One Week Later
Friday

Plants were, to Brenda's mind, evidence of how fucked up the world really was. For instance, take the damn thing that happened to be sitting on the corner of her desk. It was small, leafy, and green. If it just stayed small, leafy, and green, she could probably grow to deal with it. Probably. So long as someone else took care of the fucking waste of desk space.

But no, of course it couldn't work like that. The waste of space, also known as the damn houseplant Mewtwo- the fucking idiot- had gotten her, happened to be growing flower buds. Flower buds. Which, given enough time, turned into flowers.

In a few days there'd be a bunch of fucking flowers on her fucking desk!

She growled, and tapped one finger against her keyboard. An error message came up on her computer screen, but she ignored it in favor of giving the damn plant a death glare.

The plant didn't oblige her by bursting into flames. It continued to look obnoxious and cheerful and- damn it all to Hell anyways.

She turned her attention back to her computer screen- and snarled, this time with the overtones of a scream. "What the fuck do you mean, cannot comply? Look, you fucking bastard, you'd better comply or so help me…" She raised one fist, ready to beat the computer into submission if she had to.

"Sir! Detective!" One of the officers jumped forward, and landed beside the desk in a very awkward position. One leg was way forwards, like he was stretching out his hamstrings, while the other was folded like he was kneeling, with his foot twisted to the side. He held onto the edge of her desk with both hands, and grinned when she turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Ah, I'll fix that for you, sir. Uhm. Where's Smith? Normally he takes care of misbehaving electronics."

"'Misbehaving electronics'?" Brenda quoted. "What the fuck'd you do, take a manners course? He's gone." She bared her teeth in a feral expression, and decided lying was really the best policy. No need for the gossip chain to learn Vahan, Officer Smith was really Mewtwo, the biggest screw up psychic pokemon that ever existed. "Sick grandma, Lavender Town, he's the only family, paperwork, blah blah blah."

The officer nodded. "Uhm. Yes sir. I'll need your chair. To fix your computer, I mean."

Brenda stood up, and gestured with one hand. "By all means, officer. You do that." She stalked around, and headed for the coffee station. At least three people- two fellow cops and one halfway intelligent civilian- scrambled to get out of her way.

The coffee pot was empty.

Brenda stared at the pot, and took a deep breath. Then another. She could smell the coffee, burnt grinds charred onto the glass of the pot, and the almost bitter scent of too many grinds, not enough hot water.

She wanted a damn cup of coffee. Was that too much to ask?

She growled, picked the pot up, and flung it at the far wall.

It shattered right next to Captain Dallas's face.

In an instant, Brenda's fury transmuted into dread.

Dallas's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, and turned his head to look at her. "Detective Johnson," he said, apparently ignoring the single cut on his cheek that was starting to drip blood. "Could I see you in my office? Now."

Brenda hunched her shoulders, and ducked her head. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Dallas swiped at the blood on his cheek, and turned on his heel. Brenda slunk after him.

Friday

"So."

"So."

Zachary Linden stared at the door, as if expecting… well, he didn't know what he was expecting, but the past minute, maybe two, had blown everything he knew about Detective Johnson so far out of water, it was in orbit.

Sure, she had a temper, anyone could tell that. You didn't walk around like you wanted to gut someone just because you thought it was fun. But, picking up an empty coffee pot and chucking it at a wall, that was something else.

"Would it have killed her to put a new pot on?" he found himself asking.

Sergeant Wilkinson and Officer Turnbull turned to look at him. "No way," Wilkinson said. "She'd have broken the machine, not just the pot."

"She's real angry," Turnbull said, stating the obvious. "Must be 'cause Smith's away."

"He's got a sick grandmother," Zachary said, feeling almost as if he had to defend the absent Smith. Probably did, he thought. Give the vultures five minutes and they'd have Smith to blame for everything from Johnson's temper to global warming, just because he had to go take care of his only family member. "Besides, her computer's down again. Maybe the coffee was just the straw that broke the camerupt's back?"

"You new here?" Wilkinson asked.

"Yes, sir. Just out of the one-twenty-eight. Abbot's my trainer, sir."

Turnbull and Wilkinson nodded. "Stiff scoop," Turnbull said. "Homicide's different, kid. No homeless here."

"The occasional one," Wilkinson corrected. "But generally they're pretty obviously murdered. They're not being scooped because they got too cold or not enough food or a bad bottle of rotgut."

"I know," Zachary said. "But-"

Turnbull raised one finger. Zachary frowned at the older cops. It seemed they were taking it in turns to give him the lecture.

"But you should know this," Turnbull said. "Johnson? You want to stay away from her. She's a loose cannon with a badge. Smith's a good man, keeps her on a leash without her knowing. With him gone, though, she's back to being a rabid pokemon."

"And you know what happens to rabid pokemon," Wilkinson said.

Zachary didn't answer. It was too tempting to say that Turnbull had gone from cannons to rabid pokemon and that he should really choose one metaphor and stick with it.

When Zachary didn't answer, Turnbull did, as if it had been completely planned. "They're put down. Or in Johnson's case, get kicked out."

"Stay away so she doesn't take you with her," Wilkinson said, and headed off for his own desk. After a moment, Turnbull left too.

With nothing better to do, Zachary turned back to Johnson's computer. He wasn't an e-geek like Smith seemed to be, but he knew his way around a simple error message. And as long as Detective Abbot didn't call him back, he'd just set things to rights for when Johnson got back.

Wilkinson and Turnbull were wrong. Johnson wasn't a rabid pokemon. Zachary had grown up on a farm, and knew the difference between a rabid pokemon, and a wild one. Maybe if people stopped acting like they expected Johnson to bite, she'd calm down a little.

You never knew, Zachary mused to himself, and continued tapping away at the keyboard. You just never knew.

Friday

Mewtwo took a deep breath, and curled his tail around his paws.

He was feeling decidedly animal at the moment, with his rage beating a red tattoo at the back of his eyes. He knew, without having to see it, that his psychic aura would be a burning red instead of his normal, calm blue. Further, he would doubtless destroy everything in a five foot radius if he attempted to utilize his psychic abilities.

He needed to calm down, control his emotions, and not allow himself to be ruled by them.

Intellect ruled his psychic abilities. Telepathy, telekinesis, manipulation of psychic energy, all could be destructive if emotions got a hold on the mind. Only empaths, the weakest and least effective of all psychics, could work- indeed, had to work- while their emotions ran rampant. Empathy was one of the few skills Mewtwo couldn't claim, which was decidedly a relief.

Empathy, and the elemental kinesis abilities. Mew's abilities, but not his. One more separation between the original and the clone.

Good.

Mewtwo snarled, his face twisting with his rage. This was not helping. Thinking of Mew only made him want to hit something with his fists, which was not an appropriate response. He had to be calm, in control.

A mental version of the Detective arched an eyebrow, and snorted. Right, she seemed to say, because control's so fucking great. Keep it up, and maybe you'll explode from all that anger. Oh, wait, you already did.

(Shut up,) he said, and the imaginary Detective disappeared.

He turned his attention to a pebble, barely big enough for him to pick up, what with his oddly shaped fingers. Not that he needed his mostly useless paws to lift objects.

…He'd been right. His psychic aura was dark red, and the pebble had blown up.

(No teleporting, I suppose,) he mused to himself, and sighed. (Not yet, at least.)

He leaned to the side, until his fur brushed up against the cave wall. He hadn't been very fancy in creating his shelter- simply blasted a hole in the side of a mountain- but he hadn't needed to be. Trainers didn't come this far north, where winter lasted nine months out of the year and the only pokemon around were either migratory, or were so emaciated from not enough food that they weren't worth much for battles, to the trainer's minds.

It never seemed to occur to the fools that any creature that could survive under such harsh conditions, and breed, and continue to survive, would be terrifically frightening when cared for. The human's loss and it wasn't something Mewtwo was upset over.

A burst of wind managed to make it past the wall of snow he had mentally shoved across the cave mouth. Mewtwo hissed, and hunched his shoulders. He was not at all fond of the cold. What he wouldn't give for a blanket, or a fire, except the blanket would not be enough to keep him warm, and there was no fuel for any fire to be found.

He glared at the cave opening. It was very tempting to return to a warmer clime- Viridian came to mind, but he immediately thrust it away- and create a more comfortable shelter. He had bigger things then the weather to think about. There was always the matter of Team Rocket, and now, Brenda.

The cave lit with his red aura, as if the fires of hell filled the small space. It was only for a brief moment, but when the light died down, Mewtwo was able to study the damage wrought.

The wall of snow across the cave mouth had melted, letting in the wind. The cave walls, floor, and ceiling were smooth, completely, in a near perfect sphere.

(No,) he decided, getting up and moving to the cave mouth. (Team Rocket first. I shall deal with that woman later.)

Indeed, he thought, lifting into the air. He could feel the destructive potential of his energy, even as his aura melted snow in a widening circle about him. Indeed, he had better things to do then think about a psychotic woman who needed a heavy dose of Prozac.

He turned, and flew towards Kanto, adjusting his course so he headed to Lavender Town, the city with the second highest level of Team Rocket activity.

He would deal with Viridian City, and that woman, later. Perhaps when he no longer felt quite like simply leveling the metropolis.

End Notes

I'm back! And more importantly, CalliopeMused, my most beloved of editors is back. Let's all give her three cheers. Are you with me now? (crickets chirp) Wow you guys are friendly. Geez. Anyways, yes, this story is back, and there are a few more chapters to go. If you thought last chapter was tense, oh boy!

And yeah, Mewtwo's lost his temper. I figure that has to happen at least once in a blue moon, right? Now, the only question is getting him to rein that temper back in...

Quick question! Can anyone here figure out how long WoF's timeline so far is? If you get the right answer, you get a cyber-cookie!