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Short Change Hero
Chapter 4: Something Old, Something New
Delia scooted herself to the edge of the chair, leaning over her father's bedside. He didn't have much longer; a week or so, at best. She could see it in his pale, sunken cheeks and brittle, bonetight skin. The cancer was slowing to its final crawl, and it was all she could do to fight back tears.
The last year had been a losing battle. She and her mother had scrimped and saved to finance every treatment imaginable, every possible avenue. Doctors, healers, herbal medicine. They had even agreed to some experimental treatments involving Pokémon; at one desperate point, they'd paid top dollar just to import several Comfey from the Alola Region to perform ceremonial aromatherapy. In the end, it was just more wasted dollars and wishful thinking.
And yet Delia never had the heart to tell him as much, even if he already knew. It was just an unspoken thing too terrible to admit out loud, let alone dwell on.
His lips jostled slightly to make words, his throat rubbed raw by the feeding tube running through his nose. "I wish I could have walked you down the aisle."
She felt her heart splinter hearing that, even if it wasn't meant as a guilt trip. "I'm sorry," she squeaked out.
A weak laugh rattled in his lungs. "What are you sorry for? It's not your job to pop the question."
She managed a smile through stiff lips, unsure of how to respond. The fact that Gio had proposed to her once was still unknown to him. She thought it best not to open up about it; it hadn't amounted to anything, after all. It had been a silly question asked in a haze of passion after just narrowly escaping death on Savile Island, and then just as quickly forgotten about. It really wasn't worth mentioning.
"Mother would lock me in a cellar before Gio could even get down on one knee," she replied, filling the silence with a joke, if she could even call it that with the way her mother was so vehemently against the relationship.
"She'll come around."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's not about her," he said, his faded lips curling fondly. "And it's not about me either. It's about what you want, Delia, and what makes you happy. And if Gio makes you happy, I'm happy."
"Thank you, daddy," she said softly, grasping his hand in her warmer one. She brought it to her lips, leaving a kiss on his knuckles, then to her cheek, and held it there.
"I wasn't supportive of Jareth," he uttered, caressing her cheek in feathery strokes. "I drove him away, as did your mother. I don't want to drive you away, Delia. I won't have that hanging over me in my final hours."
She swallowed, pushing down another truth threatening to rear its head. "It won't," she said, and left it at that.
He nodded, and his fingers weakly threaded her hair. "Go on. Go be happy. That's not a request."
Hesitantly, she rose from her chair, but held onto his hand, even as he pulled it away, squeezing it but not too tightly. "I want you to take it easy until I come home tomorrow. Just rest, okay?"
He opened his mouth to speak, only for a ragged cough to tear through him instead. She reached for the glass of water on his nightstand and raised his pillow with the other. Tilting his head a bit, she brought the refreshing liquid to his lips, letting it wash down his haggard throat. She very much wanted to stay with him until her mother came home from the market, even though he kept insisting that it would defeat the point of sneaking out.
Not that it was sneaking out, really. She'd already briefed her mother about her plans to spend the better part of the weekend with Gio. She'd just never bothered to remind her out of fear that her mother would suddenly spring another unmanned work shift on her just to keep her anchored.
The high-pitched piston whine of a motorcycle pulling to the front of the house yanked Delia's gaze to the window blinds, giving rise to an instinctive smile on her lips, one she was too late to cover up before her father could notice and chuckle at.
"Your chariot awaits," he tried to joke, but his voice came out wheezy and shriveled and it made Delia wince. "You'd best go now before your mother returns."
Outside, Diamond Dust honked in unwitting agreement. She looked to the window, then to her father, torn. "Can I get you something before I leave, daddy? Is there really nothing else I can do for you?"
"Go," he urged, using all of his breath to make the word pop."Have a good time. That's what you can do for me."
Smiling, she leaned down and kissed his forehead, then on each side of his face. She slid his water glass to the reachable edge of the nightstand and hurried out of the room before he could get worked up over her dillydallying again and cough himself into an arrhythmia. It brought her comfort knowing that he wanted this for her, and because of it, she knew to make this time away from Pallet Town count for something, for him just as much as her.
She rushed downstairs and grabbed her purse, but stopped at the mirror near the front door to glance at herself, wondering if maybe the blue dress she'd pick out was too daring. She took another quick moment to right her ponytail, having abandoned her pigtails in favor of something new. She usually never cared this darn much about her appearance, but it wasn't often she found any time to leave the house for any place besides work lately. And opportunities to spend more time with Gio were too few and far between, so she felt like she owed it to them both to treat each visit as a special occasion.
Her heart thumped with excitement as she came out the front door and spotted her boyfriend pulling up at the end of the lawn, setting his foot down at the curb to balance his ride beneath him.
"I've come to rescue you from the wicked witch," he hollered over his engine, a playful smile in his voice. She giggled into her hand at the clever yet accurate joke, then started toward him.
"And do I get to see the face of my knight in shining armor?" she asked, playing along.
He removed his helmet, and shook out his flattened hair, flashing that smile of his that still made her heart flutter so weightlessly in her chest. He always looked so mature these days, yet somehow so dangerous; dark jeans rolled up at the cuffs, a plain white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket flapping slightly in the breeze. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a 50's biker movie. Part of her found it adorable, but it also excited her in an odd way. There was something about being able to ride with him as he was, on something so loud and fast and ferocious, that always got her heart galloping.
And yet she felt safe with him every time.
Grabbing ahold of her senses, she crossed her arms and threw him a lopsided smirk. "You said you were going to pick me up by car this time."
He shrugged. "I wanted to surprise you."
"Surprise me? Or impress me?"
"Maybe a little of both," he admitted with a devious chuckle, reaching for her arm and gently pulling her toward him. His lips hovered inches from her own, when he asked, "Did it work?"
She blushed against her will. "Maybe a little."
He laughed, and suddenly captured her lips in a deep, heated kiss. Delia closed her eyes tightly, falling into the moment. It was a sweet moment, and short, deliberately so by the time she remembered her mother would be home soon. Even then, he pulled her closer, holding her solid against him.
"God, I've missed you," he husked into her ear, and it tickled, making her break out in giggles.
"Gio, not here," she managed, collecting herself and drawing back. "She'll be back any time now. We should go."
He nodded, and reached behind him to unhook the spare helmet before handing it to her. Smiling bashfully, she slung her purse safely back into place and pulled the helmet over her small head. She hopped up behind him on Diamond Dust, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist as he pushed his foot off the curb.
"Hang on tight," he yelled over his shoulder, and before she knew it, they were zooming away from the house. She pressed her face against his back, and wondered just how far and how long he was prepared to ride them around for before heading back to Viridian City. She didn't care, so long as she got to be with him, thrills aside.
And a little thrill sure beat slogging around the Pallet House on a Friday. Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was due for this.
The cool, morning air whipped through Marco's blue hair as he skulked out of the alley, keeping his head low and his wits about him as he beelined for the dumpster at the end of the abandoned lot. He stopped at one point for safe measure, flattening his back against the brick wall of the ramshackle office building and whistling up to the rooftop with his best Pidgey imitation. When a whistle carried back down to let him know the coast was clear, he pressed on.
As he closed in on the dumper, two older, larger men in all black duds came out from behind it to greet him, each sporting a giant red 'R' on their chest. He didn't even flinch. "Outfits look good on you fellas," he said. "Real convincing. Might have even fooled me if this wasn't my plan."
The two mobsters in disguise, Curly and Ralphy, shared a rumbling laugh. They were in good spirits, if nothing else, and that was always a promising indicator of good results. In his brief but rewarding career smuggling for the mafia, Marco had never pulled off a job like this. He was so used to doing things solo, but Giuseppe had insisted on making this a group effort.
And Marco didn't mind the company. He could be quiet and a bit shy at times, sure, but it wasn't always by choice. He just wasn't used to playing with others.
"Did the suckers you took them off of give you trouble?" he asked the pair.
"You should ask them," Curly, the larger one on the right, said with a toothy grin. He nodded to his partner, who lifted the top of the dumpster just enough for Marco to peek inside. He did so, and discovered two men squirming around in the trash in just their drawers and undershirts, their hands tied behind them and their mouths taped shut.
Marco reached down and ripped off the tape covering the closest one's mouth. "How much longer?" he demanded.
"On the hour," gasped the captured Rocket Grunt. Marco rolled up his sleeve, tapping his watch, then reapplied the tape over the man's mouth.
"Sorry about this," he mumbled. "Just keep quiet and this will go smoothly. If you can do that, I promise no more harm will come to you."
After some reluctance, both gagged prisoners nodded their understanding. Marco then closed the top of the dumpster on them when the purr of a truck engine swept over the lot, right on schedule. He quickly crouched into hiding behind the dumpster, motioning to Ralphy. The mobster nodded and hiked a few yards west to bring around their own truck.
There was no turning back now, and Marco simply had to assume everyone was in position and hope for the best. Whatever the outcome, it would be messy, and Giuseppe would get the war he wanted so badly.
The large box truck approaching them was a twelve-wheeler, just a cut above their own ten-wheeler, which Ralphy was now pulling up in front of the dumpster. Marco frowned, wondering if the size difference between the trucks would blow their whole plan to hell. Worst case scenario, they'd just have to cram to make room. In his experience, that always worked well enough with other illegal goods whenever space was tight. Were Pokémon really all that different from his usual cargo?
The twelve-wheeler screeched to a halt, and two skinny Rocket Grunts climbed out from the front seats. More Grunts followed, pouring out from the back of the vehicle. Marco counted seven altogether, including the driver and his main crony. Each man had a full set of Pokéballs dangling from their belts. This would make things trickier if they didn't act fast enough.
Curly, remembering his part, walked up casually to the group and cracked a joke. "What, Rocket Headquarters running out of space?"
"Madame Boss's orders," the driver cackled back, shrugging. He leaned out lazily to one side, sizing up the other truck behind Curly with a quick glance. "Hope you got room in that thing."
"Eh, no sweat," said Curly. "We got some storehouses here in Celadon with plenty enough space to go around. Let me just check everything against the manifest and then we'll get this show on the road." He turned, but stopped to snap his fingers at the other Grunts standing idly by like a bunch of dopes. "You can start unloading now, if ya want."
The group startled at his voice, as if all at once coming out of a collective daze, and then scrambled behind their truck to start unloading. Keeping half of his face safely concealed behind the dumpster, Marco watched with one diligent eye as several Pokémon in cages were lugged out of one truck and then dumped into the smaller one.
Jackpot, he thought. And the fact that this was going smoothly without incident made it that much sweeter. The Grunts didn't suspect a thing, and he almost regretted having to spoil it with violence. It would have been easy enough to steal Team Rocket's traffic from them right underneath their noses on a regular basis, but Giuseppe had other plans. It wasn't enough just to hit Madame Boss where it hurt her most—right in her wallet; Giuseppe also wanted her to know about it, and know who to hold responsible, at that.
Once the transfer was complete and the Pokémon were loaded up, Ralphy plunked himself behind the wheel again, quietly awaiting the getaway phase of the plan. Curly, meanwhile, returned to the Team Rocket driver empty-handed, throwing up his arms in a half-shrug and affecting a look of cluelessness. The mobster was performing the hell out of his role.
"Looks like I forgot the manifest," he heaved, before waving adieu and turning. "Sorry about that. Anyway, we'll just be on our—"
"Not so fast!" the driver hollered after him, and Marco knew time was up. "Not until you give us the Rocket Gang password! Sorry, but rules are rules!"
The imposter froze. "Oh, right, the password. It's… uh… on the tip of my tongue."
While Curly stalled, Marco tilted his head back and pressed his teeth to his lips, whistling real loud to the top of the building behind him.
Suddenly, Voltorbs rained down from above by the dozens, landing all around the Team Rocket squad's feet. The Grunts turned their heads about, distracted, frightened, and that was when Curly bolted. He climbed into the ten-wheeler beside Ralphy, a signal in itself that it was time to make off with the loot and get the hell out of dodge.
Marco came out from his hiding spot to climb in with them, but apparently, it was every man for himself, and he was left coughing and hacking on their fumes as they fled the parking lot without him. "Shit heads," he muttered under his breath, and turned his head up to the rooftop, whistling to the soldiers stationed there.
Nothing came back. They, too, had all abandoned him.
"Just great," he sighed, then quickly began sprinting back toward the alley he'd slinked out of earlier. He shouldn't have been surprised. He was Giuseppe's favorite, but that obviously still didn't sit well with a lot of the older, more experienced mafioso soldiers. They all saw him as a filthy smuggler skating by on luck, an orphan kid with no right to share in their glory.
And this was why he liked working solo. He could play nice with others; the problem was they rarely ever played nice with him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the panicked Team Rocket Grunts tripping over each other to get back into their own truck before the Voltorbs could detonate. He felt sorry for them, sort of. They were just average joes doing their job, trying to make a living, no different than him. Honestly, he would have been fine just pilfering from them and smuggling the stolen goods behind enemy lines, and leaving it at that. At least then it would have been harmless business as usual.
And that's when he remembered: the two saps still tied up in the dumpster. He'd given them his word.
Twisting on his feet, he huffed and puffed back to his abandoned post, tossing out a Pokéball ahead of him. Kadabra appeared, calm and poised, a fitting reminder of Giuseppe himself, who had given Marco the Pokémon as a gift for his fifteenth birthday. Right now, he just hoped this was one of those gifts that kept on giving.
He came upon the dumpster. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the Voltorbs now glowing bright white, and hollered the first command that came to him.
"Kadabra, use Protect!"
The Psychic Pokémon bent its spoon forward, projected a green barrier over itself, Marco, and the dumpster just as the Voltorbs reached their critical mass. The resulting explosion bounced off the energy shield, instead ravaging the better part of the parking lot. The Team Rocket truck and its unlucky passengers, meanwhile, had failed to get away in time and were sent blasting off toward the horizon.
When the dust settled and only crisped Voltorb husks peppered the grounds, Marco lifted up the dumpster top. Inside, the two unharmed prisoners were staring up at him as if they'd just seen a ghost. They probably couldn't believe he'd spared them their comrades' misfortune. Hell, he could scarcely believe it himself. Giuseppe's code of honor was rubbing off on him more and more these days; he'd promised these men no harm in exchange for cooperating, and he was delivering on that promise.
He peeled the tape off their mouths, while Kadabra loosened the rope around their wrists with its psychic powers. "You fellows will have to find yourselves some new clothes. Sorry."
They looked to each other, then one of them muttered at the teenager, "Why would you help us, kid? What's the catch?"
"I gave you my word," he said, but didn't bother to explain any further when he heard familiar engines cutting through the spell of quiet. "Now lay low until I'm gone, or my word will have been for squat."
They crouched back into place, and he closed the top over their heads and spun around just as Curly and Ralphy reemerged in the ten-wheeler, smacking through the fried Voltorbs like bowling pins. The tires shrieked in front of him, and the passenger door swung open. Curly was crouched between the seats, frantically gesturing at Marco.
"Get in, kid, before the fuzz show up and bust us!"
Grudgingly, Marco returned Kadabra to its Pokéball and climbed into the passenger seat. He wasn't even halfway buckled in before they were speeding off again.
"You left me," he uttered flatly. Beside him, Curly nudged Ralphy's arm with his elbow and laughed, as if to say, 'Teenagers, am I right?'
"We knew you would make it out," Ralphy said after a tense moment, shrugging. Marco decided not to waste his breath arguing with the boneheads, and so he kept quiet, brushing some flakes of debris off his lap and rolling his head back, working out the crick in his neck. At least the assignment had been carried out to the letter, even though there would be more to follow in the coming weeks. He knew this was only the first beating of the war drums.
Discreetly, he glanced into the side mirror outside his door. In the distance, the men he'd left behind were finally climbing out of their refuge, safe and sound. He couldn't take all the credit for letting them walk away from this uninjured though. Giuseppe had said he wanted word of this to reach Madame Boss quickly, and the two Grunts he'd spared were in perfect health to deliver the message.
Food could wait, thought Tucker as he plunked down at his lunch table in the courtyard with his shortwave radio. He carefully twisted the dials, passing over the music stations, trying to get to the good stuff. He lost his focus, though, when Roland, his best friend and schoolmate, scooted down the bench to join him, bringing with him his half-built plastic Magneton from their model building class.
"Hey, Tuck," the heavyset thirteen-year-old whined, rattling the loose model parts in his hand. "You gonna help me work on this or not? Remember, it's extra credit if we finish early."
"In a second." It was hard enough as it was to hear over the other noisy lunch tables, let alone over Roland shouting into his ear hole.
The other boy stared at the funny looking box in front of Tucker, and sighed wearily. "You're not supposed to have that out, you know."
"Just give me a second, Roland," Tucker said again, waving his friend quiet as he leaned into his radio. All he could hear from the speakers was static as he fiddled with the knobs back and forth, trying to get the right signal. Finally, after straightening the antenna a little, he reached a semi-clear station.
"... an update for you all," a man's voice piped through the airwaves. "Today, we, the Military Government, have intercepted communication waves from a Pokémon discovery ship 1011, about 200 nautical miles away from the open sea of Twin Island. I have met an unidentified Pokémon. I am certain that this is the legendary Dragonair."
The report filled Tucker with awe. "Are you hearing this, Roland? It's history in the making!"
"You know, I saw a Dragonair once," the other boy dropped casually.
Tucker twisted his head. "What? Really? When?"
His friend was tinkering with their school project with one hand and eating his lunch with the other, his tone almost sounding bored. "Last summer when me and my family went camping near Mount Silver. I saw its shadow in a lake."
"But did you actually see it?" Tucker specified, lifting a brow.
"I just told you I did."
"No, you said you saw a shadow."
Roland shrugged, taking a bite out of his turkey sandwich. "Yeah. That counts."
"No, it doesn't, Roland."
"Who went and made you the Pokémon sheriff?" Roland challenged, rolling his eyes before quickly scarfing down the rest of his lunch. Tucker couldn't help a small chuckle. The other boy had a way of getting him to laugh without even trying, a code Tucker could never seem to crack. He didn't get how a hilarious guy like Roland could be branded an outcast and sentenced to the loner's table with him.
Then, turning his head, glancing at the boy's model Magneton, it started to come back to him. Both he and Roland were bonafide losers, always sitting alone at the same table, always getting a headstart on schoolwork, always geeking out over Pokémon despite never owning one, unlike almost all the other students at the academy. They'd never been openly bullied for it, but the glances and whispers behind their backs said it all.
It also didn't help that they weren't exactly winning any favors in the looks department. They were practically dumbbells to every other guy on campus, Tucker more so than Roland, with his scrawny arms and thin legs and a stature that just barely topped five feet after a recent growth spurt. He'd grown out his thick mop of hair to add some height, but in the end, it just made him look like a layabout, as put so kindly by his dad. He'd even heard some kids snicker in class that he looked like he was wearing a blonde Tangela as a hat.
Roland had it way worse, though. He was a big guy, sure, and still growing. But it never went unmentioned by those same snickering kids that he was on the heavier side, filling his school uniform to the seams, with his gut hanging over his belt most of the time. That—thrown in with a freckled face, a butchered red crew cut, and an asthma condition—sort of cinched his place next to Tucker in the student hierarchy.
The terrible scratching of the radio caught between stations brought Tucker back to the moment. A new voice broke through the sound, and Tucker leaned in eagerly, his heart hammering in his chest. Even if life had dealt him a pretty lousy hand, the dreamer in him still lived for these moments, for these amazing Pokémon discoveries.
"We just intercepted another radio signal," the radio host said. "We'd like to broadcast it to you all. Please stand by."
Roland sighed heavily again. "Give that thing a rest, will you, Tuck? It's not like—"
"Shhh," Tucker silenced him, listening. The panicked voice of a female correspondent filled the speakers.
"Oh, I just regret not letting others see this figure!" she exclaimed, something between awe in terror in her voice. "It's Gyarados! Gyarados is right here in front of my eyes! We've heard that it's an atrocious Pokémon, and as expected it looks very fierce! Oh… it's coming this way—"
The broadcast went dead, leaving more static in its wake. Tucker blew out a disappointed sigh and leaned his chin into the palm of his hand. A soft warm autumn breeze caressed his curly hair, taunting him in its own way, reminding him of the much larger world beyond his tiny little one right where he was. If he wasn't at school, he was at home. If he wasn't at home, he was at school. He wondered if he would ever see another city that wasn't either Pallet Town or Viridian City, another landscape that didn't just stay the same all the time, another Pokémon other than the ones in his father's corral or the Pidgey flocks that always passed him by overhead, free to fly wherever they wanted whenever they want.
"Hey, how about that," Roland remarked nonchalantly when the signal didn't return. "I guess Gyarados is real after all."
Tucker shrugged. "I already knew Gyrados was real, but I still wanna see one in person."
"How do you know it's real?"
"Gio battled one when he took on the Indigo League," he said. "He told me all about it."
"He was probably just trying to impress you."
Tucker snorted at the comment. "No way. Gio doesn't lie."
"Sorry, it just sounds too good to be true."
"You mean like your Dragonair story?" countered Tucker, smirking. Roland froze for a second, saying nothing.
"On second thought," he began, setting back to work on his project, "maybe he did see Gyarados after all."
Tucker laughed softly, shaking his head. He then gazed at the dead radio, solemnly. "All these new Pokémon being discovered," he huffed, kicking underneath the table. "Meanwhile, we're stuck here."
"Hey, it's not all bad," said the ginger, before pointing near Tucker. "Hand me that piece there, will you?" Tucker handed him the tiny plastic model part, and only then did Roland continue his thought. "Think of it this way, Tuck. We still get credit for attending here just like any other Pokémon Trainer would out there."
Tucker rolled his eyes. "Except we're not real Trainers. We don't even have Pokémon."
"Oh," Roland croaked, pausing. "Right. Forgot about that."
Tucker glanced at their project. The model was finally starting to resemble a Magneton, yet it only drew a grimace from him. "There are ten-year-olds out there catching Pokémon all on their own. And what are we doing at twelve and thirteen? Building dumb models of them."
"For the record, I'm the only one building here," Roland muttered, concentrating. "Besides, this is the only elective my mom deemed safe enough for a soft boy like me. Her words, not mine."
"Oh, come on!" Tucker leaned back on the bench, drumming his fingers on his knee to vent his energy. "What are we doing here? Why aren't we allowed to have some fun? I mean, it doesn't bother you that your folks don't trust you enough to let you go out on an adventure on your own?"
The larger boy laughed. "My folks don't trust me to go pee in a public bathroom on my own."
"Gross, Roland."
He elbowed Tucker's arm. "Speaking of not accomplishing things on my own, wanna start giving me a hand with this? The sooner we get it turned in, the sooner we can get it graded and not have to worry about it."
Tucker was about to give in when he noticed several students bustling past their table, flooding out of the courtyard and onto the grass field. He knew that was where most Pokémon Battles were permitted between students; but after rose up in his seat and he squinted a little, it didn't look like any battles were taking place. He could make out a large crowd gathering near the far edge of the field.
"What's that all about?" he murmured, mostly to himself. He stood from the bench, his curiosity piqued.
Roland saw this and groaned. "Seriously, man? You're just looking for any reason not to—"
"Be right back," Tucker talked over him, abandoning the table and rushing after the herd of students.
Upon crossing the field, he shoved his way through the bigger, taller bodies milling around in a circle. They were all chanting and laughing, and as he came to the center, he saw why. Fourteen-year-old Brandon Becker, one of the academy's popular jerks, was tossing a bone club back and forth with a buddy. And standing atop a tree stump between them was a mewling Cubone, balancing on its tippy toes, desperately trying to reclaim the stolen property flying over its head.
"Cuuu!" it cried out. "Cuuubone!"
Brandon howled in laughter, as did his pal, which, in turn, got the rest of the crowd going. Tucker felt his blood boil in his veins and pound at his temple, and he stomped out from the mob, bringing up his pointer finger to the bully.
"Give that back to him!" His voice cracked a bit at the end, and the other students pointed and laughed. He didn't care though.
Brandon caught the bone club, snorted in his Tucker's direction, and then passed it back to his buddy again. "Pipe down, Oak. We're just messing with the little thing."
"It's called Cubone," he clarified sharply, standing his ground. "And it's a Pokémon, not a thing."
The older boy shrugged, not caring. Tucker's patience snapped, and he moved between the two older boys, snatching the bone club on the next pass. A gasp rippled through the crowd, and everyone went quiet, looking toward Brandon. The bully's glare was fiery and promised consequences.
Tucker ignored him, and knelt down to return Cubone's weapon. "Here you go, little feller."
The Pokémon peaked up hesitantly at Tucker from beneath its skull mask, and reached out slowly to take the club from his hand. "Cuuu? Cuuuubone?"
Suddenly, Brandon was closer, catching Tucker in his towering shadow. "How about you stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, Oak?"
Tucker rose to his feet, meeting the bully's gaze, unafraid. "And how about you start picking on someone your own size for a change?"
"Fair enough." Brandon reached forward and snatched Tucker's uniform collar with his fist, easily pulling the smaller boy toward him. His other hand went to his belt, resting against the Pokéball hanging there, a bluff more than a threat, but one Tucker was ready to chance if it meant protecting a helpless Pokémon.
"What's going on over there?" a teacher's voice rang out across the field, and Brandon quickly released his hold on Tucker. The rest of the crowd began to scatter like scared Rattata.
"Watch yourself, Oak," the older boy warned softly. "Your daddy may be a big-shot professor, but he isn't here to protect you."
Tucker scowled, watching Brandon guardedly as the jerk headed back to the courtyard with the other students. When the mob cleared, Roland was the only audience left, staring wide-eyed and mouth agape. Apparently he'd heard them the commotion and come running.
"Tuck, are you crazy?" he squeaked, on the verge of hyperventilation. "You can't go picking fights on your first week!"
"I couldn't let them hurt Cubone," Tucker said simply, pivoting. The Pokémon was still sitting on its stump, hugging its bone club like a baby rattle. He'd hoped the little guy would have scampered off to safer turf by now, but no such luck.
"Weird," Roland observed. "He doesn't seem to want to leave that spot."
"Yeah," Tucker agreed with only some effort, unable to drag his gaze from the companionless Pokémon. He wondered if Cubone was on his own, or waiting for someone, maybe. A Trainer? A family member?
From the school grounds, the bells rang out, scattering Tucker's thoughts. Roland tapped his shoulder.
"Let's get back to class, Tuck, before the teacher rips us a new one."
Reluctantly, Tucker nodded, and began to turn back toward the school. Roland was already trundling down the field ahead of him. Tucker froze after a few steps, however, feeling as if maybe he hadn't done enough for the little Cubone. He reached into his pocket, fishing out a small package of biscuit sticks he'd brought from home to snack on during class.
Opening the package, he returned to Cubone's perch and crouched down. The Pokémon flinched at first, but relaxed when Tucker set down the snack on the stump. "Here you go, little feller," he whispered, smiling. "I don't mind. I'm not feeling too hungry anyway."
Cubone tilted its head distrustfully, poking at the package with its club. Tucker laughed.
"It's just a snack, I promise!" To prove it, he reached for one of the sticks and took a bite out of it, chewing slowly. "See? Yum!"
Hunching forward, Cubone swiped a stick with his free hand. He sniffed it once, then took a nibble. After swallowing one bite, the Pokémon let out a tiny burp.
"Hey, glad you like it!" Tucker chuckled, nudging the package closer to Cubone, who plunked himself down and began to munch away. Tucker wished he had more to give him. If he wasn't uncertain the little guy didn't already belong to another Trainer, he might have considered taking him home. He'd always had a soft spot for smaller Pokémon, and Cubone would be a lot safer living in his dad's corral than around these parts.
The class bell rang out its final warning, and Tucker snapped to his feet with a sigh. "I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Cubone," he said, passing Cubone a small smile and waving. "Don't overeat, okay?"
The Pokémon stopped eating for a moment, tossing a look of incomprehension at the twelve-year-old as he started to walk away. Then, immediately, he went back to gorging, and Tucker turned his head forward on his shoulders, satisfied. He'd made a new friend, and a Pokémon friend at that, one he expected to see again in the coming days. Since his dad wouldn't give him a Pokémon, this would do just fine instead.
"Can I open them now, Gio?"
"Not yet."
"Oh, this is torture, and you know it!"
Snickering, Gio stood back to let Delia enter the Gym first, then steered her by the shoulders. Meowth was waiting at the center of the arena, standing post next to a table set for two, complete with a red tablecloth and some kind of candle he'd picked out as a centerpiece. Well, technically, Ariana had picked it out; but now that he thought about it, it was probably done to sabotage the date.
Pressing his lips together, he eyed the table setting. Was it too elaborate? Too fancy? Maybe the pillar candle was a bit much, even for them. He slowed Delia to a stop, made sure her eyes were still closed, and then raced ahead to pluck the largest candle out of the mixed greenery and flowers. No detail could be left to chance, in his mind. He'd closed down operations for the day, reserving the battlefield just for this date, so he wanted everything to be perfect for her.
He took a quick glance around to see that everything else was in order. The wall sconces were lit and burning warmly, and the ceilings lights were dimmed to a glow he hoped felt romantic enough. The elaborate lunch entrees he'd ordered from a few stops down but couldn't even begin to pronounce were still hot, thankfully, each plate with its own silver cloche. A small fortune, but worth it for the girl he'd been lucky to have for almost five years now.
"Gio, can I open them yet?"
Before he could approve her request, he remembered the candle in his hand, then glanced up at the table; now the centerpiece looked a little flat and lopsided. "Damn," he muttered, quickly setting the stupid thing back in place and relighting it. Why couldn't it have been shorter?
"Gio!"
Satisfied with the adjustment, he took her by the shoulders again and gingerly sat her down at the table. "Okay, now," he whispered into her ear.
She opened her eyes slowly, an eye ridge rising at the sight of the decorated table, the entrees, everything. "Gio," she gasped, her head turning in quick motions. "It's beautiful! You really did all this? You?"
"Of course." He lifted only the corner of his mouth into a smile, trying not to seem too impressed with himself. "Do you like it?"
"It's perfect," she said, touching one of the center flowers; he'd made a good call with that after all. "You did all this by yourself?"
"Well, I had some help," I said, tilting his chin in Meowth's direction. The Pokémon was perched proudly near the base of her chair.
Giggling, Delia leaned down and placed a kiss on the cat's head. "Thank you, Meowth."
"Meeeerow!"
Gio yanked off his gloves, setting them on the edge of the table and hanging his jacket over his chair before sitting down. It was starting to hit him that maybe he should have changed into something more appropriate for the occasion. He'd been so hung up on getting everything else perfect that he'd completely forgotten about himself. Then again, something told him she didn't mind all that much, given the way she'd blushed when he'd rolled up to her house earlier.
As she began to look through the expensive selection of dishes between them, she couldn't help shaking her head, disbelief in her smile. "You really closed down the Gym for an entire afternoon just for me? Is that allowed?"
"It's my Gym," he said with a shrug. "I'll decide what's allowed."
She chuckled, and spread a napkin over her lap once she settled on some kind of fancy spinach and basil sauce dish. "I hope you weren't slaving away in the kitchen all morning," she remarked with a hint of sarcasm as she stirred.
"I ordered in," he said, smirking as he gently nudged her foot underneath the table. "Besides, if I could cook, what would I need you for?"
"Watch yourself, Mr. Ketchum!" she threatened playfully, pointing her spoon at him and kicking his ankle. He started to laugh, but something she'd said gave him pause, and he turned his eyes away and cleared his throat.
"Sakaki," he corrected flatly, before quickly biting into a piece of bread. She froze, a frown setting deeply on her face. He knew she hated that surname. He knew that wasn't the last name she wanted him to give her someday, but it was his identity now. They both just needed to accept it and move on.
After a moment, she nodded apologetically. "I know, I'm sorry. Two years and it still hasn't quite… sunk in yet."
He twisted his mouth into a bitter smile before diving into his own entree and quickly changing the subject. "How is business at the Pallet House?"
"Could be better," she sighed, scraping her spoon against the sides of her bowl. "But is could also be worse, I guess."
"And your father?"
"He's in good spirits, if nothing else," she murmured softly, her eyes hidden in her meal. It was still a sensitive topic, one she clearly didn't really want to think about. So he would respect that.
"Your mother?" he pressed onward.
"Still hates you like the plague."
He nodded slowly, smirking. "All is well and normal then."
She nearly choked hearing that, and the sight makde him toss his head back with a hearty chuckle of his own. Their laughter bounced off the walls of the Gym, filling it with comfort and warmth. Gio could have spent all afternoon just cracking wise and making Delia laugh. Fewer sounds pleased him more than that contagious giggle, and he sort of preferred it to all the serious talk.
"So how's the shop?" she asked once they collected themselves. "I'm guessing slow. I don't see a single callus on your hands."
He held up his palms in front of him instinctively, inspecting them, before stopping to really pull apart her question. "I'm not usually the one who works on the cars, Delia. That's usually Rocco or Kirk or my Pokémon. I just… oversee things."
"Except when it comes to Diamond Dust," she murmured teasingly against the rim of her water glass. He'd heard it, and smiled slyly.
"You got me." He reached across the table, running his thumb over her knuckles. "But they're also reserved just for you. And for the record, I've upped my back-rubbing game a bit."
She giggled, setting her water down. "Good. I could sure use a good massage. This week has been brutal, to say the least."
He nodded, looking down at his food, the words resonating with him more than he cared to admit. He felt so trapped in his job lately, both of them, yet each for different reasons. It also didn't help that Narissa Amado's story had stuck with him throughout the week, haunting him like a dark shadow, making his daily and nightly duties even harder to see through than usual. And finally, there were Tucker's problems dumped on top of his own, as if he somehow had all the answers to a twelve-year-old's identity crisis when he himself was still wrestling with his own.
Delia sighed, suddenly looking discouraged. "Adulthood. The workforce. Responsibilities. The universe sure knows how to keep us apart, doesn't it?"
"Tell me about it," he grumbled, absently cracking his knuckles. "Sometimes it feels like a lifetime between our visits. And it's all I can do not to…" He let the sentence trail off, and quickly untensed his fists when he realized how exposed he was. "Forget it."
She slanted her head and narrowed her eyes in an obvious effort to glean whatever he'd left unsaid out of him. His whole body tensed. He felt like scum for not catching himself sooner. He didn't want her to worry, not now, not here and not with him. He wanted them to be happy and just enjoy each other while they could. Legendaries, why did he have to open his damn mouth?
Desperate to get back to normalcy, he shook his head and squared his shoulders, forcing out a laugh. "It's nothing, Delia. Just thinking out loud."
She gave him a small, hopeful smile and reached out, squeezing his wrist. "You should do it more often. It's getting harder to read you these days."
He nodded, looking down at the table and clearing his throat. "So," he forced out through the lump in his throat, past the sharp stabbing pain in his chest. "Have you heard from Spencer at all?"
She dropped her spoon into her bowl. "Oh! That reminds me!" She twisted around excitedly, reaching into the purse hanging off her chair and pulling out an envelope, holding it out toward him. "That group photograph finally developed! The one you took of Spencer and me on his last day in town!"
He took the envelope and lifted the photograph out of the pocket, turning its front to him. The faces of Delia, Sam, and Spencer all smiled up at him as they posed against the fence overlooking Pallet Town's windmills. He'd chosen the perfect spot to snap the three of them, and he smiled sadly, suddenly reminded of the last of more innocent times. Everyone he'd traveled with held a special memory for him in their own way; Sam had set him on the path, and Delia had been his first and only love, and Meowth and his other Pokémon had taught him a valuable trade.
But for some reason Gio couldn't put his finger on, Spencer was that one friend he associated most with the peak of his Pokémon Training quest, the carefree days of three friends going around the Johto Region conquering Gym Leaders and knocking off bad guys. He'd accepted the end to that era upon moving out of Pallet Town and changing his surname, but for some reason, the reality of it didn't truly hit him until he saw Spencer get in that cab and leave for Greenfield. He'd felt a pang in his chest that day, watching another familiar face split away from the old hive, becoming a distant memory and taking with him another piece of the old Giovanni. It had opened his eyes to the fact that he could never get the old days back, not even if he wanted to.
And that was what made it so hard... because sometimes he did. It would have broken Delia's heart to hear him admit something so weak and pathetic, but it was the truth. The old days had been perilous, but they'd been simpler, and he himself had felt so much safer surrounded by Delia and their friends at all times. He'd been able to better trust himself back then, and he hadn't known enough about his darkness to become afraid of it and take responsibility for it. That wasn't the case anymore.
But just wanting what was lost often made him upset, rattling his aggressive conscience, something he found he couldn't control very well anymore. That was part of the reason why he'd discarded the name Ketchum altogether, spending the last two years making every effort to move forward and not dwell on the past. He didn't want that longing and nostalgia weighing him down, and he didn't want that pain, in turn, to twist him into someone even more bitter and frustrated than he already felt most of the time. Delia didn't deserve to be subjected to that. She was the only one that kept him together, and the one core piece of Giovanni Ketchum, besides Meowth, that he could never let go of.
"It came out great," applauded Delia across the table, snapping him out of his daze. She got up from her chair and slipped behind him to peer over his shoulder at the photograph. He nodded once her comment finally caught up to him, chuckling.
"Legendaries, it never really hit me just how much older Sam looks these days," he noted, trying to find something else to talk about.
She sighed into his ear. "Being a single father will do that to you."
"And Spencer, too," he finally murmured, tracing a finger nostalgically over the face of the tall young man. "Forget just age. The camera really adds inches."
She laughed, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek and draping her arms around his shoulders. "You know," she exhaled, "you should have been in the shot with us instead of behind the camera."
A shiver ran down his spine, and not the good kind.
"Spencer would have wanted something to remember you by," she uttered, so harmlessly. Even so, he shook his head in sharp jerks and slammed the photo face-down in front of him, not in any mood to hear her once again mourn for the boy he once was. That identity didn't exist anymore. That identity couldn't pose for photos. If she couldn't get past that, he didn't know how he ever truly, fully could either.
"You know damn well what you're doing right now, Delia." The coldness in his voice made her flinch against him, and he immediately wanted to suck it back in. He'd try to steer the conversation safely back on course, and somehow they'd ended up right back in the ravine. And he felt exposed again, and afraid of how monstrous he must have seemed in that moment.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered, slowly unlacing her arms from around his neck. "I didn't mean for that to come out like it sounded, honestly."
He caught her wrist, holding it steady against his shoulder, not wanting to let go. He relaxed, and blew out a breath. "No," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted like that."
She took his chin in her hand, turning his face toward her and smiling that smile that made him feel like his world wasn't such a dark place after all. He leaned up, pressing his lips against hers; a soft, simple action, and all he needed to put his fears to rest once she melted right into it. Things were rough and would never be like they were, but he would be okay. They would be okay.
Marco entered Giuseppe's quarters later that afternoon with a sense of profound relief, and it wasn't because of the dangerous job he'd just narrowly pulled off. It was because this was going to be their first moment alone together in over a week. He wagered these moments would come more frequently now that he was expected to report to Giuseppe after every assignment. It was weird, in a way, how a war with the Rocket Gang had potential in equal shares to both drive them further apart and bring them closer together.
Though the mob's hideout spanned a sprawling labyrinth of sleek foyers and suites underground the Celadon Casino, Giuseppe's private chambers were modest, by comparison. Whereas most teenage boys their age were cocky punks that liked to showboat whatever material wealth they possessed, Giuseppe's tastes were decidedly ordinary, and anything but pretentious.
And it made Marco feel at home. It made him feel less out of place. If he'd owned a home of his own, it would have been identical. Even just standing in the common room as he was now, Marco could appreciate just how bland and base everything was, from the colorless walls to the battered furniture. And he liked boring. It wasn't flashy and it wasn't fake.
Smiling a bit, he walked up the organized bookcase running along the wall to his left, his fingers skimming over the well-worn binds of the shelved texts. Knowledge was one thing a scholar like Giuseppe did take pride in and didn't have any issue showing off. He recognized some of these books from back when he'd first came under the mob's protection and Giuseppe had insisted on tutoring him in history and literature and composition and other subjects he'd never studied while growing up poverty-stricken.
As he came to the end of the bookcase and turned, he frowned, drawing his focus to a more recent aspect of Giuseppe he wasn't all that fond of. A single brazier claimed the top-left corner of the parlor room, one he wished were just decorative and nothing else. It had been a gift from Priestess Rue back when she first arrived from Kalos and had only just begun to preach her silly religion to Giuseppe. It apparently had magical properties, yet the fact that Giuseppe hadn't trashed it disturbed Marco a little. How could a smart, educated guy like him not see through her bullshit?
Giuseppe's low, agile voice twisted Marco around. "Fast work."
Marco cleared his throat a little, nodding. The young kingpin stood observantly in the doorway to the adjoining room, his face its usual solemn mask. His hair was damp from a shower, hanging in brown rivulets across his forehead. He was in casual clothes, for once—casual for him, anyway. A loose button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of slacks. Even in his leisure time, he still had to dress and act like an adult.
"It's done then," said Giuseppe flatly, not so much a question as a statement. Marco nodded anyway.
"The Pokémon they were transporting are now in our custody." Marco kept his posture straight and his hands behind his back as he delivered his report. "Word of it should be reaching your mother right about now. I expect she won't be happy."
The mob boss betrayed no surprise or emotion at the news. "The cargo size?"
"A truckload," Marco answered. "We're keeping them at one of our warehouses downtown. A lot of mouths to feed, but we'll make it work."
"And are the other men treating you with respect?" Giuseppe asked, arching a brow. Marco bit his lower lip; it was a tricky one to answer, and he feared the truth would endanger Curly and Ralphy to some unnecessary extreme.
"It'll be... an adjustment period," he settled on.
Giuseppe saw through the vague response, and glared, pacing closer to Marco. "Who harmed you? Give me their names."
Marco was sort of startled by the reaction, but also a bit flattered; he laughed, holding up his palms. "It's alright, really. No one harmed me, Boss."
After a moment, the other boy's mouth curved upward just slightly. "You don't have to call me that when we're alone. You know that."
"Giuseppe," he amended, returning the smile. That little knot that had hidden in his stomach tightened despite himself though.
"You took a great risk today," said the kingpin, the words meant in praise, yet his tone sounding more observational than anything else. Marco figured this was his way of trying to gauge his thoughts on their situation. And of course, Marco had kept those thoughts to himself so far, simply doing as he was told without asking questions. When it came down to it, that was really all that mattered.
Still, he did have Giuseppe's ear, as Ignazio had pointed out shortly before getting himself killed. He considered it a privilege more than a weapon though. He had to tread carefully with it, pick his battles, figure out a way to advise his friend without making it seem like he was questioning or challenging his authority. Giuseppe had always respected Marco professionally for his constraint and discretion, and Marco didn't want to lose that; in case nothing came of their other friendship, he couldn't afford to.
"For you, there's nothing I wouldn't risk," he proclaimed proudly after a long, thoughtful pause. "Besides, I'm a smuggler, so I don't mind the busywork and—"
Giuseppe's voice suddenly cut like an icy wind. "But you don't approve of my methods, do you?"
Marco closed his mouth when he realized it was still hanging open, and turned his head away, exhaling through his nostrils. He supposed this was it then. He'd waited for the opportune moment to make his voice heard, and now here it was, being offered to him on a platter by the man in question himself.
"I'm just wondering," he began coyly, building his sentence as he went along, "if there isn't a better way to handle our situation."
Giuseppe lifted his strong chin. "If there is one, share it with me."
Marco glanced down briefly, rethinking his approach, then looked up to meet Giuseppe's intense gaze again. "I always knew it would come to war… someday," he said. "I just didn't think that day would come so soon. After the Rocket Empire fell and the banks went under, the mob was in shambles. All of its branches were scattered, fighting amongst one and other just to lay claim to the shiniest penny. But you brought the family back together when no one else could. You made it whole again. I don't know how you did it, but you did."
The mob boss frowned. "But?"
"But... we're still rebuilding, recuperating."
Giuseppe stared blankly past Marco's shoulder, his jaw clenching the only sign that he registered what he said.
"So," Marco carried on with the thought, "that being said, why not wait until we're at full strength to engage Team Rocket?"
"Team Rocket," the other boy tested the name on his tongue, his nostrils doing a little flare. "Call them the Rocket Gang. They're not a damn soccer team. I don't have the slightest idea how that name ever came to be. If they can rule the underworld with a silly name like that, what does that say about us?"
Marco suppressed a smile, even if the other boy's words hadn't been meant as a joke. "My point still stands," he stated.
Giuseppe shook his head without changing his expression. "The Military Government's obsessive desire to discover new Pokémon has enabled illegal Pokémon smuggling and hunting organizations like the Rocket Gang to flourish these past few years," he explained. "If we're the only ones not flourishing, that means we're admitting defeat."
"Of course, I understand that, but—"
"Once, the black market bent to the Saffron Mafia," the kingpin cut Marco down, coming to stand closer to him, too close. "Now it bends to my mother and the Rocket Gang. Who decided that? I didn't. And that's why I'll not sit meekly by and wait for us to collapse back into nothing while the Rocket Gang thrives on the very riches and prosperity my father was promised all those years ago by Torino. Mark my words, Marco, we will show all of the underworld that we are not a force to be crossed. We will bring the Rocket Gang to its knees."
Marco blinked at that intense mouthful, but quickly found his voice. "And your mother?"
He shrugged. "If she complies with my demands and surrenders to me, I'll be fair to her. I'll allow her to retire her little empire with dignity."
"Fair to her," Marco echoed back the words in a croak, looking down between them. He swallowed, knowing exactly which question he wanted to follow up with, fighting with himself over whether or not to ask it, before finally deciding it deserved an answer. "Just as you were fair to Ignazio?"
Giuseppe was quiet for a moment, then straightened. "Ignazio was a traitor. He openly defied me."
"And if it had been me that spoke out that day instead of him?"
"It wouldn't have been you."
Marco reached out a terrified hand. His fingers found Giuseppe's shirt, and he squeezed it. "But how do you know that?"
"It wouldn't have been you," the other boy repeated more firmly, hovering so close to Marco now that he could feel his breath ghosting his face. "You're loyal. I trust you. Do you trust me, Marco?"
Even though Giuseppe was staring straight at him, there was a faraway, lonely look in his eyes that broke Marco's heart to see. In truth, he looked less like a potent leader at that moment, and in Marco's eyes, he looked more like a frightened boy afraid to get bad news. And so Marco changed his approach, telling his best friend what he thought to be at the crux of all his carefully concealed hardship:
"I would follow you anywhere, Giuseppe, and I would die for you."
Giuseppe blinked and looked at Marco like he was seeing him properly for the first time. His left hand rose to cover Marco's trembling left hand, which was currently resting on his right shoulder, and held onto it like a drowning man would hold an anchor. The other hand came to Marco's cheek, tracing one of the scars running along it. Then the crime lord sighed and leaned forward ever so slightly, resting his forehead against the other boy's.
The two stood like that for what seemed to Marco an eternity, and Marco had never before been so aware of another. He kept his eyes determinably closed, for he feared that were he to open them and see his best friend's piercing brown ones looking back at him, it would make things uncomfortable and they'd be forced to split.
Then suddenly, as if lightning had struck him, Giuseppe took a huge intake of breath and pulled his head away, probably remembering the door to the suite was still wide open.
"Someone might see," the kingpin said, clearing his throat into his fist and stepping back. He was all business and rigidness again in the blink of an eye, leaving Marco feeling a painful twinge in his chest.
"Right," Marco complied in a soft voice, straightening. He was aware that his breathing was none too steady either, and cleared his own throat, deciding that maybe he'd overstayed his invitation. "If we're going to get the drop on the Rocket Gang again tomorrow, I'd better get some rest."
When Giuseppe looked at him, his expression was unreadable. Marco wasn't sure if it was an approving glance, or if perhaps he couldn't find the right words to ask Marco to stay. The young crime lord had so few weaknesses, which was impressive for a fifteen-year-old with so much responsibility; but it was how he managed his feelings and emotions that was perhaps his biggest one. Marco, on the other hand, wasn't so afraid of his own feelings. He was only a year senior to his friend, so he couldn't chalk it up to age or wisdom. No, it was something else, something that couldn't be learned in any book.
"My liege," came a soft, smoky voice.
Both their heads turned on their shoulders. Priestess Rue was now standing in the doorway, the room suddenly illuminating around her bright coat of red and yellow fur.
Giuseppe quickly pointed Marco toward the door. "Leave us," he said in a low voice.
It wasn't spoken in malice or scorn, yet it still twisted into Marco like a blunt dagger. He should have seen it coming, to be fair. Whenever Giuseppe stood in Rue's presence, he seemed a different person, and it was becoming harder and harder for Marco to tell if it was just a forced facade or if the kingpin was actually wrapped around the Delphox's finger.
"At once, Boss Giuseppe," Marco obeyed finally, turning to leave and grinding his teeth as attempted to brush past the Rue. She swept in front of him, however, and set one of her silky black hands upon his cheek—as she frequently did with Giuseppe, before she blessing him—and smiled.
"Ronazak shines through you, young smuggler," the Pokémon said, laughter and song in the tones of her telepathic voice.
Marco, for all the heat coming from the torch, felt a familiar chill crawl from the base of his skull to the small of his back, and shuddered. It was the very same chill he'd felt from her while she was standing over Ignazio's body.
He nodded once, not knowing what else to do or say, and stepped around her to retreat into the corridor outside. He started to shut the door behind him, but as he spotted Rue gliding over to Giuseppe's side through the narrowing slit, something in his gut shouted for him not to shut the door all the way.
And so he didn't, pulling it ajar to the tiniest crack, one neither of them detected and one he could peer through well enough. He didn't like that it had come to eavesdropping, but he was tired of waiting around for answers. He just had to know what sort of game this witch was playing at. He had to know if his friend was in danger of her. He'd sworn to give his life for Giuseppe and protect him, and this was him sticking to his word.
"Is it war then?" Rue asked after a lengthy lull.
Giuseppe nodded stiffly, pacing over to his book collection, not looking at her. "So long as my mother continues to disregard me, it is. The Saffron Mafia and the Rocket Gang cannot share the criminal underworld. The sooner she learns it, the less pain she'll have to deal with."
The Pokémon smiled. "Your mother is but an obstacle you must overcome."
"Yes, you've always loved pointing out the obvious, haven't you?" Marco noticed that Giuseppe's large hands were gripping the bookshelf as if he wished to crumble it.
But insults didn't seem to be of any concern to Rue, and she came up behind Giuseppe, resting a hand over the same spot on his shoulder Marco had touched just minutes ago. "You're troubled, my liege."
He spun on her. "Don't call me that."
"But that is what you are," she said musically. "And I am but a servant."
"Yes, but not to me," he ground out in a low rumble. "Only to that psychic god of yours that you worship."
"Ronazak."
"A Pokémon," he spat.
The great red tufts on her ears stood up, and she offered a subtle shrug. "A monster, yes, but one that can never be confined to any mortal's pocket. Ronazak resides in a realm of space far removed from ours, yet we live in his shadow, all the same."
"And you're his mouthpiece."
"I am more than just a messenger," she explained, her smile never wavering. "And you are more than just a soldier in his battle plan. You are his champion, Giuseppe. You are his chosen. You will recreate this miserable world as he sees fit—into something beautiful."
He shook his head staunchly. "I am doing my duty and nothing more," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But if it's so important that this space god of yours sees me succeed in my ambitions, go ahead and tell him to help me already."
This time she shook her head. "I tell him nothing. I merely pray for his commands and obey."
He got in her face suddenly, and it was the closest thing to anger Marco had ever witnessed in Giuseppe. "You seem to miss the fact," he growled through clenched teeth. "My mother commands hundreds of Rocket Grunts and field agents, men whose allegiance rightly belongs to me. She has funds and resources and properties, all of which belongs to me by inheritance and to my family as restitution. If she will not give these things to me, I will make her bleed them. Do you understand?"
She cupped his chin, almost lovingly. "You must have faith, my liege."
"Faith?" he barked, and tore his face from her hand. "I am confident in the arms at my disposal, but religion has never helped me, not once."
"Because you're a man of science and logic," the Pokémon replied, a poor counterargument in Marco's mind. "Ronazak does not deal in such absolutes."
Giuseppe looked rightfully offended at that. "Then he is useless to me, just like every other god and Legendary and Mythical that fanatics like to rave about."
Rue raised her arm, that wand-like stick slipping out from her sleeve of fur and sliding gracefully into her hand. "I have seen the path to victory in the fire," she said, and as the wand suddenly caught flame, she brought it in front of him. "The men serving you have begun to doubt you, and so now you have begun to doubt yourself. And what is doubt but the sin of unbelief, fogging your sight?"
Giuseppe grimaced and turned his head away from the torch in a sharp motion. It almost looked to Marco like he was trying to resist it.
"So let me burn that fog away for you," Rue whispered, and spun, the embers flying off her wand and swarming to the brazier in the corner of the room, almost as if compelled by some divine force. The object ignited instantly, and Marco shrunk away from the door for a moment, taken aback. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The flames rising from the brazier weren't just one color. They were a prism—yellows, greens, blues, reds.
It was beautiful, and terrifying.
Giuseppe glanced at her for a moment, and Marco hoped he would find the strength to resist, maybe say something to bury her ridiculous prophecy talk in the grave where it belonged; but his eyes were drawn to some movement in the spectrum of flames, and he slowly turned toward it.
Rue moved behind the teenager, pressing on his shoulder blades and nudging his feet into motion. "Look into the flames, Giuseppe. Truly look."
Marco clenched his fists as the urge to barge in racked through him, but he held fast against the door, knowing not to give away his position. He carefully watched Giuseppe from behind as he slowly walked up to the brazier, now of his own will. Marco couldn't see his eyes anymore though. He couldn't see whatever shapes or visions or magic were dancing in the great fire.
"Do you see it, my liege?" Rue kept on coaxing all the while, leaning in beside Giuseppe to share his view. "Do you see the path to victory?"
Giuseppe didn't nod, but he pulled his feet closer to the brazier, his face just shy of the flames now. He seemed curious more than anything else, but not entranced. Marco might have found some reassurance in that, but the more Rue kept spouting her praises and adages into his the kingpin's ear, the more Marco worried for his friend. If he wasn't fully under her power now, he would be soon.
"You will win this war," she went on, like a hypnotist in her prime, "and you will win the one after that. Just have faith, my liege. Faith in Ronazak. Faith in his power. Faith in me."
Marco tore himself away from the door, unable to stand the scene any longer, and stormed down the corridor. Something had to be done, and fast. He knew this now. He wouldn't follow in Ignazio's steps, but he would find some way to pull his best friend away from the Pokémon and her dangerous magic. Giuseppe's welfare depended on it. The fate of the Saffron Mafia depended on it. Everything they'd suffered and fought for depended on it.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
A/N:
1. This story finally has a cover art, courtesy of the talented SakurahimeArt on Deviantart. A larger version can be found on the website, for anyone interest.
2. This chapter was initially longer, but I've had some readers express concerns about chapter length in general, so I decided to divide this one into two. I have a feeling I'll be doing this a lot, but I don't mind. On one hand, it will help establish something resembling an upload schedule so that I'm not laboring over one chapter for weeks at a time.
3. Obviously, Ronazak is my own idea and not a real Pokémon in the official canon. I wouldn't even classify it as a Pokémon, per se, but since the term Ultra Beast hasn't been invented yet at this point in the timeline, I have to be a bit vague.
Next Chapter: Gio and Delia reevaluate their roles in each other's lives; Aurora braces Jaxton for the worst; Tucker finds he has made a strong impression on Cubone; an old foe arrives in Viridian City with a proposition for Gio.