Chapter 4: Legacy

Guzma surveyed his kingdom.

Po Town, it could not be denied, had certain aesthetic value. The bones of the town, under the rot of untreated roofs and layers of splashed paint, had signs of the class of people that used to live here. High walls, high hedges, high gates: all to keep the riff-raff out. It was the reason he had targeted the town in the first place. Not only did it host some of the richest people in all the islands, but it stood as a symbol of safety and order. To knock it down and spit on it―that was truly a black eye in the kahunas' and captains' faces.

But even the outward shell of the town―the exoskeleton, the carapace that hung over what the town used to be―had value for the right person, under the right circumstances. You had to be the sort who liked the gloomy sag of crushed dreams, the nihilism and anger inherent in smearing paint and breaking glass. It also helped to be drunk, hungry, and at odds with your uptight parents. If you have ever been alone or took a beating or felt fear, Po Town felt like poetry, just being there. There was fun in Po Town. And there was also sadness, and fist-fights, and sleep that went on too long because there was really nothing to do in Po Town.

After two years of living here, Guzma was only now starting to see it, he thought, for what is was. He finally had something to compare it to. The energy he felt buzzing at Aether Paradise, its illumination, its ruthless structure and efficiency, its depth―to spend hours there, interacting with such people, and then to be dumped off at the Po Town front gate―every time, it felt like being kicked into the mud face-first. It had an initial shock, a humiliation, and a grueling sliminess that stuck to him for hours. He would walk past two drooling idiots manning the gate, weave about the cars that had been smashed and since reduced to shelters, glance outward in search of the light from the mansion (the only building they could afford to keep powered), marvel at the new pile of garbage that started in the center of town square, and arrive at the main house, his body drenched in sopping rain.

And he stood there in the doorway, dripping and carrying a black cloud with him like an adornment.

He heard the occasional grunt call after him, but he didn't answer.

"Guz-ma!"

"Hey, Big G!"

"Yo, Boss! Yo, G!"

―What was that smell?

He had never noticed smells before. He never noticed how the whole house faintly reeked of beer and urine, rotten things and neglected things. In fact, it was one of the first things he realized after his first meeting with Lusamine―sitting in the tea room, nothing but the sea and flowers to breathe in, and her perfume too, like a garden blooming in June. But another smell hit him by contrast, and he realized it was him. He stank. When was the last time he bathed? When was the last time he changed out of these clothes, or washed them for that matter? He could think of no other experience that mortified him more, than sitting there with this perfect nymph and realizing he smelled like a ripe hobo.

...He had stepped in something on his way up the stairs―something wet and unpleasant. He kicked it and scraped it from his shoe and cursed harshly―was it so much to ask? Just to pick after yourself? Just to not completely trash the house he lived in?

He took a left, past the chandelier that a grunt had knocked down earlier this month. At least he got to pound the kid. Most of the time he can't figure out who's doing what around here.

Kept going… Past Plumeria's room, past some sleeping quarters where he could hear thumping music and hysterical giggling...

He must have spaced out for a moment, because a grunt took him by surprise by snatching his wrist and shouting with excitement. "Woah, that watch is swag, G! Where'd you get it?"

Guzma allowed the grunt to hold his wrist for a few more seconds, as the attention pleased him. He twisted the gold watch under the faint light, showing off its brilliant glisten. "Oh, that? Snatched it off some old tourist."

"You gonna pawn it?"

Guzma flinched and yanked his hand away, like the grunt had said something offensive. "No way!"

"You right, you right. Looks baller on you."

When he shut the door and collapsed onto his bed, one of the legs collapsed. Again. He had to get up and fix the cinder block currently propping it up.

Then finally, finally, he was able to sprawl out, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate.

His room had not changed since he left that afternoon, but like everything else, his view of it changed. He sucked his teeth at it―its stacks of dirty laundry and food he didn't remember eating and spray-paint he didn't remember spraying. Eventually he turned his head at the sound of water dripping from the wall.

"Oh, hey it's a new leak." He stared at it and muttered under his breath. "At least the others got company now, huh."

His joke failed to cheer him up.

Maybe this will. He brought his wrist up to his face, sticking it into his brand new watch. He unfastened it and held it up against the light. The shine hurt his eyes. He looked, for the hundredth time, at the engraving on the back of its face.

To Future Success.

His heart skipped a beat.

He hadn't even taken out the check currently burning in his pocket. Lusamine casually handed it over, saying it was 'a little something,' and he felt faint when he saw the number.

Twelve days, he told himself. It would be twelve days before they met again. She had to space out their meetings―he understood that―but it felt like a sentence, and Po Town was his prison.

Drip, drip. He thought he was hearing the leak at first. He turned his head.

Golisopod was sitting right across the room, staring and drooling at him.

He shot up and jeered. "Hey―buddy!"

It bolted for him.

"Get your ugly mug over here!" When it reached him, he laughed, latched it into a headlock, and noogied its head. If Plumeria was its babying mother, Guzma was its roughhousing father. "You miss your boy? Huh?"

Golisopod whinnied and butted into him, eager to start their ritual.

The pokemon had quickly learned that whenever Guzma left for the evening, he would return with food stuffed down his pockets and an incredible need to talk. With no one to confide the details of recent developments, Guzma had resorted to venting with Golisopod; he doubted it understood much of anything he said, but it made him feel better, and Golisopod loved being lavished with attention.

He stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket. "You wanna know what your boy got you?"

Golisopod could hardly contain its excitement; when he brought out the pastries, it almost tackled him.

"Hey, easy! Here, here." He held out the three small, floury lumps. "They're 'scones.'"

Golisopod chirped at him.

"Yeah, I never heard of 'em either. They're all right, though."

Satisfied with his explanation, it promptly shoveled them into its mouth, briefly coughing on the crumbs.

"Look what else I got―she called it a, a, 'commemorative' gift," he said, pointing to what he swore was a solid-gold timepiece. When she first said the word to him, he latched onto it, its syllables, the way it sounded over her lips―and he repeated it to himself over and over, as to not forget it. Commemorative. Commemorative. He waved the watch in Golisopod's face. "Check it out!"

Golisopod, evidently impressed by its color, starting searching it with its mouth.

"No! Hey!" He smacked it. "Don't eat it, dummy! It's important!"

Dejected but not hurt, it planted its face on his lap, drool pooling on his pant legs.

"What a night. They got some crazy stuff in that joint," he said. He thought on the lab, the equipment he didn't have names for, the monitors and scientists. Much he didn't understand, but Lusamine explained some of it, and Faba did, too. Guzma tilted his head, hearing a question Golisopod had no way of asking. "I think it went a'ight. Don't get me wrong. Miss L can kinda, uh, get annoying sometimes. Like tonight. She kept―" He remembered something that had, in particular, hit a nerve in him. He huffed. "Ooh, Kukui," he mocked in a feminine, falsetto voice, "he's so wonderful, isn't he, and his wife is just lovely, and everything's lovely―" He growled. "Ugh! He can bite me."

Golisopod stared at him. He read its expression―or perhaps projected.

"I'm not jealous," he countered. "What's there to be jealous about? He's such a loser! Never completed the trials! I was there! I saw him chicken out! And, 'lovely wife'? Please! I can't believe he married that―! Like, are you serious? The dorkiest chick in school―I was in classes with her―she was that brain trust kid who'd remind the teacher to give us homework. And―this one time, I told that jerkoff Kawika―you remember him, right―that I was gonna cut his dumb face if he kept touching my stuff, and she snitched on me, it wasn't even her business, I got sent home and everything!"

(He leaves out the other details―that the teacher searched him and found a small pocketknife―that she announced, out loud for everyone to hear, 'wait until I tell your father about this'―that he cried and begged her not to, in front of the whole fifth grade class, pretty much demolishing his rep in one fell swoop.)

"'Sides, why should I be jealous? I got a house, I can do whatever I want, I got the crew, I could get any girl I wanted, so―and I got the best partner, right?"

At that, Golisopod roared its approval.

Guzma, still feeling off, decided to do the one thing he knew would lift his spirits.

"I don't wanna hear excuses!"

From his throne―his favorite place in Po Town―he grabbed and hurled an empty beer bottle at the hapless grunt's head. The grunt just narrowly dodged its trajectory by throwing himself onto the floor, and after cringing at the sound of its smashing on the wall, he remained there on his hands and knees. "P-please, Boss! We looked everywhere, just like you said!"

"It's almost been a month! And what have you got for me, huh? Zip! Nothin'!"

The other three grunts, who had been standing and shaking up until this moment, decided to follow their comrade's pose and fall to their knees. "Boss, it ain't our fault, see? The cops are up in our grill more than usual―"

"Screw the cops! Whatta you, spineless?" He pounded the arms of his chair, producing a sound that sent them cowering. "One pokemon! That's all I want! Is that so hard? The thing's a ball of energy, it's gotta stick out like a sore thumb!"

"Boss, maybe if we had, y'know, more crew on it―"

"Are you telling me," Guzma growled, "that you're incompetent? Is that it?"

It took a few hard seconds before one of them had the courage to speak again. "G, why ain't Gladion on this? He covers lotsa ground, don't he?"

Guzma glared daggers into him. "How many ways I gotta say it, numbskull? Secret operation! 'Secret' means we don't include nobody else."

"But you always say―"

He knew what the grunt was going to say. You always say Gladion's the best fighter we have. They weren't wrong to bring up contradiction. But Lusamine had impressed great warnings on him. If Gladion found out about this search, it would play their hand. It might even destroy everything they were working towards. He grit his teeth and stood to his feet, speaking darkly. "Ya'll ain't gettin' it, are you?"

They froze. Him removing himself from his chair did not bode well.

"This mission… I picked you because I thought I could count on you. Are you gonna make a fool outta Guzma? Huh? You gonna make Big, Bad Guzma a joke?"

He stepped down the small set of stairs, eventually looming over each of them with a sour, vindictive look.

"Don't bring me no more excuses. This could make or break Team Skull. Or it could make me… break you. Got it?" He surveyed their expressions but wasn't satisfied. So Guzma grabbed the nearest grunt by the front of his shirt, pulled the kid upward, and twisted the hard tip of his knuckle painfully into the kid's temple. The grunt whimpered under his grip―it felt brilliant. "Get. It. Through. Your. Head."

"Yeah, Boss! Okay, Boss!"

Plumeria, seated against the wall and atop her bed, had been typing on her laptop all that evening as she heard the screaming and breaking glass going on across the hall.

The emperor is raging again.

On other days, she might have eventually gotten up to see what the fuss was about, maybe even intervene before somebody got a concussion. But the bed was comfortable today, and she felt she needed the order and peace of her neatly-preserved bedroom more than she needed to tear Guzma's hands from some grunt's neck.

So she ignored it.

Several minutes later, however, it seemed Guzma meant to entangle her anyway; after the pitter-patter of terrified grunt feet passed by, his recognizably hefty clomping approached her door.

Please don't, she internally pleaded, but it was no use. Guzma had decided to come by.

He opened the door―didn't knock―and poked his head in. "'Sup, Plume?" He kicked off his muddy shoes before entering. There were rules even he obeyed in her realm.

"Hey." She looked up from her laptop momentarily, but when he didn't elaborate on his greeting, she asked, "Do you want something?"

"Pffsh. I dunno." He gave her a purposefully stupid look. "You wanna make out?"

Plumeria chucked her Lapras plushie at him―hard―and struck him square in the gut. (He grunted and keeled over dramatically, feigning injury.) "Shut up," she barked, though she was smiling. She watched his little performance for a second―shook her head admonishingly―and dropped her smile. "Guz, seriously though, I'm kinda busy."

"Doing what? I just wanna hang." He stooped down to pick up the projectile, stuffing it under his arm and strolling over to her bed. He fell onto the bed, sprawling obnoxiously in her personal space, and planted the Lapras on his chest. "You ain't got time for me?" He tried to peek at her computer screen. "You writing?"

She pulled it away from him. "You mind? It's private."

"Tch." He laid back to stare at the ceiling, then started examining the plushie she had struck him with, tilting it side to side with his hands.

She smirked to herself. For all the blustering, screaming, and threatening he did, he could be such a dork.

"'Dear diary,'" he said, suddenly puppeteering the Lapras with a light, girly accent, "'I started my period today, and―'" Thump. "Ow!" He clutched his chest where she had pounded him with her fist. The pain made him snort with laughter and roll onto his side.

"You―ugh!" She punched him in the back, too, eliciting more winded, pained snickering. "I'm about to kick your rear outta here―"

"Ow! Okay! I'm sorry!" He shielded himself and returned to his position on his back. "Look! Plume! I need to talk to you." He saw her cold expression and upped the whine in his voice. "Please?"

She intended to say no. But she then noticed the watch, and remembered that he had been gone half the day, and it all began to fit together in her brain.

She had of course noticed these frequent outings, but ever since they amicably broke up a million years ago, they had agreed to stay friends and stay out of each other's personal business―as much as could be expected when living under the same roof. Plumeria had historically been very good at following this rule, even when Guzma screwed it up by not following it himself. So she hadn't asked or bothered him about his outings.

And now he cracked open a door for her.

She sighed, shut her laptop, and gave in. "About what?"

"Do you ever…" Guzma frowned and kicked against the headboard. "Y'know, wonder where you're gonna be in ten years?"

"No," she answered easily. "But my dad once asked me that when he caught me with a cigarette."

He caught the cynicism in her voice, and it infuriated him. "I'm being serious!"

Plumeria gave him a suddenly critical, judgmental look, at first triggered by his behavior, but now triggered by something she noticed. She had to do a double-take. "Guz, did you do something with your hair?"

"What?" He clasped a hand over it self-consciously. "No."

"...Would it have anything to do with why you preened for like an hour before you left?"

"Hey! None of your―"

"Business, right."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Do you, like, see yourself here by then? In this house?"

He was so ridiculously earnest. She snorted at him. "I dunno, Guz, I don't think about next month that way."

"Well―" This conversation obviously had not gone the direction he intended. He fumed. "I don't! See myself here, I mean!"

"Okay?" She shrugged. "Whatever."

"Don't you hate this place sometimes?"

Plumeria popped her gum and shrugged. "It could be worse."

"There's nothing here, Plume! Even the street kids know that now! This whole place is a dump." He folded his arms hard against his chest, muttering bitterly, "No wonder people are leaving."

Plumeria just about gasped. "Oh my god...This is about Katya, isn't it?" She didn't know why she hadn't made the connection before. It had been several months since Katya left. Plumeria still felt an internal wince when she thought about it. The whole thing had been so stupid. Katya―seventeen, dark-skinned, drop-dead gorgeous. Guzma couldn't help himself. The girl never expressed any interest in him, often casually inserting references to 'her boyfriend' who lived in Malie City to ward him off, but he persisted in embarrassing himself, though never mustering the guts to make a real move on her. He just hovered around her, acting pathetic. Mercifully, Katya stayed only a few weeks before announcing Team Skull was "boring," taking all her stuff, and moving to Malie to move in with her boyfriend and work as a waitress.

Guzma pouted for weeks .

"Guz. Everyone knew you had a dumb little crush on her―"

"What! It's―" He flushed and pulled his sunglasses over his face. "It's so not about that! God, that was forever ago!"

Plumeria wasn't sure she believed him.

He thought he would be able to explain it better. Of all the grunts, so few of them were older than fourteen―and so many of the older ones would reach sixteen, maybe seventeen, before yawning, looking around themselves, and deciding they had better use of their time. All of the Old Guard―the kids they formed Team Skull around years ago―had cycled out, each finding their own excuses for abandoning the cause.

"Look, Big G, my girl's knocked up, and― "

"My old man says he can get me a job― "

"My gramps is letting me move in― "

"Just need a change in scenery, yo, no hard feelings, G― "

Now their gang was formed around a pack of fresh meat―babies―who feared him but lacked the bond of friendship he remembered having with the previous generation. He didn't think it manly to admit, but there were nights when he choked with pain, missing the crew he had thought would be his brothers and sisters for life.

Time moved forward, trampling him underfoot.

And now, he was beginning to think he felt it, too. The looming―the annoying throb that had started at his coming of age, slowly leeching the joy from things he once found enjoyable, hilarious, or exciting. More and more, the motifs and activities around him felt painfully boring to him. He began to think about things he didn't want to think about: life and death, and meaning, and purpose, and legacy . Things that would, in the adult world, translate to inanities such as mortgages, careers, marriage, and children.

He had thought he would live in the daze of adolescence forever. But now, his vision cleared, and he saw things that the others didn't―future possibilities, impending crises…

It bothered him, like an unreachable itch.

(He thinks suddenly of Lusamine, her nails gently sprawling through his scalp, giving him chills… Promises whispered in his ear...)

"Plume. I gotta tell you something."

She was listening.

"... It's just, you can't freak, okay? Because I've been thinking, about the future, you know? And, hey, it's not like we're rolling in the money, either―"

Plumeria couldn't tell what he was getting at. "If you're so worried about money, just charge Nanu higher rent."

"That's your plan?! Squeeze one geezer for his pension!?" He sat up and slammed his fist down. "It doesn't even close to solving anything!"

"...And you've…" Plumeria looked one more time at the gold watch. "What, got a way to solve it?"

For a time, Guzma went quiet. It looked almost as if he was ready to chicken out of something, but was going to force himself into it anyway. He folded his legs under him, leaned conspiratorially close, and spoke. "You can't say nothin' to nobody." He glared at her. "You have to promise."

"Guz…"

"I'm dead serious. Anybody finds out―we'd be screwed."

She thought about her promise to Nanu. "Okay."

"You know the President of Aether?"

"At Aether?" That organization―they didn't call it by name often, usually just using pejoratives like 'those white-hats' or worse. "I guess I've heard about her."

"Yeah, well…" He started fidgeting with his watch. "I'm sort of, working with her."

Her eyes went wide and her mouth shut tight. She felt like the floor had fallen out under her―like the world had started spinning and wouldn't stop. A gasp left her when she finally spoke. "Working with her!"

"Shh! God! Not so loud!"

"Are you crazy?" she hissed, giving him the courtesy of lowering her voice. "That is the single most― what, like her errand boy or something? For some corporate witch?"

"That's what I thought at first, too, but―she's actually really nice, okay? She's not like other people―not like anyone."

She saw a glow of genuine admiration in him. She was hearing shades of Katya, but she dared not suggest it.

"She believes in me, Plume. She thinks I can help her―that I can be somebody."

"...You're ditching us for some stuffy rich lady?"

"I'm not ditching anybody!" He bunched up his coat. "Look―" He dug out the check and waved it in her face. "She gave this to me tonight! Called it 'a little something'! Just think about―think about what we could do with this, with the cash that's still comin'―"

She took the check, looked at it, but couldn't find words.

"This lady―I know it's crazy―but she could give us everything we've ever wanted―-and she wants to, she wants to help us―she wants to meet you, too. I promise, once you talk to her, you'll get it, you'll see what I mean."

What could she say?

He transformed in front of her; he vibrated with an energy and excitement normally foreign to him. When had she ever seen him this passionate, this enthusiastic? To knock him down now―when, admittedly, she didn't have all the information, and hadn't even given it a chance―felt senselessly cruel.

Guzma saw the uncertainty in her eyes and jumped for it. He reached over and took hold of her hands.

"Plumeria. I know―! I know I've been a real screw-up lately, but you gotta trust me on this."

...She thought about Nanu again, about his suspicions. She realized she would have to keep secrets from him now, would have to lie to him…

But it all seemed too good, too promising.

Guzma dropped her hands. He felt her acquiescence somehow. "Besides, she wants us to steal something back, from a thief. I figure that makes us the good guys this time, right?"

"...The good guys," she repeated, marvelling at his saying it.

It wouldn't be long, now. Plumeria would visit the Foundation, too, alongside Guzma; she would see the halls and windows that sang sweetly to him. She would shake hands with that woman, and sit for tea. Lusamine would notice traits in Plumeria that Guzma had always missed―her gentle poise when seated, her ease in using multiple forks, her comfort in sweeping mansion landscapes.

Plumeria would not be seduced. She knew all too well the lies that could be built into beautiful rooms and carefully crafted smiles. She had run from those lies before.

But the lies tasted sweet, didn't they? Sweet like success, sweet like an ungotten Katya, sweet like the pure music of a spoon against crystal.

(Again, again, Guzma didn't stand a chance.)