A/N: I'm so sorry for the late update! I have been feeling sick and stressed this week with elections, school, work, etc. Hopefully things will continue on track from here on out. Thank you for your patience and understanding!
God, running sucks.
Mott has run into his fifth trash can in this street chase alone, and needless to say, he's more covered in garbage and filth than he ever wanted to be. Running for speed has never been a strength of Mott's, even more so now that he's evolved. Unlike some, his four-legged form really isn't built for this kind of thing. It's even worse because he's still adjusting to the physical changes—and going from two legs to four is a pretty big change. He keeps wanting to move his arms back and forth while he runs, but he doesn't really have arms anymore.
Does he? Does he have arms? Sometimes he thinks of them as arms, other times he thinks of them as legs. Again, it's all very weird and unfamiliar.
Another trash can to the chest cruelly reminds him that he needs to stay focused. After swiping some grime out of his face and a banana peel out of his eyes, he locks onto his target once more and continues the pursuit.
The killer has easily put distance between themself and Mott, as embarrassing as it is to admit. With every step he takes, it seems they take twelve. They outpace him as easily as breathing, like they're a skilled warrior and he's a newborn baby. Infuriatingly, they've even thrown a few taunting gestures back.
Huffing and puffing, Mott shouts, "You're having a good time now… but if we were in water—oh boy I'm gonna die—I'd be… kicking your ass!"
Yelling only serves to deflate his lungs. He has to take a deep gulp of air before racing off again.
Between the two of them, Lenny is faring much better. It's doubly embarrassing to Mott that his newly evolved form has made him even clumsier than Lenny, something he thought was impossible. After tripping on a cracked sidewalk and nearly eating the ground, Mott kinda wishes the earth would just swallow him up and spare him from this humiliation. The only thing keeping him going is the thought that Lenny just might catch the killer.
Lenny is fast. He's taken note of Lenny's speed several times, but seeing it in a situation like this is different. Lenny isn't holding back, he isn't impeded by obstacles, and he's determined as hell. With every step he takes, he gains air as if he's about to fly. Speed isn't his only asset, either; he's nimble. When the shadowy figure abruptly switches course, Lenny is right behind them. When they throw an attack Lenny's way, he dodges with ease. Like this, it's hard for Mott to deny that Lenny could be a threat to anyone if he wanted to be. If Lenny had even the slightest of blackness in his heart…
There'd be no place on Earth anyone could run that he couldn't catch them.
The shadowy figure seems to realize the danger he poses to them, as they only direct their attacks at him. For the most part, they seem perfectly content with ignoring Mott. Mott gets the logic behind it, but that doesn't mean he isn't offended.
Resolution surges through him; a desire to prove the killer wrong springing from deep inside. He's not fast like Lenny, not on land. But he has the stamina to make up for it. If he can get into the water, he'll have the speed, too.
The shadowy figure races across the entrance of a long bridge, darting across at a rapid pace. If Mott can dive into the water and beat them across the bridge, he can cut off their path of escape. With Lenny behind them, they'll be cornered.
As soon as he reaches the water's edge, he plunges in. Ice cold water rushes around him. It doesn't make him freeze up, though—it refreshes him. Invigorates him.
With a burst of energy coursing through his veins, Mott shoots through the canal like a jet. The submerged world passes by him in a blur; underwater pokémon lazily swimming by startle to an early wake up call when he nearly barrells them over. His speed increases the water pressure around him, pounding streams against his body.
In the murky darkness of the canal, he sees land approaching. How is he doing? Did he catch up? Is he too late? Through the blurry tension of the surface, he can barely see the killer racing parallel to him on the bridge. They're neck and neck. Refusing to give an inch, Mott pushes himself to pick up the pace. The killer does, too.
Narrowing his eyes, he speeds up again. So do they.
Straining his body and ignoring the burn of protest in his muscles, Mott swims at maximum speeds. They quicken, and they don't seem to break a sweat.
What the hell? If they're able to go this fast without hardly any effort, why haven't they been? Why don't they just dash away and leave them in the dust; even Lenny wouldn't be able to catch up!
Mott's thoughts distract him enough to nearly collide with a large rock. Swiftly spinning out of the way, Mott narrowly avoids it but slows down in the process. The killer slows down, too.
What? Why would they slow down? They don't seem to be winded, or injured, or anything; it makes absolutely no sense why they would play these games and dangle themselves in front of Mott and Lenny like a shiny fishing lure—
Oh. Oh.
They're being baited.
Why? Does the killer have some kind of trap planned for them? It seems unlikely, the killer had no way of knowing the two of them would be at the museum in order to plan and lead them into a trap. So where are they being led, then? And why? Mott can't think of a single reason the killer would want to lead them somewhere, but it makes his stomach twist in apprehension.
Knowing that they're being baited makes Mott a lot less inclined to try and catch up. All his instincts scream danger. But he still wants to catch them after they murdered the curator, to get justice for her. So, despite the protests in his body and his mind, he increases his speed.
The murderer strikes out at Lenny, as if to keep things interesting. Again, baiting them. Enticing them. Lenny takes the bait on his own terms, gracefully evading the attack and landing closer to them than he's ever gotten. He's so close he could reach out and cut them down. So close he could see them through the darkness.
The killer obviously hadn't expected this result, as they rear back in shock and their actions falter for a moment. Almost startled, they lash out again, with much less decorum than before. Their hit, although haphazard and reckless, lands directly on target. It's a hard hit, too hard, and in the blink of an eye Lenny is thrown over the bridge.
Bubbles rush before his eyes as he shouts, "Lenny!"
Screw catching the killer, that's police work! He's got a teammate to catch!
Without a moment to lose, Mott dives down deeper into the canal as Lenny falls. He needs to build up enough speed, speed he can't attain as things stand now. If he can't, he won't be able to emerge airborne, and he won't be able to catch Lenny before the painful impact.
Farther and farther Lenny falls. Deeper and deeper Mott swims. The water around him grows colder, denser, darker. His heart pounds, aches. Every muscle in him screams; it's nothing compared to the frantic screaming in his mind. He has to catch Lenny, he has to. From a height like that, an impact like that could—especially with his paper thin body, an impact like that could—
Farther, farther, farther Lenny falls from the bridge.
Deeper, deeper, deeper Mott swims until he reaches the bottom and plants his feet in the muck and slams into it and pushes himself off with resonating force—!
He surfaces, shooting into the air just in time to snatch Lenny and plummet back down.
A white flurry of bubbles sweep around him as they submerge, floating feebly up to the surface before popping. Mott allows himself to stop, his body aching and his lungs burning, and he stays suspended. Floating between the bottom and the surface, quiet, still, and alone.
Well. Mostly alone.
Lenny is in his arms. His cheeks are puffed outward with a contained breath of air, his eyes wide. Clearly, he's more than a little disoriented. But once he gathers his bearings, he turns his head to Mott. Gratefully, he pats Mott on his arm, over his bandana.
Mott's heart thumps.
Then, Lenny starts looking a little blue. Frantically, Mott jolts himself back into action, swimming hastily to the surface and kicking himself for forgetting that most people can't breathe on land and in water.
They reach the other side of the canal, Lenny gasping and coughing. The land is bordered by massive rocks that reach high enough that Lenny couldn't possibly get up there on his own. Mott nudges him along, helping him to climb the sleek, slippery surface before following after him. Lenny drags himself to the nearest dry surface, panting with his head hung.
Mott shakes himself off, flicking water everywhere. It doesn't dry him off much. Mostly, it just makes his fur poof out. He grumbles as he smooths it back down, watching his reflection in the canal's surface. Glancing up to the bridge confirms his suspicions: the killer is long gone.
It takes a few minutes for Lenny to catch his breath. Between the chasing and near drowning, he's pretty short on air.
"I'm sorry," he rasps, his voice hoarse, "that I couldn't catch them."
"Don't apologize, you did your best," Mott assures, sitting beside him.
A small breeze passes them by, making Lenny tremble. The water was cold even to Mott's standards, and most water-types are pretty tolerant to that sort of thing. He can't imagine it was at all comfortable for Lenny. Especially since grass-types are notorious for getting cold.
Mott shuffles closer, and Lenny eagerly indulges himself in his body heat. More shudders course through him, but they eventually grow more subdued. After a while, they completely subside, although Lenny is still shivering slightly.
"Any chance that you caught a glimpse of their face?" Mott wonders.
Regretfully, Lenny shakes his head. "Even when I was close to them, they were too good at hiding in the shadows for me to see."
Mott nods. It figures that someone so skilled would be able to kill, bait, and escape with ease. It does beg the question of why, though, which Mott thinks is rather obvious: they didn't want the two of them to discover how to defeat Zekrom.
Piecing together his mental, makeshift theory board, Mott adds the killer to what he's amassed so far. A rich patron pulls their funds as soon as the museum gets a breakthrough. This, clearly, is because they wanted to silence any information around beating Zekrom. This killer shows up and strikes just as the curator was going to give them that information—evidently, the rich patron hired an assassin to take her out prior, and Mott and Lenny just happened to be there in the wrong place and the wrong time. But then why did the assassin flee instead of killing them? And why did they bait them? Where were they leading them?
Even as small answers come together, he feels more big questions pile up. It's frustrating how complicated this whole mess has gotten. His mission, no matter how impossible, started out rather straightforward: defeat Zekrom. But the deeper he gets into this, the more twists and turns muddle his way. Unanswered questions probe at his mind, spinning around and around on repeat.
Why didn't the assassin kill them? Why did they bait them? Where were they leading them?
He wishes his mission was clear again. He wishes it was just a direct and open path to taking down a mindless, bloodthirsty beast. He wishes he didn't have to worry about players in the background, manipulating their surroundings like a chess board and drawing them away from what really matters.
Why did they bait them? Where were they leading them?
He wants to get back to the root of things: Zekrom. He wishes things would stop leading him away from it.
That's when it dawns on him.
Lenny must've sensed the dread trickling through his veins, because he offers Mott a look of concern. "Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
Where were they leading them? That's not the real question. The real question is where were they being led away from.
"The museum," Mott utters, horror burrowing a deep pit in his gut. The museum, with the world's largest stockpile of research on Zekrom. He leaps to his feet, heart hammering. "They were leading us away from the museum; they're gonna destroy all the research!"
"Huh? Who? Who's gonna do what?"
Mott swoops his head down, scooping Lenny up and tossing him on his back. Yelping, Lenny flails to catch a hold of his neck before he falls. Already racing back to the museum, Mott promises, "I'll fill you in on the way, but we've gotta go now!"
By the time they return to the museum, Mott is relieved to find it's still in one piece. He almost expected to be confronted with the dramatic sight of the whole building lit ablaze. But it's just as solemn and silent as ever, and without the broken window and the faint smell of blood in the air, Mott would've never guessed anything was amiss.
As they rush to the library, Mott's steps falter when he passes the curator's door. A rush of guilt overwhelms him, and he has to remind himself that if someone called a hit on her, there was nothing he could've done to have stopped it. Him being there didn't cause her death; if anything, it just prolonged the inevitable. But that doesn't stop the aching remorse, and it's only when he swears to care for her body after they get the information on Zekrom that it fades in the slightest.
When they reach the library, Mott is surprised but overjoyed to see no one is here. Even better, none of the books on Zekrom seem to be missing. He was certain that the assassin would've backtracked here by now and destroyed what they wanted to. Did the two of them somehow beat them back? Or were they not out for the books, after all?
There's no way Mott and Lenny will be able to transport all these books out of the library at once. If the assassin does end up returning and destroying the books, Mott wants to have saved the most important ones, first. Obviously, he hasn't read them all to be able to rank them, but he can discount ones he's skimmed. None of them cover the scope of research he's looking for: how to beat Zekrom. But there was one book that he remembers that has his attention…
"Lenny, where's that book you were reading?" He asks, pushing through piles of books in a frenzy. "That book that talked about Zekrom and the stone?"
"I don't remember the title, it was long and confusing, but the pictures were pretty," Lenny responds, searching alongside him. "Um, it was… red… I think…"
They hunt for a few minutes before Lenny triumphantly pulls it out from under a chair. Crowding around a desk, they glue their eyes to the pages and Mott feverishly flips through it. Muttering words and chapter titles aloud, Mott skims at a rapid pace before striking gold.
After hi-fiving Lenny in victory, he reads, "'As Zekrom can be encaged in the stone, so can they be summoned from it. This, naturally, will return Zekrom into the world, and to be reversed, Zekrom must be returned into the stone. Just as the stone can either contain or release Zekrom, it can also control it. As for the theories regarding each topic, they are as follows…'"
Mott curses, skipping a few lines before landing on what he actually wants to know. "'The theory of returning Zekrom to its stone is rather abstract and complex.'" Great. "'It is imperative, first and foremost, that the individual who wishes to seal Zekrom holds Zekrom's stone in their hands.'"
Yes, he already knows that! Tell him something useful, please!
"'Secondly, the individual must be prepared to—'"
A sudden force erupts from the wall nearest to them, blowing them back.
Mott is thrown across the room. The explosion is tremendous and violent, quaking the ground and rattling bookcases. Books fall from their shelves and tables and chairs shatter. Splinters from the smashed wood cut through the air like knives, slicing Mott's skin in midair. Then, with spine-snapping impact, he slams into the far wall.
Spots dance in his vision, black and fuzzy and tingling. The world around him spins. His mind is foggy; all of his senses have fled him. He's detached from himself, unable to connect his thoughts to his body. It takes all his focus just to move his arm enough to push himself off the ground.
Somehow, he manages to look up. Lenny is in front of him, gritting his teeth as he slowly struggles to rise. He's covered in scrapes and bruises and blood. When Mott glances down at himself, he discovers he's not much better.
A low, thunderous sound rumbles from the smashed wall. Hazily, Mott turns his head to see the exploded wall completely demolished, bricks and rubble raining down. In that gaping, open maw of debris, he's met with a familiar, bloodcurdling face.
Zekrom.
Mott's eyes slowly trail up the massive, hulking figure looming before him. Muscle and scales and claws define every inch of the creature, shaping it into a monster beyond comprehension. The claws flex and stretch. The powerful tail rises and falls. Sharp fangs glint in the dying moonlight.
The tail burns blue, electricity coursing through the beast's form.
With a single strike of lightning from Zekrom, the building catches ablaze.
Swinging its hand, it smashes a nearby pillar to dust. The part of the roof it was supporting comes tumbling down, raining dust and wood and shingles. With the collapse, the floor trembles.
It's clear that Zekrom intends to demolish the building—with or without them inside.