TICK. TOCK.

Where am I? It's dark. It's cold. I can't breathe. Shifting masses slither by his ankles. Teeth clamping around his wrists, dragging him down, down into murky depths.

TICK. TOCK.

Papers. Notes and diagrams strewn across his desk. Did I fall asleep again? How improper. He had just begun to stand when the back of his neck prickles. Must've slept on a nerve. A curious hand reveals a hole in his flesh surrounding by a blotch of clumping blood.

Primal instinct forces him to call out. He takes a step, and his world comes crumbling down. He calls their names again and again as glass drags itself down his throat, as the windows explode, as helicopter blades slice through the air, and a volley of hissing lightning pierces through his core. His skull meets wood, and all goes black.

TICK. TOCK.

BAM! His eyes snap open to the sound of fists against a linoleum table. BAM! BAM! Warm liquid oozes from his ears, seeping down to stain his already ruined uniform. Each pounding ignites another firecracker in his exhausted chest. Please stop—BAM! BAM!—I've already told you all I know. What else do you do you—BAM! Again and again, now accompanied with scathing words until flowers drown the sterile white room in odious red.

Red? White? Color?

TICK. TOCK.

BOOM! Thunder smashes his skull, inviting frigid rain to fill his head. Droplets fall and fall until the flood gushes from his stomach. Needles of lightning fly into his skin, tearing upwards until his vocal chords snap.

Please stop. It hurts. It hurts so MUCH PLEASE STOP! A mistake sends him tumbling down the cliff. Back he falls, into the choppy sea. Powerful torrents surge into his nostrils, into his open mouth, silencing those pathetic bubbles before they even reach the surface.

The pain is the last thing he remembers before all dissolves into nothingness.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It's dry. Land? It's bright. Fire? Eyes slowly creaking open to be burned by dazzling light. So blinding in fact, that when he moves, dust motes bounce to the air.

With a shaky inhale of forest pollen, Cyrus pulls himself up, only to collapse again. He drags his hand across his forehead, frowning when he pulls back cold sweat.

Tick. Tock. A grandfather clock chimes from somewhere in the hallways. So loud… He squints at the blurry light. "What time is it?" he croaks to no one in particular.

"It's time for you to rest, Cyrus."

Cyrus gasps. No, no, wake up. Wake up, you useless fool. He shakes his head, feeling his brain sloshing against his skull. There's no time for your insanity.

"Cyrus, what are you doing?" A shadow shifts in the thickening haze. Footsteps press against floorboards, the wood groaning with weight. Cyrus slams his back against the wall, his pounding heart drowning the indignant shrieks of his muscles.

"Cyrus—"

"You're not real," Cyrus whispers, repeating it until he can believe his own words. "You're not real. I'm hallucinating again. I'm hallucinating…"

"Cyrus, stop that!" His stomach churns at that voice, and everything that he'd locked away threatens to resurface: glimmering stars on a cloudless night, waves crashing outside the window… A crackling fire and the smell of worn, yellowed pages.

"I-I'm losing it again. I'm going crazy. Another raving lunatic that deserves to…" Cyrus can't feel his arms. He can't even grasp the window lock properly. Ah. There, that board hasn't been nailed in properly—

Those hands stop him before he can bash himself back into unconsciousness. Blood is boiling in his lungs, the steam reaching to his nostrils. Out of sheer, morbid curiosity, Cyrus lifts his gaze.

As usual, that was a mistake.

"Cyrus!" Those solemn eyes bear into his soul, breaking through his many walls to the locked chamber to around his heart. Now that distance is arbitrary, Cyrus realizes just how real the grip is. So tight. And the smell… old wool from a tweed jacket that hasn't aged from his memories.

"Cyrus," the old man snaps. "Look at me." Cyrus yanks at the blanket. "No, don't hide your face! Look at me, son. It's me—"

"NO! No, stop it! Don't say that!"

"Cyrus—"

"No, it's not funny anymore! I know that I'm crazy, but please… please stop messing with me! I don't care what you do, but don't use his face! Don't copy his voice! Don't pretend like he's still—"

Those words die when the old man brings Cyrus into his arms, into that tweed jacket, with its scents of old books and chicken soup, of warm nights under a shining moon.

"N-No…" This is not real. This… isn't…real… "Y-You have the wrong p-p-person. I'm a c-criminal now. I'm a m-monster. I'm not… I'm not your…."

"You're my grandson," Grandfather says with enough conviction for it to be true. "You were, are, and will always be my precious little grandson."

And Cyrus's mask crumbles into the earth. He sinks into the old man's arms, regardless of this being a tasteless prank at his expense. His grandfather still hasn't let go yet. Is it he not disgusted with me? Doesn't he hate me? The shoulder hasn't moved. I'm defiling your sleeve. I'm abusing my privilege.

Why haven't you punished me yet?

"Let it out, Cyrus," Grandfather murmurs. "I'm right here. I won't go anywhere."

By the time that Cyrus can function again, Grandfather's sleeve is soaked. The old man removes his jacket and resumes his place on the bedside, much to his grandson's surprise.

Cyrus brings the blanket to his face. "I'm sorry. I ruined your jacket."

"Stop apologizing for every single thing." Grandfather's eyes crinkle. "I told you that I was real, Cyrus, see?" He pats his damp shirt, and Cyrus's cheeks burn with shame. "Flesh and bones, right here."

It… certainly does sound like it… Cyrus stares at the old man until his eyes water. He reaches a tentative hand, only to yank it back. "But… but how…?"

Grandfather gestures to the faded walls. "The Old Chateau is a special place, Cyrus. I thought things like these only existed in the pages of a novel, but alas… Well. Needless to say, to have actually experienced it myself is another thing entirely." He raps his knuckles against the wall. Clunk. Clunk. "How can I explain this…? Think of a threshold, Cyrus. Once you cross the line, you're here, on the other side."

Cyrus blinks. Grandfather chuckles. "But you know more about it than I do, right?" It. The Old Chateau. "How else are you here in the first place?"

Memory evades him. Reviving those foggy chunks hurts his head. Rain. Thunder. Lightning… the hum of a motor… and painful, scathing words.

"Cyrus." Then he realizes that he's shaking, even though the room isn't cold. The urge to throw up, to expel all these unpleasant, ugly emotions have never felt so mandatory.

Grandfather steadies his grandson before the latter can further abuse his weakened stomach. Those sickeningly kind eyes rake across his face, darting to the bandages, the arm cast, the unmoving bumps under the thin blanket.

Cyrus makes himself very small. "Why did you come back, Grandfather?" he whispers, blinking hard. Why did you come back when I'm broken beyond repair?

Tick. Tock. It's unbearably hot. It must be… afternoon? Evening? Harsh light and shadow are mingling within this lonely little room.

Silence. The ringing in his ears incites a bitter wave of vertigo. Crushing gravity presses against his neck. Cyrus almost gives in until he realizes that Grandfather is still by his side.

Then Cyrus drops his head. "I'm so tired, Grandfather," he mumbles. "The world wants me imprisoned. The police want my head on a pike. Everyone I know is endangered b-because of me. A-And they can't go anywhere b-because they have nowhere else to g-go…

"It's all my fault, Grandfather. All of it. I-I ruined everything, a-a-and I can't fix it. I can't fix it… I can't fix anything…"

Will it be better if I just surrender?

Springs shift. A shadow falls over the closing chasm. A hand on his shoulder, and for once, Cyrus welcomes it. He drops his head onto Grandfather's chest, and his façade can only be strong for so long until the bulging dam comes crashing down.

Grandfather does nothing but listen. Listens as his grandson falls apart before his eyes.

"The Hero?" Grandfather echoes at one point in time. Cyrus bobs his head. The old man's brows scrunch. "Who's—oh." The wanted poster is peeking out from under the pillow. Grandfather sees the emotion on his grandson's face, and whatever words that were about to leave die on his lips.

"I b-betrayed them," Cyrus murmurs, gasping as his breaths deepen. "T-T-They should've left. I knew this day would c-come, but nothing went as planned. I-I'm scared, Grandfather. I…hah… I don't know… hah… what they'll do—ACK!"

When light returns to his world, there are stark splotches on those clean bandages. Another wheeze, and filth rains down on the blanket. The metallic taste arrests his five senses, bringing with it sporadic spasms that knocks his consciousness between black and white.

"…rus! Cy… Cyrus!" Something grips his hand. Cyrus squints at the shadowy light. Another hack rips from his throat. "Cyrus, stay with me! Here. Here, use the napkin."

Cyrus grips the paper until his knuckles bleed. "Grandfather…" He has the old man's undivided attention. And he doesn't know what to make of it. "Grandfather, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing, son," is the immediate answer. "Nothing's wrong with you. You just need some time to heal, that's all. After that stupid, stupid stunt that you pulled…"

A cough shudders his body. "I'm sorry…"

"No, Cyrus, don't—" A sigh that rustles the curtains. "No. I'm just glad that you're here now. You must be parched."

"I'm… hah… fine, Grandfather."

Grandfather frowns, and his grandson looks away. After a long, stern coaxing and Grandfather almost losing his voice, Cyrus finally agrees to lie down. His head automatically sinks into the pillow. The old man looms over him, pinning the grandson down with a fierce glare.

It's just like back then, when summer fever came around…

When Grandfather deems that Cyrus won't be coughing his lungs out any time soon, he speaks. "What do they mean to you, Cyrus?"

Them. A quiet, urgent voice whispers in his ear. Tells him to stop working and go to sleep or else. Another voice reminding him to eat. One more steering him away from the canned food aisle.

Cyrus shoves those needless burdens behind the door. "They're just my—" He clears his throat, secretly expelling a wad of fluid in the process. "They were my subordinates. We were bound by a professional business relationship before I dissolved it."

Grandfather waits for specification that never comes.

"Is that all, Cyrus?"

"Yes," he almost comes close to snapping and silently berates himself for it.

A pause. Tick. Tock. A sharp intake of breath.

"They've been there for you much longer than I have, haven't they?" Cyrus almost misses the man's words when his heart drops to his stomach. "But the things they said to you that night, Cyrus… was it really their words?" The clock is so loud. "Or did you put words into their mouths?"

There is an earthquake in the room. "Stop…"

"Answer my question, Cyrus." The sternness in Grandfather's voice is all too painfully familiar. Cyrus fights back the impulse to flee and hide.

I'm not a child anymore.

"I was to blame for their misfortune, Grandfather," he growls to his pillow. "I know that I was also at fault, regardless of the things I couldn't control. I roped them into this mess. But… but when I gave them the chance to start over, they refused."

"And why do you think that is, Cyrus?"

"Revenge," is the first answer that comes to mind. But it stays in his throat. What are you doing? Just answer the question. You're not mute. You're testing Grandfather's patience.

"Give it some thought, Cyrus," Grandfather murmurs, and the ringing subsides. "See the truth for what it is. Don't be scared."

"But…" But what other fitting reason can there be?

Grandfather gives him a particular look. "You're still asking me?" Cyrus's brow furrows, and he turns away before anything else can betray his broken mask.

Tick. Tock. The song of a defective clock fills the halls. A pleasant breeze grazes against his burning cheeks. Grandfather's weathered hands rests on his forehead, and the dilapidated walls of the Old Chateau recede to baby blue—it was blue, right?—wallpaper of sailboats bouncing about painted waves.

"Bouncy bouncy Magikarp," Grandfather is humming. "Be quick, but don't hurry. Home is just beyond the sunset…"

Tick. Ding! Ding! Tock.

"Gra… Grandfather." It's suddenly very difficult to speak. To keep his focus on a fixed point in time. The pillow is dangerously soft. The blanket is horrifyingly warm.

"I'm here, son."

"I missed you so much."

A tug to Grandfather's lips. A twinkle in those sun-touched eyes. A strange feeling blossoms in Cyrus's chest, akin to ingesting his grandfather's chicken soup on cold summer nights.

"I missed you too, kid." Grandfather pats his head. Cyrus buries his face into this pillow. "Not a day goes by when I didn't regret not taking you in when I still had the chance. I left you all alone…"

Light is snagged by those thread-bare curtains. Cyrus stares at the sputtering ceiling fan as it faithfully resumes its duty.

"I can't keep watching you do this to yourself, Cyrus," Grandfather murmurs. "I should've been there to guide you… would things have turned out differently? Would your future still be bright?"

Ding! Ding!

"I can say all the sorries that I want, but that won't fix anything now, will it?" The old man sighs. "I'm not even supposed to be here, Cyrus. I'm not supposed to see you again until much, much further down the road…

"But look at you. You're so tall. And you've accomplished so much…" I'm a thief, Grandfather. A criminal. Ask anyone and you'll arrive at the same answer. But he can't voice them in front of the old man. So Cyrus focuses on his uneven breaths, lying perfectly still as they deepen, as they echo throughout his lungs.

"And you've found great people, Cyrus," Grandfather continues. Somewhere in the light. "You're not alone anymore, remember that. There are people who want to help you. People who need you, like me."

The bed is like quicksand. Benevolent quicksand. Cyrus musters all his willpower just to keep his eyes open. "Grandfather…" he croaks. "Don't go…"

A chuckle. A sad, tinkling sound. "I have to, Cyrus." Another pat on the head. A squeeze of the hand. "My clock stopped ticking long ago… but you still have time. Don't give up hope, Cyrus, no matter how bleak the future may be."

"Mmm… Grandfather…?"

"Hoho, when's the last time that you've had the proper eight hours of sleep, kid? You're still young, you know. Don't worry, I'll be here for as long as I can, I promise."

Cyrus might've nodded. He might've said something while his brain is shutting down.

"Sleep now, Cyrus," speaks the voice of everything that is right and pure with this cruel world. "You might not see me when you wake up, but know that I'll always be watching over you. Remember: look to the stars…"

"And you can see back in time," Cyrus finishes with a shaky smile. Grandfather chuckles and ruffles his grandson's hair.

"Right again, kiddo. Now, let me tell you the legend about those Time Gears. When Dialga was born, a long, long time ago—hehe, can't help myself, sorry—it created five relics to assist in keeping the flow of the world's time. Three of the Gears were said to be guarded in secret lakes while the other two resided in forests beyond maps. However, legend has it that when the five Time Gears are brought together, the sun and moon…"

Cyrus's eyelids are closing on their own, despite his burning desire to stay with Grandfather for as long as possible. The last thing he sees is the old man's smile—the brightest star in the universe—until sleep finally covers his eyes.

Only this time around, the darkness isn't cold.

Red light burns into her eyes. Cynthia lets her eyelids flutter open until the white blossoms wash themselves from her world.

Ugh. Must've fallen asleep again. What time is it? A cuckoo clock cries from somewhere in the house. KOOK! Tick. Tock. KOOK! Cynthia fumbles to the windows. Dark clouds. Thick clouds. Crimson light pressing on the snow-tipped mountaintops of Celestic Town, enlarging shadows to nightmarish lengths.

She turns away. Her throat feels like a desert. Even swallowing brings the unpleasant sensation of briars dragging across her esophagus. Damn it. Cynthia puts her ear against the door, pries it open, and after ascertaining that the coast is clear, tiptoes down the stairs.

"Kee?"

Cynthia screams. Fortunately, her hands are much quicker, so it comes as a muffled yelp instead. "Shh!" she hisses to the pouting Chingling.

Damn it, stop following me! The Pokemon drops its head. Cynthia sighs. "Sorry…" And it brightens somewhat.

Okay, the fridge is just within arms-reach. I just have to be careful—

"Cynthia." That voice pierces through the walls and into the confines of her visceral organs. She freezes. Chingling whimpers.

"Sit."

Cynthia sits. The scraping chair grates against the ridges of her heart. Beyond the golden curtain is a glimmering… something. She gingerly reaches out, shuddering when her feverish fingers curl around the glass of water, which she chugs down within a second's notice.

That damn bitter taste is still there.

Cynthia inhales a handful of musty, herbal air. A bell bounces across the floor. Only after deeming that her mask is still intact does Cynthia raise her head.

"I messed up, Grandma," she mutters. "I messed up so bad…"

The old woman frowns. Her shades are on the table, so it's impossible to avoid those steely eyes. "Tell me about it," she huffs, and Cynthia's fists curl.

"I'm serious, Grandma! This is not a game!"

Grandma taps a hairpin against a glass of Moomoo Milk. "Oh no. The Champion of Sinnoh made a mistake. Her mighty eminence made a mistake, oh no."

"Grandma!" That bitter taste surges to her eyeballs. "Grandma, whose side are you on?"

Grandma shoots her granddaughter down with a glare. "I told you to watch that ego of yours, girl. You let it all get to your head, filling it with delusions of grandeur—"

"I get it, I get it! You told me already!" Cynthia jabs a palm to her forehead. "But I can't just abandon my title!" I worked my ass off for it! "Everyone's looking to the Champion, especially in the midst of this crisis!"

"And what exactly have you been so far to help, Miss Champion of Sinnoh?"

"I—" For a wild, panicked second, nothing comes to mind. "I… I helped…"

HOLY ARCEUS what have I been doing? Saving the world, right? Helping people. Protecting people. Finding the Time Gear.

Taking down bad… guys…

Cynthia slumps back into the chair. The old woman laces her hands under her chin. "You've gained much from your title, that's true," the latter mutters. "Fame. Fortune. Fans. Friends. But you're still not happy." A quirked eyebrow. "What did you lose in the process?"

Cynthia gapes. Chingling bounces its gaze between the two silent women.

"I lost my friend."

Grandma's lips tug downwards. "You have a lot of friends."

I know, Grandma… I know… Cynthia squeezes her arms. Tick. Tock. That ancient cuckoo clock is still running. Shadows are oozing down the walls as the sun sinks into the horizon.

Then Cynthia digs into her pockets. The White Moonstone she presents on the table. Her grandma merely raises an eyebrow… until she sees the yellowed photograph, and whatever she had planned to unleash died on her lips.

"This is…" Grandma carefully picks up the treasure. Her eyes dart from the two very different faces of her granddaughter. "When was this taken, Cynthia?"

When times were much simpler. "Sunyshore City," Cynthia grunts. "Before the solar panels were put in." When it was still bright.

Grandma stares into the photo again. "Garchomp was so small." Cynthia drops her gaze to a swirl on the wooden table. The silence that follows feels like forever.

A rustling brings her back to the present. Grandma releases her hand, revealing those vacant blue eyes.

Arceus no…

"This was delivered to my doorstep a few days ago," Grandma says flatly. Cynthia buries her face into her palms. Run away. Run run away. "INTERPOL Agents are patrolling the Routes around Celestic. Everyone is on high alert in case… The police had suggested arming residents, but I didn't think that was necessary… nor wise."

Grandma sighs, a deep, long sigh. "I don't know what's really going on here, but it's too great of a mess for us old folks to intervene." She lays the poster against the photograph, placing the past alongside the present.

"What will the Champion of Sinnoh do now?" Grandma's tone is heavy. "What's more precious to you, Cynthia? Your memories? Or your legacy?"

TICK. BMP. BMP. TOCK.

Grandma stands. "Someone's at the door." She shoots her granddaughter a look before leaving the kitchen. Cynthia stuffs her treasures into her pockets. Chingling chirps. She hiccups into her palm and plants her face into her arms.

The door opens. Dry evening air seeps into the house.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am, but I bring news of utmost importance." A clearing of the throat. The distinct noise of fingernails against scalp. "Um… Is Cynthia here? I need to talk to her."

Cyrus isn't sure if he'd opened his eyes. Half of this world is still dark. The realization draws another tide of vertigo to his brain, and only when both hemispheres are dark again does it dissipate.

Something moist is touching his cheek. Moist? No, no, it's… warm. Warm? He squints at a shifting shadow in the light.

Cyrus groans. "Grandfather… stop… stop biting me."

"Kaah! Kaah!"

"Hmm…" When did Grandfather start making bird calls? His impersonation is perfect! "Grandfather, is it the weekend already?"

"Nyee! Nyeerus!"

Cyrus frowns. He shakes the grogginess away and slowly—careful—sits up. Shapes are bouncing across his vision. "Grandfather, are you feeling all right?"

A silence. Then something slaps him. The blunt of a—no, the heel of a hand? Whatever it is, it's not attacking him with all its strength. It still hurts like he—

All rationale is shredded away at the sickening revelation. He's back there. They caught him. Cyrus thrusts out his hands. "I'm—I'm sorry," he gasps. "I—I'll go quietly. I won't pull any tricks, I promise—"

"Nyee!" A claw grasps his wrist. Cyrus flinches. But when the handcuffs never came, he dares to raise his head.

"Weavile!" The cat utters what sounds like a cry of joy upon hearing its name, and secretly, Cyrus is too. The fuzzball launches itself into his open arms.

A low growl draws his attention to the window. Cyrus measures those glinting eyes carefully before reaching a tentative hand to Gyarados's snout. The Pokemon shifts so he can scratch it around the nostrils, its favorite spot.

A flash of feathers draws Cyrus back to a watchful Honchkrow. The crow tips its fedora. Not knowing exactly what to do, he gives the bird a deep nod. Honchkrow ruffles its breast with a soft chuckle.

A leathery wing nudges his cheek. Cyrus carefully peels off the dirty bandages off Crobat's head. Once he establishes that the wound had healed completely, he proceeds to rub the residue off the bat's skin.

"Where have you all been?" Cyrus mutters, bringing his Pokemon closer, feeling their heartbeats energizing his own. "How long have I been sleeping? What time is it?"

Gyarados gestures to the skies. When his eyes adjust to the light, Cyrus realizes, with a start, how different everything is. Were there always this many trees? Pine trees, oak trees, that weeping willow has certainly grown from last time… The Budew used to dwell around that rose field, but I suppose they've all moved on.

For a place where time stands still, it's certainly changed. That observation leaves a strange numbness in his stomach, and reason escapes him.

It's… still bright. Judging from the sun's position from the horizon, it must be… quite late in the day? A headache is creeping in. No, is it still dusk? Wait, so back then… was it morning? Dawn?

Am I even awake?

Cyrus glances around the room. Dust motes wave back. Oh. He slumps back to the wall. Of course. I was going crazy. It was just a vivid hallucination… But for a while, it actually felt—

Crobat nudges something into his hand. Cyrus squints until clearly-defined edges snap back into place. Dark splotches. A crisp, folded napkin free of dust, unlike the one that he had offered the Champion not long ago.

The sharp tang of hot soup wafts into his nose. A memory of starlit summer nights, of stories about a wondrous galaxy amongst the childish lyrics of a fishing song.

And a tingling on his forehead. The spot where a firm hand had visited before consciousness slipped from his grasp. Cyrus lifts the foreign object off his skin.

It's a piece of yarn.

Honchkrow draws Cyrus's attention to the counter. He slowly reaches for the bowl of soup, and he swirls the murky liquid with the metal spoon, frowning as his reflection scatters within the thickened broth.

A horrible groan causes his Pokemon to jump. Cyrus hesitates and drops the idea of punching his stomach altogether. Appetite had left him eons ago, but since they went out of their way to bring this to him…

The soup is cold. That's not an issue, but it's impossible to get more than one sip in without feeling the need to throw up.

Tick. Clink. Tock. Clink. Something's wrong with the clock. Did something malfunction? Are the hands being dragged against their will?

Tmp. Tmp. Clink. Honchkrow's beak twists at the sound, now much, much closer. It's coming from the door. Gyarados bares its fangs. Cyrus remains very, very still.

Tmp. The footsteps stop. Weavile leaps in front of its Trainer as the doorknob jitters and turns. Creeeee… Something is stirring from the shadows.

Whatever that thing is, it's very, very wrong.

Clink. Clink. The first thing Cyrus sees are the wings. Not… wings, like Crobat's nor Honchkrow's nor any other normal Pokemon's, but appendages seemingly crafted from writhing darkness itself. As if a cruel hand had sewn those abominations into flesh, daresay out of twisted amusement, while the wound was still fresh.

Clink. Chains rattle, and Cyrus feels his ribs quivering as well. He watches in horror as a bony hand reaches out, the skin twisted and bleeding-

Cyrus yanks his Pokemon back before that monster can hurt them.

A pause. The phantom tilts its head. Then it lowers its arm.

There's so much blood. Cyrus finds himself staring at his own wrist. Wrists? C-Calm down. Focus… this is j-just another hallucination… But he can't look away. There's something about this… this thing. Something about its posture… something about the shackles hanging off its limbs… the frayed, tattered uniform covered in soot and blood.

And the burns. Burns, and all its aftermath on skin.

Cyrus's stomach folds in on itself when he sees the arm. Bones aren't supposed to bend that way. Why… they're not supposed to bend at all…

"I apologize," the phantom rasps. The wind itself is speaking. "I meant your Pokemon no harm, I assure you."

Crobat yelps. Cyrus immediately pushes himself back, back into the corner. He glares at his palm. You monster! You hurt Crobat! You're no better than that thing!

Chains scrape against themselves. Cyrus's head snaps up. The phantom remains a safe distance from the bed, standing tall and straight, its functioning hand clasped over the other.

"You're finally awake, Cyrus," it croaks, lowering those shadowy wings. All light that dares to trespass are swallowed by darkness and lost forever. "Did you eat yet?"

Cyrus scowls. The phantom's cracked lips tug, muscles pushing to the trenches on the sides of its face. "Do you recognize me, Cyrus?"

The air is thick. Suffocating. Cold. He can't hear the grandfather clock anymore.

"Why are you here?" Cyrus snaps.

The Villain merely casts his gaze aside. Cyrus has the distinct feeling that he's being covertly observed, as if he was a specimen in a jar.

"I… have no other place to go," is the soft reply. The scowl fades. "I never thought that you'd be back here of all places, Cyrus."

"You are supposed to be dead."

"I know," replies the Villain in low monotone. "So why are you still alive?"

Cyrus flinches. He wishes that he can hide his face into his knees and melt away. Oh, how he took that for granted. Like always. He can't even look at his Pokemon. "What do you want from me?" he whispers to the criminal.

The phantom's head is bowed so hair covers his eyes. Cyrus painfully releases his claws from the bowl. There are dents in the foam now.

"I'm sorry." The Villain twitches. Cyrus sets the bowl aside, careful not to spill any liquid. He keeps his fingers on his temples until the nausea subsides. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

A silence. Gears cranking loudly in the head.

"It's fine."

His lungs are moaning as they pump. Cyrus rubs his chest, grimacing slightly. After painfully mulling it over, he opens his mouth.

"I don't know what she wants with me."

"You mean to tell me that she still demands something from you?" There's an edge to the other's voice. "After she tossed you aside like trash?"

Cyrus exhales through his mouth. Trash. That word grates against his nerves. Sends hot blood coiling down his heart. "She… she said that I was the only one she could turn to. That I was the only one who could help her protect the world."

The Villain clicks his tongue. "You don't keep broken tools in the toolbox. And yet, she brought you back to life… because you're still useful to her."

Useful. Another word that makes him sick to his stomach. "What choice did you have?" the Villain mutters. "She's the hero of this story. If she's to bring about the happy ending, then she'll do anything to save the world… Even turning to a lowly criminal like you."

There's a growing hole in his lungs. "I know… I know, but—"

"But what? You don't want the Hero to protect all that matters to her? Do you wish to deprive the world of its happy ending? Do you wish to let everyone down again?" The Villain's eye is flashing. "Selfish as always, Cyrus. Grow up!

"Wait. Ah, I understand. Do you despise her for who she has become?"

"No!" An icy claw had dug itself into his heart. "N-No. No, of course not. She worked hard for it. She earned it. It was her dream—"

"Who do you think I am, Cyrus?" snaps the Villain of Sinnoh. Those terrible wings are towering over the bed like Death's shadow. "I know that she came back to see you. Unfortunately, you're the only tool she can use. But just look at you." A scoff that sends his blood into a frenzied boil. "She certainly swallowed her pride for a cause bigger than herself."

Cyrus glares at the loathsome criminal. "And?" he snarls. The Pokemon cower away when his voice begins to rise. "And? What of it? She deserves all the praise while I deserve all the disappointment. What difference does that make?"

"Cyrus—"

"Great, look at the Champion of Sinnoh, high and mighty in her untouchable eminence. She doesn't worry about the consequences of her actions because no one hates her. She's the figurehead of the region! She apprehended that evil nutjob! Let's make her a hero now and worship the deity!

"But that doesn't mean that she can do anything she wants!" Cyrus slams his fist into his lap and for a good, solid minute, he couldn't even scream. "I… hah... I know that I have no right to say this, but doesn't she know when enough is enough? What did she… hah… hope to accomplish in coming back with that needless sentimentality? I only foolishly hung onto those memories because I deluded myself into thinking that they actually happened! And yet, with each encounter, she only confirmed the truth! They never happened! It was a lie! It was all a big, cruel lie!

"Don't you remember Crystal Cave? I-I made good on my side of the bargain! I-I had n-no intention of breaking my promise, but she still wasn't satisfied!" Then when Cyrus opens his eyes, he sees the floorboards. Turning back reveals his legs hanging precariously off the side of the bed. Raising his head brings him eye to eye with the Villain of Sinnoh and those wings that have filled the skies.

"What is acceptable in their eyes?" Cyrus whispers as if the criminal knows the answer. "It will never be enough… My words mean nothing… Everything I do is an irreversible mistake…"

WEE-WOO. WEE-WOO. The sirens are wailing from the foggier pits of his mind, growing louder and louder until it fills the space around him. That lightheadedness, handcuffs sinking into bone, the blood that stains his sleeves…

Cyrus shuts his eyes. He still sees it. That radiance had been burned into his retinas.

"I never expected her to believe me," Cyrus says to the contorting darkness. The mirror glares back at him—the embodiment of all things ugly and wrong with the world, this distortion of a perfect human being.

But he takes the mirror into his arms. He stares at it, and for the first time in his life, actually sees it for what it is.

"Don't you remember that look on her face?" Cyrus whispers. That emotion flashes through the Villain's eyes. "I had expected that much, but what I saw… It shouldn't…. It shouldn't have…"

His mind is all too willing to replay that moment in cold, sharp clarity. The moment when her lips pulled inwards, revealing glistening teeth. The moment he fulfilled his promise, when her nose had wrinkled, a reflex to a despicable stench. When all the muscles on her face contorted, and he actually believed that she would barf all over his lies.

"It shouldn't have hurt so much." The Villain starts when Cyrus slumps to the floor. The former's hands instinctively jut out, only to be snagged back by chains.

"I-I don't understand…" Cyrus shuts his eyes. "They're just words." Words shouldn't bring the experience of being sucker-punched in the stomach. They shouldn't incite the experience of heart burn, asphyxiation, and decompression sickness all at once. "Who would ever want to feel this way…?" At that moment in time, he was absolutely convinced that she would lunge forward, pushing past the armed guards to grab his hair and bash his head into the nearest crystal until he coughed out the truth.

"Cyrus?" His own voice feels so alien to his ears. The reflection stares back at him, and the urge to punch it is only ruined by tremors racking his body.

Was this how they all felt when I dared to look at them?

"Why did she come back?" he murmurs as the darkness crumbles. Big, blocky chunks impale themselves into the gap near his legs.

"She remembered what she rejected in the first place," the Villain mumbles. "Isn't that enough? Everything's back to normal—"

"No!" Cyrus grips the chains. Why are they here? "Do you really expect mere words to reverse everything that had happened? As if everything was for naught? She can't just expect things to go her way all the time! She's not a child anymore!"

The Villain hasn't blinked. Hasn't even breathed. Cyrus continues to match his glassy stare until the former jerks back.

"I'm sorry."

Cyrus just blinks. For the first time in a long, long while, he feels… very light, as if that great burden has finally lifted from his shoulders. The internal blizzard has finally found an aqueduct to seep out. He slumps back. It's just the room with the faded walls and creaking floorboards. Thick beams of light wafting into the darkness. The mournful cries of Starly as they begin to fly home.

His Pokemon are still here.

"I'm sorry," the Villain croaks, shaking his head. Those spiraling tendrils have shrunken back to patchy, tattered wings. "I always make things worse. I never meant to disrupt your recovery process…" The shackles are quivering. "You were doing just fine until I came along…"

"Please forgive my insolence." The Villain staggers to his feet before Cyrus can react. "I won't inconvenience you again, Cyrus. Farewell."

"Wa—" Those words barely leave his lips when the door flings open, and the Villain almost collides with the visitor.

"Cyrus?" Jupiter gasps.

Cyrus is a mess. He's on the floor again, go figure. He's been coughing.

How the hell is he even awake?

"Cyrus!" Jupiter shoves aside the shadow and hurries to his side. She peels him off the floor like she's lifting up paper.

"Cyrus, what the hell were you doing?" she snaps into his unresponsive face. She groans and swings his good arm over her shoulder. "I'm bringing you back to your goddamn bed." As expected, the bed swallows him like quicksand.

The bowl of soup is still on the counter. It's cold now. She offers to throw away an unfamiliar napkin that he's holding, but he just shakes his head and turns away.

"Master Cyrus…" The group peers inside with worried eyes. Saturn is eating away at his fingernails; a habit she hasn't seen for the longest time.

Jupiter runs a tongue over her teeth. "Mars, can you grab a new bowl of soup for me please?"

"B-But—"

"Mars."

"Yes."

Then Jupiter crosses her arms. Her eyes sweep across every nook and cranny of the room. She's been in here too many times to count, but she can't shake the feeling that something is unmistakably wrong. To top it all off, evening sunlight only exaggerates shadows to monstrous proportions.

"I know you're there!" Jupiter snarls to the dust. No reply. Duh. "Whoever you are, show your face, or I'm going to come to you!"

Tmp. A depressed floorboard. A cold spot that has no right to be here, in the living world. Jupiter flexes her knuckles and swings.

SBACK! And her fist connects, much to her horror. Gotcha, little motherfu… It's something cold… much too cold. And hard. In fact, there's the sound of impact from somewhere nearby.

Something scratches her skin.

Soot?

"STOP!"

Jupiter freezes. Shadows are squirming in the corner of her eye, and upon turning, it's those stupid Ghost Pokemon that are holding her back.

Turning 180° presents her with a wide-eyed Cyrus with one hand extended, his mouth open in a silent scream.

"Cyrus." Her voice is barely kept under control. "Come again?"

Cyrus is speaking, but she's not hearing words. He yanks his gaze away, and the Ghosts stream back to his side.

"Cyrus," Jupiter hisses, slowly stalking to the bed. She slaps aside Crobat's wing, shoots Honchkrow down with a glare and snap at Weavile to stay out of her way. Even Gyarados bows its head. "Cyrus, what did you say?"

He hides behind his pillow. Jupiter hesitates, but she smacks that shield away so he can look at her in the eye. "Cyrus, I know you can talk. What the hell was that about?"

"I-I'm sorry." Her heart plunges to her stomach. "P-Please don't hurt him."

"Him…?" Jupiter wretches her neck back to the darkness, vaguely aware of the tendons snapping and crackling. "Who the hell is 'him?'" She grabs his collar before he can hide again. "Cyrus, I'm asking you a question. Who the hell was that?"

Normal, sane people don't stand up for ghosts!

"That-that's… that's…"

"Spit it OUT, Cyrus!"

"Don't you recognize who that is?!" Cyrus snaps, and she jolts back. A Grunt yelps, sending the eavesdroppers into a crumbling tower of flesh.

"C-Commander!"

"WHAT, B-2?"

"T-There's… eep, there's a something n-n-next to you."

Saturn scowls. Then all color drains from his face when he sees the shadow. Soon the room had caught onto his panic.

"Stop." To everyone's surprise, it was Cyrus who spoke. Jupiter gapes. He hesitates. "I-I mean… there's nothing… there's nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you."

"It's a friendly ghost?" R-8 squeaks. When the man finally looks up from his blanket, there's a strange assortment of emotions on his face.

"A ghost is still a ghost," Jupiter hisses, rubbing at her chest. "It is dead, and it should stay dead." She shakes her head and returns to the bundle of hurt on the bed. Cyrus is staring at her. As if he wants to say something.

Holy Arceus we need to fix his eyes.

"I've caused all of you undue burden." All commotion dies at that raspy voice. Cyrus takes a deep breath. "I… I've caused all of you needless discomfort… But…erm… Y-You're still here. A-And… erm…"

Saturn starts forward, but Jupiter stops him with a hand. Mars has returned, but she remains in the safety of the doorway.

Cyrus finally releases his grip on the blanket. "Thank you," he states softly. "For not… erm… f-for bearing with me." He clears his throat. Twice. "Thank you for remaining patient with me. I have no intention of letting all your hard work go to waste." He raises his head. "I'll see to it that you receive adequate reparations, to the best of my abilities."

Jupiter crosses her arms, tucking those trembling fingers in tight. Cyrus exhales quietly and continues. "If… If you'll allow me to keep accompanying you… then I'll give nothing but my best. Miss Ja—"

"Ahem."

"M-Miss Ju—"

"AHEM."

"Jupiter," he blurts.

Arceus, this is really happening. "Yes, Cyrus?"

"M-Master Cyrus?"

"Boss?"

Cyrus gulps a shaky breath. "S-Saturn. Mars."

"Doctor Cyrus!"

"D-Doctor? You're the one with a law degree, B-2—"

"And you're the one with the doctorate, sir."

Cyrus's brows furrow. He stares at the grinning R-8 before turning back to his cautious Pokemon. "What… But I never… I don't remember…"

"You owe us big time, Cyrus," Jupiter snaps without her usual energy. He sighs.

"Y-Yes. Anything you wish. I am in your debt."

Jupiter beckons Mars forward. The whole team surges to the bed. She hears the painful rippling of Cyrus's lungs, sees the sudden stiffness gripping his shoulders.

"Eat something." She presents the steaming bowl of soup. His neck snaps up to meet her gaze. "Come on. You promised."

That word sinks into Cyrus's skull. She doesn't look away. Then, slowly but eventually, he accepts the bowl.

The Old Chateau seems to sigh.

Mars notices the trembling. "I can help, Boss," she says softly.

"N-No. No, it's fine. I can—"

"Boss."

"T-Thank you, Mars." Mars grins. Cyrus lowers his head as Mars scoops some soup, blows on it, and brings it to his lips.

"Here comes the C-5 Cargo Plane." She brings the airplane to life, and Jupiter secretly steals a glance outside the clear skies. Cyrus stares at the spoon. She jabs it forward until his lips finally part way.

Holy Arceus he's like a baby Starly. Jupiter swallows the giggles, though. She's not ready to forgive him yet. "Is it good?" she grunts. "Cyrus?"

Cyrus nods while he covers his mouth. A small cough. "It's edi… it's very warm."

"S-Saturn made it," Jupiter says as casually as her cracking mask can allow.

"Oh." Saturn chomps on his finger when Cyrus makes eye contact. "You… did… did you?" The younger man bobs his head. "Oh. Well… good work, Saturn. It… has an interesting flavor. The… the chicken is very crunchy."

"Crunchy?" Saturn mouths. Then everyone's staring at the boss.

"Yes?" Cyrus squints into the soup. Weavile steps in to commandeer the spoon. "That part, Weavile." The cat makes a face as it holds up a giant chunk of blackened goop.

Mars snatches back the bowl. The burnt soup is passed down the assembly line of Grunts to a fate unknown.

"I am so sorry, Boss," Saturn moans.

Cyrus frowns. "Why?" He's squinting again.

"Okay, okay." Jupiter claps her hands. "You still owe me a solid, Cyrus." He nods despondently. "G-Get some sleep." His frown deepens.

"But I'm not tired." His voice is fading. "I just slept, Jupiter." Then he leans forward. "And I think I have a lead with the—"

Jupiter crosses her arms, and he shuts up. The younger Commanders glance at each other. The Grunts fidget on their toes.

"Jupiter?"

"Just spit it out, Cyrus."

Cyrus purses his lips. Red sunlight trickles through the glass pane, fiery beams accentuating the gradual whiteness of his hair. N-No, it's still blue. It's still blue, Jupiter. As the sun goes down, so does the light in his eyes. Nevertheless, he grips his fists, and he straightens.

"Do you mind holding Crobat for a minute?"

Huh? Cyrus remains dead-serious, so she did hear him correctly. He stares into the shadowy spot with some sort of burning conviction before turning to scratch Crobat behind the ears.

"Um… sure, but you're sleeping after this." He nods. Jupiter shuffles forward. The man gently coaxes his Pokemon to her arms.

"Can you bring them to him?"

"Who—oh." Ooooh. She barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. "Him. In that spot, right? Where there's no one, right?"

"Yes." Arceus, Cyrus, you really, really need to go see a doctor. "Stop within a meter from the corner. Mars and Saturn, do you mind coming too?"

The younger Commanders glance at each other. "Um… sure…"

"Thank you all very much."

This poor boy actually believes… Aw hell, what do I have left to lose? At least he's not pulling anything stupid… She trudges to that ominous cold spot with the Pokemon in her arms and the Commanders at her trail. Crobat's ears twitch. Great. It sees HIM.

Cyrus is waiting. "It's all right," he says, and she's sure as hell he's not speaking to anyone whose blood runs red in this room. "There's nothing to fear."

Yes, there is— Then Crobat stiffens, causing her to recoil, causing Saturn to jump back like an agonized cat and Mars to trip over his leg. The bat is gaping at something very, very near, as if that thing is right before its eyes.

HOLY ARCEUS CYRUS YOU OWE ME BIG TIME WHEN THIS IS DONE.

Then Honchkrow gasps. What the hell are you seeing?! The bird's feathers rustle ever so slightly, and she can't blame it on a draft. There's a certain way that the feathers are moving… as if a hesitant hand is pressing upon its breast.

Weavile whimpers. Its ears are flapping wildly, coming close to generating a windstorm. Colors reflect in its eyes. Blue? Red against orange…

"Cyrus, who the hell were you speaking to?!"

"Myself," is the quiet answer.

Then she's had it. "Okay, Cyrus, enough of the bullshit. I'll make you sleep if that's the—"

"Thank you."

Everyone shuts up. Jupiter whirls back to the man on the bed. He has his head tilted, a peculiar expression bubbling on his face.

C-Cyrus was n-never a ventriloquist… right?

"B-Boss?" Saturn mutters. "D-D-Did y-you s-say something?"

The hard line on Cyrus's lips soften. "Not… exactly."

Mars is rubbing her arms, generating ample electricity to fuel multiple generators. "Huh? W-What d-does that mean?!"

Then the smell hits Jupiter's nostrils. Sterile. Seawater? A very, very familiar smell from that dark and stormy night. Memory stirs amidst the rancid stench of charred blood.

Shadows churn, revealing a… a wing? Some bizarre interpretation of a wing with bloody red, pike-like nails sewn into the surface.

"Jupiter?" Mars whispers from somewhere in the room.

TICK. TOCK. The clock feels like a heartbeat throughout the mansion. Jupiter finds herself leaning inwards as she searches for a face, sifting aside blood, soot, and rain until she locates that eye.

Still unmistakably blue, just as she remembered.

"Arceus, you're so cold," she mutters. Details are flickering into existence the longer she stares into the darkness. Colors forming in that inky pool of black.

"How long have you been suffering?"

A strangled gasp slices through the dream-like haze. The younger Commander retreats, but Jupiter remains strong. The unmistakable impact of metal slamming against wall sends tremors to her heart, but she holds on. Floorboards groan, the clock unwinding deliriously until light zaps that pool of shadow, showering the room with an all-consuming radiance.

It's not cold anymore. The second shadow is nowhere to be seen. All is right in the world as the last rays of sunlight recede back to the windows, leaving moonlit trails in its wake.

Ding. Ding. A cool night breeze sneaks into the walls. The stars are brighter than any candle.

Cyrus slumps forward, but the Grunts catch him before he breaks his spine. They gently ease him back to the supine position, tucking the pillow under his head, putting the blanket over his vibrating chest. Once everyone establishes that he's snoring away, only then is everything right with the world.

Jupiter silently deposits the Pokemon back where they belong. They snuggle up next to their Trainer, and soon they've closed their eyes. Gyarados remains a bit longer before retreating to the pond.

"Jupiter?" Saturn murmurs. There's a napkin in his hands. Dark splotches have begun to stain its impeccable surface, and the more that she blinks, the heavier the rain continues to fall.

Looker half-expects the old lady to slam the door in his face. After all, it's near dusk, and everyone in this isolated mountain town is about to tuck in for the day.

But what he didn't expect was for the town elder to grab his ear and drag him inside the house.

"Ow! Ow, what are you—" She finally releases her clamp once they've arrived in the kitchen. The room is enveloped in golden hues and long, ominous shadows. And the person that he's looking for is sitting on the chair, illuminated in a bloody glow.

It's as if he had caught her red-handed.

"Sit," the old lady says. Looker obeys. Cynthia shoots a pleading look to her grandma. Looker swallows his offered Moomoo Milk as quietly as possible.

That clock is very loud.

"Sit," Grandma snaps before Looker's thoughts can become action.

"Y-Yes, ma'am."

Grandma's nails tap against the glass. Looker's fingers twitch, but he's not ready to go bald just yet.

"Cynthia. The detective is here to see you."

"I know…" Barely audible, that voice. Coming from the Champion of Sinnoh, no less.

So Looker busies himself by spreading his case files on the table. He makes sure the documents cover that horrible glare that still haunts his nightmares.

"Um," he begins. "So. Unfortunately, we've had to expand our evacuation efforts." He juts his chin to the map. "Jubilife got… it's not safe there anymore. So far, it's been Canalave, Eterna, Snowpoint, Floaroma, Solaceon…" He licks his lips. "We're starting to see signs of paralysis creeping up to Hearthome…"

"We're not taking your offer," Grandma snaps with cold finality.

Looker shakes his head. "I-I'm not here for that." I knew you wouldn't budge anyway. I see where she gets it from. "I-I just wanted to give Cynthia a debriefing…"

Grandma raises an eyebrow. "So you tracked her all the way up here?"

"Um. N-No, ma'am. I tried the League first—"

"Did you hear that, Cynthia? This young man drove all the way out here to deliver news to the Champion." That word is emphasized. "The Champion is waiting for people to come to her instead."

"I get it, Grandma!" the granddaughter snaps. Looker casually scoots back. "I'm supposed to take responsibility and all that!"

"No, you don't get it, and that's exactly why you keep hiding out here!"

"No, you don't get it, Grandma! I can't just waltz back there! I know what I'm doing!"

Grandma snorts. "Really? Okay, then do it." She yanks the wanted poster from under the piles of documents. "Arrest this rotten criminal. Give him what he deserves, then the world will get the happy ending that it deserves."

When Looker opens his eyes, the chair had fallen over. Cynthia is flat on her ass, her golden hair splayed all over the floor. In the red sunlight, she could've been lying amongst vibrant spider lilies.

Looker rushes to hoist his confidant up while the old woman watches with hardened eyes. "Detective."

"Y-Yes, ma'am."

A pause. "What makes a hero?"

Looker blinks. "Um…" He scratches his head—and immediately jabs his hand into his pocket. "Um… A hero… protects people, right?"

"Does everyone deserve to be saved?"

What the hell is going on here? "Um… yes?" The badge feels like it's on fire. Looker nonchalantly swipes that off his chest and throws it in his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Grandma, that's enough!" Cynthia yanks the poster away, but the old woman is quicker.

"You can't keep sitting on the fence, Cynthia! This type of indecisive is costing you precious time! You need to decide and live with your choice!"

"But can't you protect everyone?"

Then all eyes are on Looker. Damn. Bad, bad decision not to bring the emergency jet pack today.

"Um…" Back up, back up, Handsome. "I-I mean…" He swallows the lump down his throat. "I think you're putting too much pressure on your granddaughter, ma'am. Sure, being a hero is a great responsibility, but she's still human, at the end of the day."

That settles in like oil on water. Grandma is scowling. Cynthia, on the other hand, is staring at the man with wide, glassy eyes. Looker keeps his head down as he collects his documents, scratches his head, and tries not to trip.

I am so not good with this emotion thing.

"No, Grandma's right." The older adults turn to the young woman who had just spoken. Cynthia breathes into her palms, her shoulders slowly but surely rising back to their former glory. "I can't… I can't keep being ambivalent, not when so many people are counting on me."

Grandma crosses her arms. Cynthia stands a little taller. "Looker." He jolts. "You're right, too. I don't want to pick between two choices. I'll make it work, somehow. I'm… I'm not a child anymore…"

As usual, I've missed out on a lot of developments, haven't I?

"No, you're not," Grandma says softly, shifting her gaze to the darkening skies. "At least… not on the outside." A quiet chuckle. "Things aren't simple anymore, Cynthia."

Yup. I'm definitely missing out on something. And they're not going to tell me. What time is it? Looker groans. Great. Time to drive back in the dark.

"I'm sorry, Looker."

He gives her a very intelligent response, befitting of an agent of INTERPOL. "Huh?"

Cynthia's lips quiver. "I know that I haven't been… receptive, as of late. That it was all talk. You're the only one taking this seriously… running around while the Champion…" She shakes her head. "While the Champion hid from her duties."

Looker's about to open his mouth. Well… that's not a lie. "Um. Well, that's my job, Cynthia." Job. Yup. Mandatory.

"You should take some advice from the detective," Grandma grunts, twirling a spoon in the air. "Learn to be a better hero from the people around you."

Looker is aware of the heat in his ears. Wow. That's the first time anyone had ever…

KOOK! KOOK!

Oh yes. Looker clears his throat. "So… Cynthia." She looks up. "Have you found anything on your end?"

"No." Okay. Okay. That's fine. She's got her secrets, and I've got mine.

"Looker?" It's a pathetic excuse of a lead, but it's still something. If I do happen to find him, then—

That smile flashes into mind. Those lifeless eyes, devoid of hope. Those needles and pouches of blood.

"Looker?"

He blinks. Cynthia is staring at him. "Y-Yes? Cynthia?!"

She frowns. "You came to tell me something?"

"No," Looker states firmly. "I just came to fill you in. About the evacuations. While you were gone."

"Oh." He pretends to not have heard the disappointment in her tone. But she straightens nonetheless. "Okay. If anything, let me know so I can help, Looker. For real this time."

"Um… Okay. Of course. Yes." He glances at the watch again. "I have to go," he grunts. "Got a stack of papers back at the office."

"Cynthia can walk you out," Grandma offers.

Looker puts up a hand. "I'll be fine, ma'am. Cynthia, remember the last time you went out by yourself in the dark? I'm still following suspicious activity, and there's only one of me and four of them." He frowns. "In addition, we're the only ones that know about the conspiracy. I know you can look out for yourself, but we can't have anything happening to you in the meantime."

Cynthia absorbs all this with a slow nod. Then she scoffs. Looker can't help but roll his eyes as a smirk crosses his features.

"Thank you, Looker." Cynthia offers a faint smile, but a smile nevertheless. "Really, I… Thank you for everything that you've done."

"My pleasure." It's nice to be appreciated. He waves at the two women until the night breeze reaches his face. He squints to the ball of light in the sky.

"I'm sorry, Cynthia." Looker grips his briefcase. He inhales deeply and lifts his chin. "But I know what I have to do…"

And I'll do it on my own. That's the only way I can find the truth.

The Starly are active today.

Cyrus imagines himself outside in the lush fields, immersed in the cool, pleasant breeze of Eterna Forest. Traveling up a path of wild roses on the right and lilies, tulips on the left. Walking on his own two feet, taking an accidental detour, looking up to see crawling ivy on rusted iron gates.

It must be morning. Sunlight is not as harsh as it is during dusk. A Starly flies into the room, eventually nesting on Gyarados's head. The serpent sneezes, and the surprised bird takes off to the trees.

Cyrus puts his hand out the window. Not at all humid today. I'd say about… 16 °C. Suitable weather for field work. Weavile climbs up Gyarados's neck with a Berry in its claw and a gang of panicked Budew at its tail. Not far away, Honchkrow is leading a murder of Murkrow in flight, its beak curved in a smirk. A flock of Golbat flies past window, and Cyrus returns Crobat's wave. He watches his Pokemon for a bit more before returning his attention to the sole visitor in the room.

"What happened to you?" Cyrus mutters. It's difficult to maintain eye contact without feeling the need to turn away. Before his own wounds reopen.

The Villain gives a small smile. Looks like a grimace instead. "The same thing that happened to you, Cyrus." One wing shifts, revealing chunks of burnt fabric around its base. "It's fine, though," he adds upon Cyrus's reaction. "I'm used to it."

"Can you fly?"

"Hmm?" A tilt of the head. "I… I've never tried, to be honest…" A pause. "The only ones who should fly are Pokemon…"

"And heroes." Cyrus isn't sure if he'd said that. Of all the things…

The Villain frowns. Cyrus compares his bandaged wrist to the ghost's shackles. There's no keyhole. No way of releasing what had been welded shut.

"I… I can ask Jupiter for bandages—"

"That's not necessary, Cyrus," is the soft reply. "You'll just be wasting them. Focus on your own recovery." With that, the Villain drops both his voice and gaze. He keeps his head tilted, listening to something beyond the reaches of these walls.

Then Cyrus sits up. "Where are you going?"

The Villain turns over his shoulder. Those wings fold inwards as a sigh rattles his body. "I am an unwanted guest." There's an expression that Cyrus knows all too well. The former juts his chin to the creaking door. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

Something presses against Cyrus's hand. Honchkrow. Crobat. Weavile. Gyarados pokes its head into the window.

The ice thaws from the Villain's eyes. "I'm… I'm gra… No." His voice hardens. "No, I wish you nothing but success in your future, Cyrus, no matter which path you decide…" He turns. "That's all. Farewell."

"Please wait."

The Villain stops. Chains rattle. Cyrus keeps his head up.

"Thank you for coming."

Silence. A stray leaf blows into the room, into the other's direction, passing through his shimmering form.

"Thank you for letting me see them again."

And with that, the Villain of Sinnoh takes his leave. His pace slows when the grandfather clock picks up pace, but he marches onward, brushing past the gawking little boy without a second glance.

Clink. Clink… And the carpet swallows the sound of dragging chains.

Cyrus then tears his attention to another shape from the shadows, now with his Pokemon by his side.

Plick. Plick. A leaky faucet? Cyrus shoots up, wincing as his right arm erupts into violent spasms. "Who are you?" he grunts. "Show yourself."

And the boy does. Gazes connect, and Cyrus immediately breaks contact. His lungs are pulsating again. He can taste fluid—salt? Seawater—in his mouth, running up his nose. Lightning rings from somewhere in the tranquil skies. The bitter surge of disappointment staining his lips.

The boy lowers his head. Muddy footsteps trail from the doorway… no, not footsteps per say, but it appears as if the child had dragged himself in. That sweater is damp, tattered as if caught amongst an unforgiving riptide. Water is still dripping from his hair, his hands, his clothes… trailing down cheeks devoid of heat.

"What happened to you?" Cyrus croaks once he can speak.

A pause. Plick. Plick. "The same thing that happened to you, sir."

That voice is like a bullet to the skull. Cyrus rubs his eyes until all seawater is expunged from his vision. "What happened to your arm? Your legs…?"

The boy raises his head, Cyrus flinches. The answer is clear as day.

Cyrus grips his chest. Feels the dry bandages around his head. Was it really that bad? Apparently so, judging from his Pokemon's expressions.

The boy is still there. A safe distance apart. Trembling. "Y-You can come closer, if you want."

The child hesitates. Cyrus keeps his breaths steady as he straightens. "Can you walk?" Gastly and Haunter appear at his side, much to Honchkrow's chagrin. The man gestures the Ghosts forward. "Everyone," he tells the Pokemon. "I need your help."

Honchkrow responds by easing its Trainer's legs down the side of the bed. Crobat is less enthusiastic but complies nevertheless. Weavile grips Cyrus's good hand. The Ghosts swirl around his legs, creating a ghostly cushion.

Cyrus braces himself, and he stands.

Broken crystals flash before his eyes. He would've broken his nose again if not for Weavile's assistance. Cyrus swallows the pain and pushes onwards. One step. The beach with crystalline waters. Two steps. A suffocating fog. T-Three… StopstopstopSTOPSTOPSTOP.

Four. Weavile keeps him strong. Five. Six. S…Se…Seven!

Then he's there. In front of the little boy. Cyrus shuts his eyes, and only when the ground becomes solid again does he open them.

"I…" A cough. No, no not now. Focus. "I can help you." He prepares for the upcoming protests, and to his shock, the boy merely stares at him, mouth open, with trails of water trickling down his chin.

"A-All right." Cyrus casts a glance to his Pokemon. Okay. I can do this. The man gingerly wraps his good arm around the little boy—ah, he's so cold—and picks him up. He hasn't been eating. Darkness is creeping into his vision again, but Cyrus sinks his teeth into his lips and push onward.

After an agonizing eternity, Cyrus finally reaches the bed. He almost falls over, but doing so would hurt the child even more, so he summons every ounce of control to sit down as gracefully as possible. Crobat returns from outside and brings the cup of water, which he devours like a rabid animal, neverminding its funny taste.

The boy hasn't taken his eyes off the man. Cyrus scrambles to recollect his decency.

"You…" Breathe. Remember to breathe. Proper oxygen intake will return the heart to resting rate and—

"I'm sorry."

Cyrus stops the child before the former can fall off the bed and destroy what was already broken. "What are you doing?" the man snaps.

The boy's chin is trembling. Cyrus's breath hitches. "I-I'm sorry. I'm getting your blanket wet. Y-You won't be able to use it…" Even his voice sounds like it's been dragged out from the bottom of the sea. Cyrus notes the puddles on the bed, the dampness of his palm.

"And?" he says flatly. The boy whimpers, flinging out his hand, and the man's breathing takes a deep plunge. "S-Stop. Stop d-doing that. I'm not going to… I-I-I have no intention of ha…harming…"

The boy is like a brittle leaf in a winter storm. Cyrus feels the tremors sneaking into himself as well. "N-No." He clears his throat loudly. "I'm not going to hurt you." Not like back then. "I pro—I assure you."

Silence. Cyrus inhales through his teeth, pushing aside that metallic taste. "L-Look. Zubat is here. H-H-Murkrow is here. Magikarp is also here. And with Sneasel around, no one will dare to hurt you."

The Pokemon shuffles to the boy, who slowly looks up from his hand. Weavile is sniffing his sleeve. Crobat gives a soft smile. The child is staring at the Pokemon, but Cyrus isn't sure if he's actually seeing them.

Cyrus slides the pillow forward, making sure that it's cushioning the boy's back, and shares the blanket. "You… Your body temperature is dangerously low," the man grunts. "You… might contract hypothermia."

The boy's gaze catches on those bandages. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

Cyrus frowns. "Why are you apologizing?"

"B-Because it's my fault that you're hurt."

"No, it's not. The fault is entirely mine." His voice cracks. "And… and I should be the one apologizing, not you. You tried to warn me, but I was too stupid to listen… And now you can't even walk…"

You can't even function properly.

The boy is staring at Cyrus again. The latter coughs into his sleeve. "S-So, erm… stop apologizing."

"I'm sorry." Cyrus glares at the child, who gasps and bobs his drenched head. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again—"

"You'll get sick if you walk around in wet clothes." Cyrus searches for a towel and resorts to using the clean side of the blanket instead.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop."

"Y-Yes, sir. I'm so-" Cyrus scowls, and the boy covers his mouth. The man is too wholly focused on the task at hand to mind his protesting body. All traces of water on the child is gone in no time. Surprisingly, even the puddles have dried up as well.

Acceptable results.

"Erm… excuse me."

"What is it?"

The boy shyly peers up from the mess of hair. "Thank you, sir."

Cyrus blinks. Those words are hitting his ears while failing to register in his brain. But he does know that his pulse has quickened, and he can't explain why. The following silence is only broken by the boy sniffing.

"S-Sir. Where are you going?"

"Bandages," is the curt reply. "And some disinfectant. I don't know if we have them, but Jupiter might—"

Something grabs his wrist. The boy gasps, yanking back his hand. "I-I'm sorry!" he yelps. Cyrus groans. "I'm-! Please don't exert yourself, sir. I'm fine, I assure you."

"No, you're not."

"Y-Yes I am. See? It doesn't hurt anymore!" A pause. "W-Well… it doesn't… hurt as much as it used to…"

Cyrus absently rubs his temples, flinching when he feels the bruises. "Just sit down—"

"I'm fine, really." The boy's voice has grown as edge. Cyrus scowls, and to his shock, the boy scowls back. The Pokemon bounce their gazes between their Trainers until Cyrus sighs and slumps back into his spot.

"I don't understand children," he mumbles.

"But didn't you raise Mars and Saturn?" Upon seeing the man's bewildered look, the boy gives a tentative smile that he hides behind a deathly-pale hand. "I know about them. I know as much as you allow me to know, sir."

Cyrus opens his mouth. He closes it. He tries again… and settles for shaking his head instead.

"Jupiter yells at you a lot," the boy continues softly. He could've been dangling his legs by now. "Your team… I like them very much. They're not… They're so different from them."

Them. Just the mere memory leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. Cyrus shoves the sentimentality aside before he falls deeper into the darkness.

"I wish that I could've met them earlier," the boy is whispering. "I want to talk to them…"

Cyrus purses his lips. "I can go with you—"

"They can't see me."

"Ah. Yes." That makes sense. Crobat nudges his hand, and he gives it a much-needed pat.

"I wanted to talk to the man who was with you earlier, sir. But he wouldn't look at me." Those small shoulders shake with a sigh. "He hates me."

"No," Cyrus says without missing a beat. "No, he doesn't hate you at all."

The boy frowns. "Then why won't he talk to me?"

That's… "You already know the answer," the man mutters.

"Oh. I'm so—Okay." The boy's tracing some pattern into the blanket. "It's complicated."

Another silence. "May I see your Pokemon?"

A sound bubbles in Cyrus's throat, similar to a choking sound. "You don't have to ask for permission," he tells the boy as Crobat hops from under his arm. "You can pet them. I'd be honored if you do."

"Thank you so much!" The change that passed through the boy's face is as stark as night and day. Cyrus frowns, but it's more of a confused reaction than anything. Nevertheless, he finds himself entranced at how the child lights up upon interacting with the Pokemon.

Just like Saturn when I gave him that robot…

"Zubat doesn't look like this," the boy mutters as he strokes those four wings. The bat nips his ear, and he giggles.

Cyrus scoffs. "That's Crobat, not Zubat. She evolved."

"Evolved?" the boy echoes. "As in the Theory of Evolution?"

"Erm. Not… in the same concept, but you're still technically correct." The man rubs the dust off the bat's ears. "She has indeed changed."

"Oh. So she grew up?"

'She grew up.' What an interesting choice of words. "Yes. They all grew up."

"I see. What color is she now?"

"She's…" Cyrus squints at the bat, who returns a surprised look. That's… a good question. If memory serves me well, she was… "Crobat is not blue anymore."

"Interesting." Trembling hands graze Honchkrow's fluffy plume. "Murkrow got a hat."

"Fedora. And he's Honchkrow now."

"Oh. Hello, Honchkrow." The crow tips its fedora, earning a faint laugh from the boy. The Pokemon's beak curves. He looks so different when he laughs, is the sudden realization.

"Where is Magikarp?" To that, Cyrus tilts his head. The boy follows that gaze—and gasps. "Magikarp got eaten!"

"What? No, don't be ridiculous." The man pats the serpent's snout. Even the Pokemon looks slightly offended. "Magikarp grew up. He's Gyarados now."

"I'm so—Okay. Hello, Magi—Gyarados." The Pokemon snorts. It lowers its head for that small hand. "To think that you were so small back then, Gyarados. You used to fit in my arms, and now you're so tall!" The boy notices the look on the man's face.

Fortunately, the cat bounces into his arms before clarification can be asked. "Hello," he mumbles. "Who are you?"

"Nyeerus!"

Cyrus makes a little sound in his throat. When Mars saw Gyarados for the first time, she didn't bat an eye. "Shouldn't you know?"

"No."

I'm sorry? "But… but you knew about Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter…"

The boy looks away. Cyrus sighs. "This is Weavile," the latter says, scratching the cat behind its ears. "We… had some difficulties at first." Weavile chuckles nervously, hiding its claws behind its back until Cyrus's frown dissipates into the air. He sighs again. "But the past is behind us. He are a very dependable partner."

The boy's nodding. "You got hurt in the same eye too. It looked so painful—"

He covers his mouth. Cyrus's scowl is deepening by the second. Weavile casually slinks away from the limelight.

"I don't understand children at all," the man huffs. What goes on inside their heads? They're dangerously perceptive, that's for sure. Just like that boy and his friends… What was his name again...? Dawn?

The boy scoots closer. Cyrus instinctively flinches, prompting a quiet apology from the younger one. "Just tell me what you want," he grunts.

A timid smile. It's suddenly so bright… "Erm… I was wondering if you could tell me about the future?"

But what else is there to tell you? The boy is staring at him with expectant eyes, as it was a weekend and Grandfather was taking him to the museum. Cyrus feels his own finely-crafted mask slip. Similar to that time when Saturn boasted about building his UFO by himself. "Stellar work, Commander," and his face would glow brighter than the sun.

"Well," Cyrus begins and almost followed that with a "When Dialga was born, time started to flow." Either that or a one-sided dialogue about wave-particle duality that makes Jupiter put her head in her hands and Mars to start snoring as soon as he spoke.

So Cyrus tries again. "I left Sunyshore after I attained by degree." The boy understands the unspoken implications. "I took the train to Canalave, and I had to work so I can put a roof over my head. It took a while, but I initiated my first lease."

The boy's gaze lingers on the man's hand, one much larger than his own, before going back to the imaginary map on the blanket. "Canalave… is here." Cyrus points to an arbitrary bump in the threads. "Imagine this is Sinnoh. Mt. Coronet divides the region through the middle…"

"I have a map."

"You do? Erm. Very well then. A map also works, thank you."

"The Map" is a rolled-up parchment that the boy produces from his sweater. It's a bit damp, but still strong enough to hold when touched. But before Cyrus even thinks about opening it, a cold spot opens in his lungs. Icy fingers drum down his spine like the forewarning senses before an electrical shock.

Cyrus blinks. The boy is waiting. "I… I apologize," grunts the man. "Now let's see—"

Oh.

Crobat peers over his hand. Honchkrow, wondering why the bat had suddenly gone silent, hops over to see. Gyarados and Weavile exchange confused glances when the light dies from the crow's eyes.

The faint but unmistakable saline air sprouts from the paper. Sand trickles down its creases, fine grains sparkling in the sun.

Cyrus slowly turns his head. "This… this is…" The boy bites his lips. "You… You kept the Wonder Map."

"I should've thrown it away," the child growls. "It's just paper." His voice drops. "But it'll be a waste of a tree."

A waste of time and effort. Cyrus wretches his gaze back to the forgotten memory.

Waterfall Cave, written in jittery letters with no structure nor consistency. A drawing of said waterfall above its name. Hot Springs. Drenched Bluff. Amp Plains… Miracle Sea, written in type. "X's" and "O's" scribbled with crayon, marking off locations explored and those yet to be charted. "?" surrounding the three lakes. In the bottom, a compass composed of smaller suns and moons.

Fiction coexisting alongside reality.

"Nyee." Two wings rest on his arm, stilling the trembling. A low growl beside his ear. A pensive child with his head hung.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispers, moving to take the map away.

"Don't." Cyrus keeps his fingers on his temples until his vision clears. "It's… it's fine. It's still a functional map. Its job is to display coordinates with prominent physical landmarks to better orient the user…

"I digress. Here-"next to Miracle Sea "—is Canalave City. After… ahem, after Canalave, I sought work up here—" next to Blizzard Island "—Snowpoint City, where I encountered Sneasel. An I have yet to repay that individual who spared his kindness on me…"

His fingers glide across the yellowed surface, brushing against the fabric of time itself. "Then I moved here… and here… Ah, and here. This was where Saturn joined. The perpetual rain in this city provides a rich environment for diverse Pokemon to gather. That's where Croagunk was caught." The boy leans inwards. "And here, in the town where flowers bloomed unrestrained, was where Mars joined. We still have yet to locate her family, however."

"And that's where Jupiter joined."

"Correct. Excellent observation." The light seems to glow a little brighter. "Hearthome City… or the Crossroads of Sinnoh, as some call it, due to its geographical accessibility. Not only Jupiter, but B-2, R-8...

"And this was my home, Veilstone City. The-

"—site where our dream came true," the boy finishes. Something rekindles in Cyrus's prison of ice. Rays of sunlight sweep into those confines, opening doors and awakening that flickering flame.

And for the first time in a long, long while, there is warmth within his heart.

"B-2, get your butt of the ball!" A Grunt yells from below.

"Sir." Sir, he calls me. It takes a good minute for Cyrus to actually acknowledge that the boy had spoken. "Can humans really eat poffins?"

"Of course. There was a time when I had to rely on poffins as my only source of sustenance. They're perfectly edible, I assure you."

"They taste better than those cans of tomato sauce. It's been a while since I've eaten chicken soup. And that gateau. I can't match his…" Those words trail off into a lapse. The boy had dropped his gaze. Cyrus senses the tension in the air and shifts.

"I miss Grandfather," the boy croaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

The paper slips from the man's grip. His mouth opens. And closes. He inhales, but the air becomes trapped in his throat. Coldness is his stomach, his chest… Helpless. Powerless. Weak. Incomplete. Festering in his bitterness like nights alone in his room, with his arms around his knees, huddled against the wall as he begged the moon for summer to come quicker. And the moon never listened, time and time again.

"I'm sorry."

The boy looks up and says, "Why are you apologizing?" The man blinks. He doesn't have an answer, so he just turns away.

Knock. Knock. Cyrus pulls the blanket over the boy's chest when the door opens.

"Cyrus," Jupiter hums, casting a stern but kind glance to his face. "It's a wonderful day outside. Do you want to—"

She barely moves her lips when a visitor barrels into the room, slamming the door against the wall and destroying Cyrus's eardrums.

The boy stiffens. Cyrus squints to see… bows. Billowing hair of a light color. When revelation sinks into his brain, his eyes snap open so forcefully that he feels something crack in his neck.

"That's Zubat and Murkrow!" The girl jabs a finger to his direction. That voice ricochets in his skull. "Akagi, it's you! I've finally found you!"

There it is. The Old Chateau. Once upon a time, before the rise of the Berlitz family, there was another descendant of wealth that made this place his home. Modeled after classical Kalosian architecture, the Chateau was meant as a lavish escape from the rest of the world. But alas, glory faded over time, and the shell of a dream is all that is known today.

Grunts are playing in the lawn. Kicking a can around with enough energy of a heated Unovan football match. Maybe even more fired-up than that. They're running everywhere, crossing to extremes of a field with Pokemon flailing about in excitement. Fortunately, the serenity of the forest swallows such tell-tale sounds of life before they reach the outside world.

The door opens when Cynthia gives the password. Grunts greet her cheerfully as she crosses that threshold and into the sunlit manor.

Huh. You can feel the energy today. I wonder what's up?

"Welcome, Champion Cynthia," R-8 hums. She's standing on her tippy-toes. "Mars and Saturn are playing outside, if you're interested. I'm just getting refreshments for everyone."

"I'll think about it, thanks, R-8." The Grunt nods and goes to resume her duty. Cynthia stares at the balcony, where that person resides on the second floor.

Grandma's methods may be unorthodox, but I'm awake now. She slaps her cheeks. Some Grunts notice this but say nothing. Okay. Today is a new day, Cynthia. You're the hero of Sinnoh. You're not a child anymore—

"I'm not?"

Huh? Cynthia whirls around—and exhales a sigh of relief. Oh. It's just Shirona. Damn, my imagination must've gotten out of hand—

"This place feels strange." Shirona's golden hair refracts in the light. Her little chest heaves with a deep inhale, and she sneezes with such a realism that Cynthia flinches. The girl shifts, and the floorboards creak. There is a definite shadow under her feet.

What the hell. Cynthia slaps herself again. Shirona raises an eyebrow before reaching out to grab the woman's wrist.

The latter's jaw drops to the floor.

"Hmm…" Shirona looks at her fingers. Dusts her denim dress, expelling dust motes to the floor. "Well. No one's yelling about there being a child in this place, so I guess that you're the only one who sees me." Just to prove it, Shirona sneaks up to a Grunt and jumps into his face. He doesn't even look up from his yelping Clefairy.

Grandma, I've made a terrible mistake. My guilty conscience is biting me in the ass—

"Cynthia."

"W-What?" No one's minding the fact that the Champion of Sinnoh is talking to the empty spot beside her.

The girl bites her lips. Cynthia even hears the faint press of teeth against skin. "Grandma's yelling had got me thinking… do you remember when we had that same discussion?"

Cynthia blinks. Shirona twists a strand of hair. "During one of the summers," she specifies, "when we walked back together. I told him about my dream. Do you remember what he said?"

"'You don't have to worry about that, Cynthia." Her mouth moves on its own. The woman blinks again. She closes her eyes, and she sees those waves lapping against the shoreline. Smells the saline tang of the beaches. The skies were blue, despite the fact that it was nearing dusk.

"You're the strongest person that I know," the boy was saying, his voice soft enough to be heard. "Not to mention that you're very courageous and kind." He froze. "I-I meant. Well. T-That's what I think, at least."

Cynthia remembers the heat coursing to her face. Remembers how the sun was right in front of her, yet it never burnt her. It never hurt her.

"Oh. Um. T-Thanks." She was looking at anything other than his eyes. "Cyrus."

"I'm sorry." He pulled his collar over his mouth as they walked. His ears were glowing brighter than the stars above. "Erm. Cynthia?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"I am curious. Your dream that you told me… What aspired you to want to become a hero?"

She gave him a big toothy grin. He raised his sleeves. "Because I want to help people and Pokemon," was the high-pitched response. "I'll have to be strong enough to kick the bad guys into jail where they belong."

Cyrus nodded. "And the Champion is the strongest Trainer one can ever hope to be."

"Yup." She giggled. "The Champion right now is so cool. I want to grow up like that someday… a hero. Protecting everyone I care about, serving justice in the morning and coming back to dinner with my family and friends."

Cyrus's gaze lingered on the blanket flaring down her shoulders. Her makeshift cape when they'd go exploring. "You'll get a lot of attention, Cynthia"

"I know! Then everyone will notice how strong I am!" Her brain failed to register the edge in his tone. Failed to see the ice behind his eyes.

"Fame is a double-edged sword, Cynthia," Cyrus muttered with all the seriousness of an adult's. "I've read novels on this phenomenon, Cynthia. The purest of intentions can distort beyond recognition." He gave a stern look, and she suddenly felt very small, despite the fact that she was slightly taller than him. "These delusions of grandeur might blind you to what's really important… and you might unintentionally hurt those that you're trying to protect."

Cynthia blinked. Cyrus shook his head. "Just… promise me that you'll be careful."

"Of c-o-u-r-s-e, Cyrus! " She elbowed his side. It was meant as an innocent gesture, but the boy hugged his sides and stopped walking. "I'll never let fame into my head! I'll be the Champion, remember?" Then the girl turned around.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he grunted, giving her a shaky smile as he shuffled forward. "I'm… I'm sure you'll be the strongest Trainer in the land."

Cynthia grinned. His face softened when he saw her smile, and he straightened somewhat.

"Oh yeah. Cyrus." He titled his head. "What goes on in your mind when you think of a hero?"

Cyrus stared at her for a second too long before wrenching his gaze to the sands beneath his feet. "That's… an interesting question," he mumbled. "I haven't really given it much thought…"

He noticed her staring. "Ah, my apologies. Well… A hero has to possess physical prowess and charisma to be adored by millions, right? They must be brave, kind, respectful…"

Then his voice dropped. "But to me, they must also be a hero within themselves. Yes, they must be strong enough to protect those that they cherish, but they must also be aware of their limitations to learn from their mistakes. They must be prepared to live with the consequences of their actions.

"If you go about being a hero, Cynthia, there will be times when you're forced to make a decision that can alter everyone's story." She frowned. "One person's life, for example, or the fate of the whole world? If that day comes, will you be able to choose, Cynthia? And will you be able to justify your choice?" Her frown deepened. Cyrus shook his head.

"Being a hero is not a game, Cynthia. It's a burdensome responsibility. There will be times when you're bombarded by negativity, your own internal conflicts, your own biases… but you'll have to cast that aside for the sake of protecting something much, much bigger than you."

He's fidgeting with his hands again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to belittle you. The path that you're about to take is so uncertain that I… I… erm… I don't know what will happen… to… erm…"

"I told him that I'll be fine." Shirona's voice brings the present back into reality. Gone are the starlit skies, the golden sands, the humid breeze of the beach. "I told him that he was overthinking again. Typical Cyrus." Her shoulders droop. "And he had to chase me to apologize for 'spoiling my fun.'

"But look at us now. He was right, wasn't he? He was always right, and I always took him for granted."

All the saliva had evaporated from Cynthia's mouth.

A hand grips her sleeve. Cynthia gapes down at the determined little girl. "We need to talk to him," she declares boldly. "He's been waiting for a long time. Come on, Cynthia! You're not getting any younger!"

"You're just like Grandma," she mumbles as the girl leads her up the stairs. Grunts make way without batting an eye, as if they've seen stranger things in this haunted mansion.

The girl runs past Jupiter. The older woman frowns when she sees the door slamming open on its own, when something brushes past her fingers.

"Excuse me, Jupiter." The older woman moves aside for the caretaker of that child.

"Akagi!" The little girl is pointing to the man on the bed. "Akagi!" she exclaims, turning to Cynthia. "I found him! I found Akagi!"

Cynthia looks up to match Cyrus's shocked face from beyond that curtain of sunlight.

It's like a cape.

"Um." Gee, what's the best way of putting this without it sounding like I'm making fun of him… "Uh. Um."

We really need to get you out of here before we all lose our damn minds.

Shirona is tugging at Cynthia's hand. Damn, this brat is strong. "Look! Look!"

Cynthia glances around the room. There's Jupiter, but she doesn't seem at all surprised. Welp. "I know, I know!" she hisses to the girl. "Stop yelling!"

"Why? No one can see me anyway. Except for you."

"Even so! You're so loud!"

Springs shift. Cyrus's head snaps up. "U-Um! Sorry, Cyrus. I was just… um…" I was just talking to myself. Haha, just like you, you certified nutjob. Am I doing it right? "Um…"

Cyrus is glaring at her. Such a dark, icy glare that stilsl the blood in her veins. There's a large gap on the bed, the blanket draped across the empty space on his left. Shirona stumbles forward, but the blizzard pushes her back into Cynthia's chest.

"No…" Shirona is shaking her head. "No, don't… Akagi, no…"

Cynthia sees the damp floorboards. Did he spill soup? But it doesn't smell like food in here… it smells like… seawater.

"Akagi!" Cynthia recoils. She fails to see Cyrus flinching as well, his hand shooting up to his ears. "Akagi, where are you?" The girl's head is whipping around the room. To the door. To the open windows and his surprised Pokemon.

"Akagi left, Cynthia," the girl gasps. "He… he…"

Cynthia steadies the girl before her knees can crumble. "He's right there," the woman says softly, smoothly. Shirona still doesn't look convinced. She's glaring at the walls, as if there was a body hidden in there.

Stop it, Cynthia. Speaking of which, she realizes that they have company: the man that's waiting for them.

"Cyrus," Cynthia says deliberately. His frown deepens. Oops. "I'm sorry for that. I have no intention of mocking you."

Cyrus scowls. He covers the object that he was looking at before the girl barged in. A paper? He presses his temples, sighs, and straightens.

"Good morning, Champion Cynthia."

Huh?! Both jaws drop. Jupiter quirks an eyebrow, but she remains silent. Watchful.

Work, brain, work! "G-Good afternoon. Uh. Cyrus."

Cyrus's brows furrow. He squints outside the window. A warm breeze brushes his silvery hair. "Oh. I apologize, Champion Cynthia." He returns his gaze. "Good afternoon."

A silence. Shirona's rubbing her eyes. Cynthia gapes at the man that's bathed in sunlight and slaps herself.

"You shouldn't hurt yourself like that," he says in that familiar monotone. "You'll damage your skin."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me."

"O-Okay. Sorry."

Another silence.

"I'm looking into possible causes of this phenomenon," Cyrus mumbles, his gaze fixed to the clear blue skies. What is he—oh. "I can't guarantee that I'll deliver an appropriate hypothesis on time, but I'll try."

"Oh. Thank you. Cyrus." You're taking this seriously.

Leaves rustle in the forest beyond ancient doors. Starly perch on the windowsill, heads cocked in curiosity. Cyrus raps his fingers against his arm cast.

"You said that Uxie only erased memories of Fogbound Lake."

The breath comes in too suddenly. "U-Um." No, focus. "Yes, that's true, Cyrus. But I… I went to Sunyshore."

His shoulders stiffen. He's gripping at that hidden parchment until his knuckles quiver.

"I see." He gives her a sideways look, his jaw set in a painful grimace. She breathes through her mouth. Wait, where's Shirona? Did she run off somewhere?

Honchkrow patters to his side. "Did you know that all Murkrow share a penchant of shiny objects, Champion Cynthia?"

Jupiter is still in the extremes of her vision. "Yes…" Where was he going with this? "The head of the flock make the Murkrow bring it treasures, lest they be punished."

"Stellar observation, Champion Cynthia." Honchkrow gives her a wry smirk. She can't read the intent behind its glinting eyes.

Cyrus is grooming the bird's feathers, his long fingers sifting through its luminous down. "'The Summoner of Night,' as Honchkrow was often referred to in ancient mythology. Even today, his reputation lives." He's talking to his crow. "A flock of crows… a murder of crows… crows are remarkable creatures, do you think?"

Cynthia jams her fists into her pockets. "Yes. They're extremely intelligent birds. Professor Rowan once told me that crows never forget faces."

Cyrus stops his petting. He shifts so their gazes can connect.

Then Honchkrow moves to his lap. "I've been thinking." His tone is hard to decipher. "About what you said, Champion Cynthia, while at your excursion at Foggy Forest. You told me that there were two statues, correct? Do you mind repeating those inscriptions?"

She complies to his strange request. Cyrus absorbs that information with a nod. "And your White Moonstone managed to lift the fog… Do you think that it was coincidence that the path to the Time Gear showed itself after you presented your treasure?"

Cynthia's heart is racing again, a sensation that she hadn't felt in a long, long time. Shortness of breath, tingling warmth spreading down her toes. "What are you thinking, Cyrus?"

Cyrus snaps his fingers—and winces ever so slightly. Honchkrow opens its beak. "During my research, I recall coming across that particular inscription on the White Moonstone… although what it was exactly… I'll work on my memories, I assure you." He inhales sharply. "However, there are grounds to believe that those relics and the Time Gears are connected. It's still conjecture, but it's a lead nonetheless, and I wish to expand on it."

Her heart is sprinting marathons now, slamming against her ribcage. Honchkrow is coughing into Cyrus's open palm.

"As you know, crows often horde shiny objects." Something is protruding from Honchkrow's beak. Something red and solid. "Unfortunately, Murkrow have a tendency to swallow their spoils to avoid theft amongst its mob."

And with an agonizing hack, the crow expels the shiny object. The room instantly explodes into light, beams wafting in rainbow streams to even the tiniest corners of the room. And warmth. Unrivaled, buttery warmth blasting to her face like heat of the summer sun.

When her eyes adjust to the glare, there's something flickering in Cyrus's outstretched hand.

"What the hell," she hears Jupiter mutter from someplace far, far away. Cyrus stares at the object in his hand as if he's peering into the stars.

"Like I said, you have my full cooperation, Champion Cynthia." She can't place the look on his face, but his voice is barely containing her throbbing chest. "If even the shrewdest of leads can progress our cause, then by all means, I'll take it so you can bring about the happy ending."

Cyrus holds up the Red Sunstone, prompting Cynthia to reach for her White Moonstone as well. Those peculiar inscriptions begin to blink, lighting out of cadence until the glows pulsate as one.

Elsewhere in the world, a multicolored geyser fizzles. A Pokemon turns, its eyes cracking open to the source of the light.

"It is time," says the Guardian of Knowledge. "Come, Mesprit. Azelf. There is much work to be done."

And even farther away, in a land beyond the skies and seas, a set of crimson eyes emerge from the darkness of a crumbling tower.