing Giovanni's ass, he thought, but even if I act up, it won't bother him cuz he can just boot me. And what am I provin', helping this bastard? I'll probably just end up shootin' myself in the foot. And what if he changes his mind and promotes me for givin' 'im this ninetales? He'll like it, I bet. But what if it really can curse people? And what does boss need with a ninetales anyway? He'll probably make someone kill it cuz it's already injured. Can ninetales be killed?
"This is stupid," he said suddenly. "I can't believe I'm even thinkin' this shit. And even if ya did curse me, you wouldn't make my life any worse than it is right now, I'll tell ya that right now." He shuffled to his one good knee again and inched forward confidently. "Talkin' to an animal that don't even unnerstan' me even though everybody says it can. Stupid."
He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. I don't even wanna do this. But I'm gonna. It's their fault that I don't feel good after watching that initiation ceremony. I hate that shit. So now I feel all sad and shit. It's stupid. After this, I'll feel just as bad as I did before. So this is a waste of my time. But if I have to feel like shit, I make them pay for makin' me feel bad. They're not gonna get this ninetales.
He looked into the pokemon's eyes. "Ya can't curse me when I touch'cha, got it? Cuz I'm doin' a good thing here and you can't get maddat me. I'm gonna let'cha go and you're gonna go run off and I'll just go tell Giovanni that you pulled the snare out, right? So then he can't fault me fer tryin'." Effin' brilliant, he added glumly in his mind.
The ninetales snarled with he laid a gloved hand on its haunch, and he instinctively clamped a hand down on its hock to keep it from kicking him. "C'mon, calm down, ya bastard," he grunted as he worked the knife into the dirt next to the metal spike in the ground. The dirt loosened and he pulled up the stake, panting. "There," he puffed. "Now you're good to go." He tried to laugh but he felt too sick and nervous. Cursed or dead, cursed or dead—I hate this place!
The ninetales limped on three legs around the clearing, and then whirled around and bit at the loose snare. It fell from its body, covered in blood, and as the pokemon flared out its nine flag-like tails, the injured appendage became saturated in blood. Dodger grimaced as he saw it was hanging at an unnatural angle. The wound that the wire had made must have been deeper than he had initially thought.
"Shouldn't'a struggled so much," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "But'cha can't blame me cuz I helped you." He tucked the knife back into his belt loop and shouldered the choke collar. "Stupid sonofabitch…."
The ninetales planted all four feet solidly on the mossy green grass of the clearing and stared at him. Dodger, hitching the choke collar farther up on his shoulder, caught sight of its angry gaze and turned towards it to scare it off.
And found that he could not move.
Fear struck him like a blow to the stomach when he realized that his hand was creeping towards the knife in his belt. His fingers wrapped around the hilt and the blade came out smoothly.
Mind control, he thought, panicked. I forgot they had the power of mind control.
The fire fox's eyes glowed like starlight as it slowly approached him on delicate paws, forcing him to press the blade of the knife against his throat. It bit in deep enough to draw blood, and Dodger found that he couldn't even scream for help. An instant later he was on his knees in front of the pokemon, and that its nose was a breath away from his own. The mild wind stirred the ruff of golden fur on its neck.
His eyes locked on the pokemon's, Dodger's head filled with the voice that he had heard earlier, and this time it had a personality behind it. It was equal parts calm and sad and angry, and Dodger felt sick when he listened to them.
I told you not to touch me, but you did not listen. You will be the first human who has felt my tribe's curse in a hundred years. You will be plagued for your entire lifetime, and I shall make it so that you shall live as long as the members of my tribe. And we live an exceptionally long time.
The fox leaned in closer. Its hot breath smelled like woodsmoke.
But because you have acted to save me, I shall offer you an alternative.
I shall give you one week to atone for your sins.
And then I will kill you.