Chapter 11: Sellout

On a day about seven years ago, a pack of Skulls had clustered and taken over the one, large cafeteria table in the food court at the Mele'mele shopping mall. This particular pack had made the spot a traditional haunt every Thursday afternoon, because one of the vendors there had a special weekly deal on popcorn―buy two, get one free―plus free refills on soda―and the security at the mall was too incompetent to drive them out, no matter how loud or unruly they got. They brought in beer and cussed and laughed and made a huge mess. They sprawled out over the table as much as possible, despite there potentially being plenty of room for other customers, sitting atop it and smearing their boot grit on the seats. All to say: back off.

In those days, they weren't called "Team Skull"―they weren't much of a team, anyway. They lacked the uniforms and the logo, they lacked Po Town or any other headquarters, and they lacked the rigorous hierarchy that allowed for leadership. The kids were just called "Skulls," a derogatory term meant to refer to any teen or pre-teen aimlessly roaming the islands, composed mostly of runaways and petty criminals. The term was so new that even the "Skulls" didn't use it to refer to themselves. They gathered on street corners, lived in abandoned warehouses and trailer parks, lingered in shopping malls, and sold cigarettes and swore at cops at the docks. Their clothing style ranged, as did their hairstyles and personal tastes, but they united in their outrageousness, their flipping off of traditional customs and sense of decency.

They always moved in packs―and the packs didn't always get along with each other.

It didn't used to be that way. The kids were remnants of political upheaval on Ula'ula; a kahuna used to lead them as a more unified force, gathering all the misfits and problem kids under one name and challenging them to claim their stake. But the kahuna― their kahuna, whom they worshipped as a savior―had done something terrible, and for that sin, which they never knew or understood, he was struck down by the Tapu.

After that, the Tapu left and wouldn't be seen again, not for years. The young Molayne remained captain, but he holed himself up in the observatory, rarely emerging. So in one fell swoop, Ula'ula became nothing. No Tapu, no kahuna, no hope.

"Yo, Plume!" One of the Skulls, snickering, elbowed the scrawny girl sitting next to him. "Check it out. I found you your new boyfriend."

"Huh?" She set her beer down between her leather boots and turned her head, swaying her pink braids in the direction he pointed.

They looked, and saw a boy.

The kid was clearly a teenager, about their age; he stood at a gawky height and lurked over to the malasada stand. His face appeared to be in a permanent scowl, he wore a well-worn black hoodie and dusty jeans, and he had a ridiculously untamed head of black hair. The kicker, though, was the object spotted on his head.

"Oh my god," one of them hissed. "What's that? Is that a bug?"

That it was. A Masquerain had settled, nestling in his hair. It fluttered its wings occasionally when he moved, but mostly folded them and rested calmly.

Scabs, the Skull who had pointed him out, couldn't stop snorting. "Wow. That's so 'cool.' Plume, go tell your new boyfriend how cool that is."

Plumeria punched Scabs hard in the knee, eliciting a yelp of pain. "Shut up."

Another posed their hand in their own hair, fluttering their fingers mockingly. "You think it lives in there?"

"Oh, snap, y'all, look, he's coming this way."

To their shock, the kid indeed moved their way. He had purchased his malasada and held a drink in his other hand. He had looked out at the table, saw them seated there and occupying much of it, but was not deterred. He walked to the end of the table, plopped down his food onto it, and sat.

They tried to get his attention with a yell or two, but they realized he had earbuds in, blasting what sounded like thrash metal directly into his eardrums. He started eating his malasada, not regarding them with his eyes.

Finally, one hopped down and went over to him, pushing on his shoulder. "Hey, kid."

The kid didn't say anything, but upon seeing the Skull, removed an earbud.

"This is our table, yo. You gotta sit somewhere else."

The gawky, mop-head kid looked at him. Sized him up. Then said, voice low and tight, "I don't see your name on it."

"You got a death wish, or somethin', kid?!"

The kid didn't answer. He slipped in his earbud again and continued eating his food.

The food court erupted into noise. The Skulls screeched and howled. They pounded their feet on the benches, making a huge racket; they barked insults and cuss words at him; at least one took to throwing kernels of popcorn at his head.

"Get outta here!"

"Buzz off!"

"Cut your hair, freak!"

He showed a brief moment of irritation at the rattling of the table, as it riled his Masquerain, but he sat up and chewed pensively, eyes still glued to the other side of the mall. He even reached about, plucking up the kernels that had landed near him, and started pushing them into his Masquerain's face, who squealed and crushed them hurriedly into its mandibles.

Several emotions boiled up in them as they hounded him to no effect: first, they were irritated that their tactics hadn't intimidated him; second, they became bored; third, they became enveloped in a sense of unease and dread, like they realized his inaction was not purely acquiescence, but a gesture of magnanimous mercy.

The Skulls drifted into disquiet. They stopped what they were doing, shuffled around, then began making excuses for their fear and retreat.

"Man, look at 'im. He's probably a serial killer or somethin'."

"Yo, let's bounce."

"This joint's dead anyway."

"Let's hit the arcade, y'all."

They all leaped off the table, clomping and knocking over bottles and garbage. By the time they streamed out of the food court, it looked like a tornado had torn through. Then there was silence.

Guzma scarfed down the rest of his malasada, but had no intention of moving. He stretched out his legs under the table, slumped, and tried to enjoy the peace of zoning out and absorbing his music.

But after a minute of allowing himself some zen, a girl appeared into his vision across the table. He recognized her as one of the Skulls―she was a tiny thing, thirteen years old, in a leather jacket and boasting a pierced nose. Her pink braids hung loose, framing her round, hazelnut face, and she wore a curious, inquisitive look.

He initially tried to ignore her, but the girl flumped down into the seat across from him. "Hi."

Genuinely startled, Guzma jerked up, gave her a sour look, and pulled out an earbud. "Huh?"

"I said, hi."

He watched her face a little too long, like he was trying to figure her out and analyze her intentions. He didn't look pleased with his conclusion, but he answered her back in a flat, uninterested tone. "...Hi." He moved, about to put his earbud back in.

"I like your Masquerain. It's cute."

"Uh." He narrowed his eyes. "Thanks, I guess."

"What's your name?"

He glanced about the food court, like he suspected a trap. "Do you want something?" he asked her irritably.

"I wanna say hi," she said. She crossed her arms. "Geez, what's your problem?"

"Look, your…" He sighed and shook his head. "Friends are probably waiting for you."

"I don't care," she told him. "They're jerks."

"...Then why are they your friends?"

"They're cool when you get to know 'em." She brought up her legs against the edge of the table, the worn denim in her jeans splitting to show the scuffing on her knees. "I'm Plumeria."

Guzma still frowned, but got the feeling she wasn't going to leave him alone. He sipped on his soda, grunted, removed both earbuds this time, and obliged, "Guzma."

"Well, hi, Guzma, nice to meet you." She bounced the words out overly-formally, to embarrass him. "I've never seen you before. You live around here?"

"Yeah, I live―" He hesitated. "Around."

"Cool. You must be a trainer, huh?"

He briefly wondered when the questions would stop. "Sure."

"You any good?"

He shrugged. "Made top rank at some championships when I was a kid."

"Aren't you still a kid?" she teased.

There was a tiny moment when his steely, grumpy facade crumbled, and he flushed a little. "I― Yeah, I mean, when I was like twelve."

He couldn't be more than fifteen. That he didn't just say 'three years ago' made her think that this kid was jonesing hard to grow up. "Look, if you think you're any good, you should stop by Ula'ula sometime. That's where we're from; we hang at the docks at night. They talk a lot of smack, but I bet you could show 'em a thing or two."

He didn't know what to make of her offer. He swivelled his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

"So, I'll see you?" She was pushing for an answer.

"I guess."

Plumeria took this answer as affirmative enough; she smirked at him. "Okay. I'm gonna be expecting you. Guzma."

Plumeria didn't honestly expect that conversation to change everything. But it did.

Because Guzma showed. And he demolished them.

Because Guzma experienced a series of private failures that burned him in such a way that he gravitated toward and clawed his way into her gang.

Because Guzma, in what felt like only weeks, took over her gang and ultimately her life.

What Guzma lacked in intelligence or even charisma, he made up for in brutality, strength, and vision. He could beat anyone down, and in his sprawling ambition, he could dream up glorious futures for them―no more in-fighting he said, no more playing craps on the dock, no more wondering what to do. He was going to be Boss, he said, and they were going to be a Team, with rules and goals and everything.

And the Skulls remembered, all of a sudden, what it was like to have someone at the top: a person who believed in them, who tapped into their desire for direction and hope. He crushed his competition and gave voice to their anger. Unlike their kahuna, Guzma was just like them, a kid crawling out from under the weight of mediocrity, and this inspired an even greater sense of vicarious victory every time he succeeded. Big, Bad, Boss Guzma. Not afraid of nothin' or nobody. Their symbol, their rage incarnate, their infallible god.

If there was anything Guzma was a master at, it was this: being what you wanted, what you needed him to be. Give him a role, and he will consume it, become it so completely that eventually, he fools himself.

Faba's lab was quiet.

Mercifully quiet.

His staff, who normally would accompany him in the mornings, had been snatched up for some press release or something ―Faba didn't press for details, but only told Lusamine that he had work to do. Being Branch Chief had its benefits, one of which was he could usually come up with an excuse to skip out on public appearance nonsense. The whole island was abuzz with activity, primarily related to the exteriors of things, the flash and pomp of media and presentability. He had better things to do than attend Lusamine as she drove her army of assistants about.

So, in relative silence, aside from the constant hum of electronic equipment and computer terminals, he sat and cleaned up old file trees and re-compiled data stacks―brainless work, the sort he did in his free time to allow his head to flow about and explore other places.

Then, after taking a quick break to brew some coffee and seating himself back at the terminal, the sliding door opened to reveal a stalking, unhappy Guzma.

The boy―though Faba hardly had time to look him over―was all gussied up in his new uniform, which clashed so hard with Guzma's usual get-up, that it took the scientist a second to recognize who he was. He flapped about in his purple coat, steaming and storming, and tugging on the glistening, white Z-Ring he had been gifted a few days prior.

When he saw Faba, he gestured at the ring hotly.

"This thing you gave me―" (Guzma emphasized his words to imply exactly where he believed the blame should lie.) "―ain't working." And in his fit of anger, he wrested the bracelet off and smashed it onto the counter-top.

For a second, Faba could swear his heart had launched into his throat, gagging him. "Would you please―!" Faba choked down a mortified scream as he pulled himself to his feet. "Not! Slam the expensive device on the counter!"

Some things, in their months of working together, had not changed; Guzma still raged and Faba still snapped. But when Guzma now withdrew his hand from the ring, face still hard with pent-up frustration, there was a flicker of acknowledgement in him. He adjusted―mumbled. "Sorry."

Faba hurried over, pushing past him and scooping the Z-Ring in his hands up like he was rescuing it. He didn't reply to the apology; he didn't follow Lusamine's philosophy of heaping affirmations on him for things he ought to be doing. He gave the bracelet a quick look-over, and seeing no damage, breathed a little easier. "What seems to be the problem?"

"How am I s'pposed to know?"

"It doesn't look broken."

"Well, it doesn't work! I've tried it like a million times!"

"And you're sure you're using it correctly?"

"I'm a billion times sure!"

Faba decided he'd better reason him down before he resorted to trillions or, God help them, quadrillions. He carefully lifted the Z-Ring and pointed to it. "Guzma. There are really only three elements at play here, correct? The first is the bracelet itself. It's a carved mineral. Normally made crudely by hand in a shack somewhere. This particular one was finely and precisely cut in a laboratory to maximize conductivity. I cannot fathom what could be wrong it. Second, we have the crystal. It's from your own collection, and we've run it under a spectrometer to verify its purity. It's safely in the ninety-ninth percentile. Lastly, there's you , and whatever flailing around you're doing to try and trigger the conduction. Where do you suggest the problem lies?"

"I dunno!" Guzma yelped instinctively, but Faba could tell, as his explanation went on, that the boy increasingly felt the blame being directed back at him. Guzma had stiffened, giving the Z-Ring a betrayed and sheepish look, and after crossing his arms protectively against his chest, squirmed his feet. All of Lusamine's training hadn't zapped him free of that telling habit.

Faba watched Guzma frantically thinking to himself, and started a mental countdown. Three… Two… One…

Finally, all the tension snapped in Guzma's body, leading him to burst with repressed guilt. "Crap! I'm sorry! I shoulda said something before, but I kept thinking―!"

...And there it is. As usual, Faba had to try and collect Guzma's floundering. "Whatever are you going on about?"

"There's something wrong with me," Guzma said, pulling on his hair miserably. He then confessed, agonizing like he expected to be soundly thrashed for it, "I can't use a Z-Ring."

Baffled, Faba rubbed his forehead and sighed tiredly. "I'm afraid you have made things even less clear to me. Are you saying―"

"I'm tellin' you! I knew I couldn't― at least, I thought I couldn't― but then you said I was gonna get one, so I didn't say anything, and I thought I'd try it―"

"Would you quit rambling and start over from the beginning?"

Guzma did manage to calm himself some, and he grabbed at the edge of the counter, his knuckles going white. "It's just… When I did my challenge, when I was a kid, Hala never gave me one."

"Yes, I understand that," Faba said impatiently. "That's why we're going this trouble in the first place. What's your point?"

"Hala…" He hesitated and thought hard. Now, he felt a little silly saying it. "He wouldn't give me one. He said I wouldn't be able to use it."

Faba was surprised; he had never heard any of this. "And what reasoning did he give?"

"I guess… I dunno, he talked a lot about having to be centered, or something, like your spiritual energy has to be balanced―"

Faba cut him off. "What superstitious claptrap. The device is a conductive rock. That's all there is to it. It has nothing to do with 'spiritual energy' or whatever drivel he fed you."

Guzma did not look so sure.

"I'm sure he meant well," Faba assured him. "But I don't see how this prevents you from using the device. No doubt you've gotten yourself all worked up and frustrated over it; I'd more readily blame that for your troubles." He watched Guzma languish against the counter-top and sighed, pulling out the Z-Ring's equipment case. Perhaps, Faba thought, staying away from it for a few days would settle Guzma's excitability. "...I'll have them look at it again. But I'm not making any promises."

"I wanted it ready by now," Guzma whined.

Faba suppressed his annoyance at not receiving event a hint of gratitude. "Yes, I'm sure you did, but does it really matter so much?"

"'Course it―" The careless remark threw the boy into a tizzy all over again. He snarled. "All the kahunas got one! How am I s'pposed to try 'n' say I'm a kahuna if I ain't got one?"

Faba marveled privately at how firm of a hold a culture of superstition and tradition could have, even on a child who had essentially been chewed up by it. He went over to his desk, shaking his head, and placed the case there. "All I'm suggesting is―you didn't need it before; perhaps you'll do just as well without it."

This reasoning, though Faba had articulated it rather thoughtlessly, sort of pleased Guzma. He calmed and took on a subtle swagger in his voice. "Y-yeah! Maybe I don't need it." He still, though, eyed the case with a hint of yearning.

Faba decided that he'd waste no more time, so he went back to his computer terminal and took a seat. He did prod a little―mostly to assess how much longer he should bunker down and wait out the worst of it. "And how are things coming along?"

"Huh?"

"All the hubbub upstairs."

Guzma gave him a horrible, pained look, as if buckling from a sock to the gut. "It's… All right," he said, bearing quite possibly the worst poker face Faba had ever seen.

"Mm-hmm."

As if to bolster his obvious fib, Guzma pointed out his outfit and bragged on it. "Got my new threads today." He puffed up the broad collar of his eggplant coat lined with a subtle gold trim. He also fumbled with the dark green silk scarf, pushing it back over his shoulders. It seemed to be getting in his way, more than anything.

"Yes, I see," Faba said. "Oh, a trench coat―how very… groundbreaking."

Guzma completely missed his sarcasm. He tugged a little on various spots where it still felt new to him: his shoulder, his wrist, his lower back. "I'm trying to wear it in, you know?"

"So you're happy with it?"

"It's fine." The answer didn't gush with enthusiasm exactly, but he looked content.

"I suppose that's what matters. At least Mademoiselle stayed on the conventional side this time; that woman's designs can often come up… A bit inscrutable."

Guzma had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded anyway. "Uh-huh." Guzma sensed the conversation reaching a lull, possibly even an end, so in transparent desperation, he craned his neck at Faba's monitor. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothing much. Cleaning up old files―things get muddled after a few years of compiling data―" He finished rambling and glanced up from his screen to see Guzma leaning over the counter. "Can I help you?"

"You ain't got nothing I can do?" Guzma sounded strangely hopeful.

Since when did the boy go out of his way to find work? Faba eyed him suspiciously. "I'm afraid not; why?"

"You can't, you know, make something up for me?"

That's when Faba figured it out. He stopped typing and clicked his tongue. "...Trying to hide from someone, are we?"

"Uh, no."

"How clever of you. If she calls looking for you, I'm not lying on your behalf, you know."

"Tch." Guzma glared at him, face tense with betrayal. "Hey, I'd lie for you."

"Oh, Guzma, I'd never ask you to do that; you're a terrible liar. Now, off with you." With that, Faba dismissively waved him to the door.

"But―"

"Go on. Scram. Shoo!"

Guzma heaved an irritated sigh and trampled his way out, braying, "God, just shoot me."

Lusamine, inevitably, did find him.

"Guzma! Honestly!" Like a ghost, she materialized from the ether, swooping in on him after he had strategically tucked himself between two bakery tray trolleys, trying not to be seen. He had taken off his coat and scarf, partially because it was sweltering in the dining hall, but also because their color was so distinct from everything in the building, that he stuck out badly. His grey undershirt was muted enough to mostly blend him in, but it didn't matter now. She had him by the arm and yanked him in a dizzying fashion. "I've been looking everywhere for you! I'm ready to consider a tracking collar! Now, there's far too much to do to be standing around looking useless―"

"Miss!"

"My wayward boys," she sighed. "You and Faba do share a knack for shirking responsibility."

Guzma, at being reminded, griped vindictively. "You know he's not doing anything."

Lusamine lightly slapped his shoulder in reprimand and kept tugging him along. Several employees flanked behind them hurriedly. "Guzma," she said, "no one likes a tattle-tale."

For a small woman in high heels, she could move around at incredible speed when motivated; he found himself tripping and skipping his steps to keep up with her. She jumped her words about, addressing different employees on every breath, millions of questions and commands buzzing the air. It was fast, over-stimulating, and incredibly annoying.

Eventually, though, they reached the large conference hall, with its pearly walls, rows and rows of empty seats, and sizeable podium platform. As she pulled him towards it, she finally started addressing him. "Have you put any thought into your staging?"

"My what?"

She almost repeated herself, but then brought him up the shallow steps, up onto the stage. She said something to an attendant, then looked back at him, seeing him standing awkwardly at its center, staring out at the sea of empty seats. She thought she read nerves. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

He shrugged and didn't look at her. "I thought I just had to stand there."

"It's always helpful to plan out your steps―where to place your hands, your gestures, how you go about things―if you rehearse even that much, you won't be so nervous."

"I'm not nervous," he said, like he meant it. There remained some reservation to his voice, though.

Lusamine caught it, and had sensed it before, but did not know its source. She observed him as he began to trace his feet on the floor, scuffing the toes of his new shoes. It looked, briefly, like he was trying to sketch out something, some shape stuck in his brain and fighting to come out.

Lusamine knew this unhappiness had been brewing for awhile, and she had her theories. It was only natural, she decided―he had been ripped from his normal conditions, placed in a new and demanding environment to which he no doubt felt completely foreign. And the boyish fantasies he had nurtured by himself―the ones that drove him here in the first place―could not sustain him for long; his worship of her faded a little, by the harsh light of day.

He had also failed to integrate adequately. This, she definitely noticed. She had hoped by confiscating all outward-going communication devices, limiting him to Aether's internal server and phone network so that he had no way of reaching the outside world, he would eventually be forced to bond properly with the place. Instead, his isolation agitated him; he roamed the island as a free floating particle, neither affecting nor being affected. His relationship with Faba showed initial promise, but ultimately stayed superficial, and he had not successfully opened himself up to anyone else.

He was leaning―hard―on his leash, waiting for a chance to snap free and run back into the fields of the wild.

"Guzma."

He didn't turn to her, but grunted to signal that he heard.

"Guzma, I have a suggestion. Would you hear it?"

"For what?"

"I think it would powerful for our guests to see you with the beasts. Do you think you could offer them a demonstration?"

"A―what?" That she had upped the ante so late unnerved him. "Like, on stage? On camera?"

"Not all of them, of course. You could choose two or three that you think would do well."

He looked at her, reading her expression, then thought on it hard. By the way his face changed, he appeared to be imagining the worst. "They don't―uh, really like other people."

"Could you make them stand still?"

"I mean―maybe for a little while." He glanced out at the seating area, other problems materializing in his crawling thoughts. He thought about the snapping of camera shutters and excited shouts in a crowded room. "The lights―and the noise―I dunno."

"We can forbid flash photography. Require the audience to stay silent. Would that help?"

"Yeah," he agreed, "probably. How long you need 'em like that?"

"Guzma, you're their handler. I would have to trust your judgment."

Guzma had always struggled with problem-solving. When it came to matters like these, he preferred to be told. But with the decision kicked back to him, he pressed his palm to his temple and pressed hard. He looked to her… Then the stage… Then the seating area. He licked his lips, and pondered. Finally, he dragged out his thought. "A minute?"

"One minute should be plenty of time," she said. "How about you bring the beasts now? The event director here can recreate the lighting conditions for you―and it might reduce their stress, to expose them to the stage beforehand."

He thoughtfully swirled his tongue about his teeth, chomping and making distasteful noises. "Yeah," he said, swallowing. "I guess."

"Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll be coming back in an hour to see how things have progressed."

"Okay."

Guzma didn't watch her as she went. His thoughts had turned to other things, each rolling hard between the rusty, unsteady gears clacking in his head. He did not calculate as Lusamine did; he did not analyze or reach finely-tuned conclusions. He only read what he knew, in its raw form: that his sense of satisfaction had fled him, and that he felt, in the pit of his stomach, a loneliness grinding him up.

But he could power through it. He knew that, too.

Because soon, within days really, the world would be rushing back in, like a tidal wave against the shore, flooding into him and everything he had worked for. In some impossible way, Guzma simultaneously pined for it―and dreaded it.

Chops, Bully, Nene, Hornet, JJ, Slip, and Zazi stood atop Shady House and wasted their evening chucking empty bottles over the edge of the roof.

The group of Team Skull grunts had the privilege of sitting there on the broken roof tiles, right outside the entrance to Guzma's room. They were the big kids―big enough, anyway, to bully the rest of the grunts in lieu of Guzma's presence. Their cobbled-together clique hadn't entirely coalesced yet, but their older age and former intimacy with Boss had sealed them together into a wall against the crumbling order around them. After all, they bragged, they were tight with Big G, real tight, or they had been, before everything fell apart; they were the toughest and the nastiest.

Except Slip, who was twelve and still kind of a baby. He cried easy, and looked up to Guzma with the earnestness of a little kid, even though Guzma found him annoying and frequently thumped him good. He was allowed in the group only because Chops was there, and Chops was his big brother.

Tonight, they had less to do and less supervision than usual. Plumeria had gone out―out to Uncle Nanu's. She did that a lot more nowadays, and they puzzled over her. She had not done well transitioning into power. She was tough, they all agreed, but she lacked Guzma's brutality, and that lack led to some of the underlings thinking she wasn't tough enough.

"She likes hanging with Uncle more than us," Chops complained.

Bully had the courage to snicker and joke, "Yo, maybe they're doing it."

At that, the whole group erupted into disgusted, exciting giggling, screeching and howling, Ew! Yuck! Gross! Nasty-y-y! The harsh popping of beer bottles shattering on the adjoining rooftop below broke into the night, the brown shards pooling into the gutters already overfilled with glass.

Once they had tired of throwing bottles, their boredom turned their eyes to Guzma's unattended room. With Plumeria out, there would be no one to ward them away. They roamed toward it, over Slip's noise of complaint.

"We shouldn't," Slip whimpered.

"Shut up," Chops said, pushing him.

Guzma's room was dark and out-of-sorts. It wasn't the first time grunts had dug through the place, stealing what they could. After the first two weeks of his disappearance, when the mysticism of breathless waiting lifted, they turned to squawking vultures, fighting over his garments, liquor, and personal belongings. The chest full of Buginium-Z had initially fallen by the wayside―none of the grunts had Z-Rings, and they had no interest in the stuff―but eventually, too, that was dragged off my someone. Not all the kids who took stuff were Team Skull, either; the security had gotten lax, and kids from all over the place wandered into Po Town, gawking at the kingdom without a king. It didn't matter. Nobody cared anymore.

The group started to sprawl about the room, opening drawers for slim pickings, lifting garbage, kicking empty bottles.

"When he comes back," Slip said, "he's gonna be mad."

"You gonna snitch?"

Slip still whimpered and rubbed his hands together. "When he comes back―"

Chops whacked him upside the head, eliciting a pained little sob. "Big G ain't comin ' back, dummy!"

A strange, uncomfortable quiet came over them. It took a second for them to continue pulling open drawers and digging around.

"But why not?" Slip whined, clearly holding back tears.

"'Cause he dead, that's why," Chops scolded him. "Everybody knows that."

"He ain't dead," Nene disagreed. "Coppers took him away. He's in prison somewhere."

"Tch. That would be on the news."

"Nuh-uh! There's a secret prison! Where they put all the baddest guys around! I saw it on TV!"

"Dummy, prisons like that are for people who kill people. Guzma ain't never killed nobody."

"Yuh-huh!"

"You stupid!"

"He told me he iced a guy when he was fifteen and got away with it."

"Boy, nobody's been murdered in Alola in like, a billion years."

"That you know of!"

"Well," Zazi started, "I think―"

They groaned at her, already knowing where she was going.

"C'mon!" Zazi gestured wildly, pointing at her temple. "Think about it for a sec! He disappeared―then the Beast Tamer appeared!"

Bully, master of wit, piped up, "Yeah, and then yo mama got pregnant again―was that him, too?"

Another wave of shrieking, hysterical laughter arose, drowning out Zazi's stammering protests. Finally, she blushed and shrank back against the wall.

"I 'on't care if he comes back or not," Bully went on to brag. He pushed into the center of the room with overplayed confidence. "I'mma be the new Boss, anyway."

"Boy, please."

"You dumb."

"Why you?"

He shot a glare at his opponents. "'Cuz I'm the oldest, butt-munch."

"You lyin' like a mug."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

As quick as a flash, Bully and Nene landed on the floor, wrestling and punching and kicking at each other. It was hard for the others to tell how serious it was, because Bully persistently giggled, even as he was socked in the gut and pulled into a headlock. They thumped into the dresser, nearly knocking it over.

Then, the room's door opened; a young grunt pushed it open and peered inward, yelling something so quickly and loudly that they didn't understand.

"Yo!"

"Shut up!"

It was Zazi, finally, who saw the grunt and actually tried to hear what he was saying. Over the noise of the fight, she asked, "What is it?"

"It's―" The kid gasped for breath, waved frantically for their attention. "It's Boss!"

Everything stuttered to a halt.

"Yo, it's Boss! He's on TV!"

The police station was dark, aside from the glow of television. Nanu and Plumeria had kept the solemn silence, as if in a temple; she felt the squeeze of her held breath on her lungs, and he had gotten up once to retrieve a beer from the fridge. Otherwise, though, they had been perfectly still.

They kept the volume off.

She felt the vibration of her phone and looked at it. "Gladion's calling." As Plumeria said it, she realized how breathless she was, how impossible the words felt coming out. Implied somewhere in her saying it, she was asking Nanu's advice.

But Nanu, seated on his couch, eyes glued to the television, just grunted.

"Gladion's calling," she found herself repeating, more strenuously this time. But her hesitation had kicked the call to voicemail already, and she shut up her lungs, feeling her head spinning. She tried to remember how Gladion even got her number―but then she remembered―when he first disappeared, how the kid reached out to her, her meeting with Gladion and Lillie, everything they told her―

A text message sprang up on her phone, a silent scream. CALL ME .

"...This is real," she gasped, clinging to her ponytail and pulling on it, just to convince herself. She sat herself down, cross-legged, a few feet from where Nanu sat. She kept gaping at the screen. "This is really happening."

Nanu shrugged. "Maybe Aether's really got its hologram tech down, who knows?"

CALL ME. IT'S URGENT.

"...I mean, his face does look a little funny―no wait, that's just his face. Criminy, don't people look different on TV."

PLEASE CALL ME.

"...Whazzat saying, about the camera adding ten pounds? He's lookin' a little puffy."

DISREGARD MY PREVIOUS MESSAGES.

I'M ON WAY.

I WILL BE THERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.

LILLIE IS NOT RESPONDING.

I WILL GIVE YOU UPDATES ON MY PROGRESS.

She groaned and threw the phone face-down on her lap. "Oh my god."

Nanu finally turned to her, lifting an eyebrow. "He blowin' up your phone for any good reason?"

"He's coming here."

"...'Course he is. Great." Nanu descended into deep bitterness. "We'll make a night of it. Have a frickin' slumber party. Make popcorn. Braid each other's hair."

They got quiet for a while. The creatures, one by one, filled the screen―in all their horror, beauty, surreality. It was these images, and not Guzma, that seemed to disturb Nanu.

"Shoot…" He sipped his beer, his face blank and untelling, but his mutters told it all. "Shoot… I'm gonna probably have to go to meetings about this, aren't I?"

Plumeria's phone vibrated again but she ignored it. "This is crazy. This is… What is he doing ?"

"...World domination," Nanu said, dreamily repeating something from far back in his memory. He snorted and shook his head. "Or something like that."

They fell quiet again. After waiting for some time, they heard pounding on the door, and almost took it to be Gladion, but the noise was frantic, numbered, representing a crowd of tiny fists pleading for entry.

Nanu cursed. "That better not be―"

But it was: the door suddenly opened, once the grunts' patience ran out, and a pack of wet, swearing, jumping kids wrestled their way in through the doorway. They shouted Plumeria's name, and, to a lesser degree, Uncle Nanu's.

"Plumeria! Plumeria!"

Nanu snarled at them from where he sat. "Hey! What are you doin', bargin' in here like that! Y'all better get your keisters back out the door 'fore I get to 'em first!"

Slip whined. "Uncle! It's an emergency!"

"I don't care if it's the apocalypse; you ain't treading all that mud in here!"

Unwilling to take off their shoes, but not daring enter any further, they clustered in the waiting area by the door, cramming in shoulder-to-shoulder. They beckoned Plumeria over, and she sighed, got up, and walked over to them, arms crossed before her.

"We saw him!"

"On TV!"

"He was all―"

"And he was wearing―"

"―That red one, that was flexin'―"

"Boom! Like that―"

Plumeria waited for their chatter to die down. "I know," she finally said. "I saw it too."

"We should do something!"

"You stupid little kids." Her words weighed with antipathy. "There's nothing to do."

"But we gotta rescue him!"

Nanu overhead this comment and guffawed. "Rescue him from what ? He's gettin' three square meals a day―and then some, apparently―boatloads o' money, probably a nice flat―if I had all that, I'd ditch you all in a heartbeat, too."

"He didn't ditch!" another yelped. "Tell 'im, Plume!"

"Don't be stupid," Plumeria said―that was all she said.

The grunts proceeded to break out into an argument among each other, bickering over what it all meant. Some cried foul, some cried brainwashing and mind control, some cried betrayal. The longer they bickered, the less sense any of their theories made, but one idea stuck him them, being repeated over and over.

"We should go see him!"

"Yeah!"

"We'll sneak through or somethin'―we could visit―make him come back."

It was the dumbest thing Plumeria had ever heard.

Fortunately, before she had to ream them out, over it, the door rattled again, and it opened to reveal Gladion.

The kid wore his usual intense face, draped with the black shape of his hoodie and moist with the wind-tossed rain. The grunts all saw and stiffened at his presence; their opinion of him had not gotten better with time, especially since some claimed he had stabbed Guzma in the back. Some even suspected he had something to do with his disappearance.

"Whatta you doin' here?" Nene sneered at him with their collective disdain.

Gladion didn't move to take off his hood. His eyes were sharp green pinpoints in the dark, cutting through a sweep of platinum blonde hair. He gazed at their gawping faces coldly, but said nothing.

Nanu took initiative. He stood up and waved at the grunts. "All right, kids. Get outta here. The adults are gonna talk now."

Bully spat. "Huh? Gladion ain't no adult! I'm older than he is!"

"Out."

The grunts, huffing and growling, tried to put on their toughest faces as they stared down Uncle. But ultimately, they knew better than to pick a fight. Gradually, the grunts turned for the door, pushing past Gladion, pulling up their hoods and slinking back out into the rain, mumbling and complaining to one another as they went. At last, the three of them were left alone in the dimly-lit station.

Nanu, holding his beer, looked back and forth at Plumeria and Gladion. The two regarded each other, and not Nanu, with some private intensity until he shrugged. "I'm gonna watch TV," he announced. "Ain't like I got much to contribute. You want anything, kid?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Gladion replied politely. He turned to Plumeria. "Have you thought of a plan?"

"...Hi to you, too."

He blinked, relaxed the tight muscles at his face, and realized his mistake. "Sorry. Good evening."

"...And there's no plan. I'm not even sure what you want to talk about."

He looked surprised. "I thought it would be obvious." He narrowed his eyes at her―read her rancor―then at Nanu―and saw ambivalence, at best. Gladion had obviously been on the search for signs of panic, and upon finding none, he had to recalculate his approach. "The situation. It isn't good."

"Seems to be working out fine for him," Nanu said. He had already settled back on the couch after shoving aside a Meowth that had stolen his seat.

"I know my mother," Gladion said. "This won't end well. She can be… Very charming. But she has ulterior motives."

Nanu and Plumeria glanced to each other, eyebrows raised―and Plumeria verbalized what they were both thinking. "Well, duh."

Gladion thought then that had explained himself poorly. He put his hand to his face and frowned. "I thought… I thought you might want to reach out to him. Maybe talk some sense into him."

Neither the kahuna nor the Team Skull Admin looked particularly moved by this idea.

"Don't look at me," Nanu said, pushing his eyes the other way. "I've got no skin in this."

Plumeria stayed silent and seemed to agree.

Gladion wasn't shocked at Nanu's indifference, but Plumeria's caught him off-guard. He marvelled, looking directly at her. "I thought you were his friend."

The statement hit her harder than expected; she raged. "What do you care!?" Plumeria charged up to him, ready to shove him in her frustration. "He played you, didn't he?"

"...I see." As if he had taken in her anger, picked it apart, and found its intimate subtleties, Gladion shifted his eyes and nodded to himself.

"What?"

"You don't know my mother. If you did…"

The silence he left was intended to be dramatic, insinuating some dark truth. Nanu put up with for only a second before rolling his eyes.

At last, the young boy sighed and pushed back his bangs. "Aether Paradise is open to the public again as of tomorrow morning. It'll probably be a mess all day. Security will be overwhelmed with visitors."

"And?"

Gladion gave her a withered look, having tired of her rebuffs. "I'm just thinking aloud." He lifted his eyes, and pulled his hoodie back over his head. "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'd better go. I'm thinking of heading to Mele'mele―to visit Lillie. Do you have any message you want to relay to her?"

Plumeria almost snarled something nasty, but didn't. Lillie, of anyone, was the least deserving of cruelty. She could remember the girl's innocent nattering, the way she spoke so purely and kindly of Guzma and his intentions. You should have seen him, she said. How he saved Mother― Plumeria still felt a stab of pity for the girl. "Just… You can 'hi' from me."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you both soon. Good night, Kahuna Nanu."

After Gladion left, Nanu, eyes still on the television, grumbled to himself. "He's a funny little kid, ain't he."

"Yeah." Plumeria put a hand on her hip and glared daggers into the wall. The rain and wind roared outside, swallowing her thoughts. "Funny."