Secrets

I knocked on the door of Zoë's apartment, precariously balancing a large plate of guacamole and corn chips in my hands.

"Delia!" Zoë answered it, greeting me with another one of her beaming smiles and grabbed at the plate I held. "Oh you didn't need to do that! Here, let me help you." She relieved me of my burden before signalling me to the kitchen table where four other Rockets I recognised from the gym sat- each one holding a hand full of playing cards.

"We've only just started," Zoë placed the plate in the middle of the table which was immediately attacked by a couple of the men.

Zoë went into introducing each guest by name, some of them were in uniform and others weren't. One who was in uniform was the Rocket I'd spilled my coffee on who Zoë introduced to me as 'Logan'. He watched me now, beady, inquiring eyes staring at me from beneath his hat.

"Take a seat!" Zoë showed me to a chair and poured me a drink from a blender – an interesting homemade concoction that went right to my head.

"This guacamole is amazing! Have you tried this, Zoë?" Zoë's other lady friend, whose name now escapes me, offered. "Did you make this Delia?"

I nodded meekly. "It's an old family recipe. I spend a lot of time in the kitchen."

"I'll bet all of your cooking is this amazing."

It was nice to hear compliments, especially coming from people who were so stooped in the world of crime. And as the evening progressed and the stories of missions and scores came to light, I came to realise that the people of Team Rocket saw the world through an entirely different set of eyes. To them the world was a place of opportunity ripe for the picking. Things like the law were merely guidelines – a way of life that didn't necessarily suit them. For instance, when Zoë had said she was a computer hacker, she wasn't joking. The girl was a genius, having graduated college at only the age of seventeen. She was a whiz at computers and reigned from a family of such-like people in Cerulean. Starting out as a programmer, she soon came to discover her talents in the field of hacking. Unfortunately, however, her reputation fast caught up with her and after a bungled attempt at breaking into the payroll system of some sort of business, she found herself promptly arrested and carted off to prison. Little had she realised, however, that the business she'd been hacking into was actually owned by none other than the previous head of Team Rocket, Madame Boss. This had grabbed the attention of Madame Boss' then executive – her son, Giovanni - who promptly went about offering to relieve her of her current punishment if she came and worked for him. Prison or a life of hacking for Team Rocket… the offer was difficult to refuse.

"So, I heard Gio bought a new island just off the coast with the purpose of putting some sort of research lab on it?" At the sound of Zoë's utterance, all eyes turned intently on Logan.

"Perhaps," he smiled, leaning back in his chair. "Who wants to know?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Aww come on Logan! Give us the dish!" Zoë exclaimed, throwing popcorn at him.

"You wish! That's top secret!" Logan retorted.

"We won't tell."

Logan scoffed, eyeing us off carefully, though I could tell by the way his lips twitched that he was just as eager to give up the information as we were to hear it.

"Alright," he sighed finally, rubbing his eyelids. "If word of this gets out though, I'm dead. From what I know, Giovanni is directing Team Rocket into a more scientific field. He's getting into some sort cloning experimentation. You know, like what the losers on Cinnabar Island are doing with the fossils. Except this is less reviving of so-called extinct species and more genetically enhancing ones that are already around."

"Sounds dangerous," I mentioned.

Logan had to agree. "It's strictly illegal, which is the reason why we had to go offshore. If the government gets wind of this…" he drew his finger across his throat as if to slit it. "Team Rocket is history."

The ethical issues alone were phenomenal. Attempting to improve on nature was never a good thing. I knew this for a fact. Before it became illegal, such experimentation had gone on within the government. I'd spent an entire semester studying it. The serious look on my face didn't go unnoticed either.

"You have a problem with that, Delia?" Logan snapped me from my thoughts and I straightened, forcing an ignorant smile. "With what, Logan?"

His eyes were narrow as he frowned at me. "You're not gonna go all martyr on me and let word of this slip to anyone we don't want finding out are you?"

"Who? Delia?" Zoë burst out laughing. "You don't need to worry about her. She's one of us now. Besides, what would any of us know about genetic research?"

I copied her laugh. "Oh yeah, it's all so… very scientific."

Much to my relief, Logan relaxed, backing down into his seat. "Good. Because if I find out word of this got out, you'll all be dead. That's a promise."

Needles to say, I left the games that evening unsettled and anxious. With its new Boss taking over the ranks, Team Rocket was swiftly moving along from being based on Pokémon smuggling and dodgy deals to something a lot more sinister. Granted, the research was only in the beginning stages, but how long would it be before they unleashed something unnatural into the world… a Pokémon mutant – an abomination. Giving Pokémon powers beyond what was normal meant they became harder and harder to control. Something like that being brought into the world would only reap disastrous consequences. I needed to tell someone, but where would I go? I was more than certain Giovanni had corrupt police officers in his employ. Really, who could I trust? And even though Logan's threat had been taken with joking and laughter at the table, I'd seen the look in his eyes. I didn't have a doubt in my mind that he was more than capable of carrying out his word.

The gym's grand opening was on Sunday. And much to my dismay, despite it being my assigned day off, I was still expected to work. Everyone associated with gym was expected to work. I found the clothes I was required to wear lying on my bed when I stepped out of the shower. I hadn't even heard the housekeeper come. Not unlike my regular business attire, my outfit today was a nice, black pencil skirt and a white shirt with matching heels. The price tag was still attached to the outfit which amounted to something that would take me several weeks to pay off. I had to hope that this wouldn't be coming out of my salary if I damaged it.

I turned up at the gym struggling in heels and feeling a little hung over from the night before. I don't know what Zoë had put in the drinks but it was potent! There was paperwork sitting on my desk requiring Giovanni's signature and judging by the quiet and attentive atmosphere of the gym, I had to assume that he was already here.

Stepping up to the large, double doors of his office, I gave them a quiet tap. "Sir? Are you in?"

I opened the door slightly to see him standing in front of the fireplace, donning his new suit. Much to his aggravation, he found himself caught up in a losing battle with a bandaged broken thumb and his tie.

"Oh here," I immediately placed the paperwork on the coffee table and intervened. "Let me help you with that."

He gave a grunt, but chose to let me take the tie off his hands.

"How did you do that?" I asked him lightly.

Keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, he chose not to take his sight off the mantle - as though to look down at me while he was in this state would mean weakness. "Boxing match."

"How did you manage that?"

"I wasn't wearing gloves."

I had to struggle to curb the amused smile, focusing my mind solely on his tie. I couldn't stop my fingers that inadvertently traced the hardness of his chest that lay beneath his silk shirt. His face was straight and unmoving, as though it had been chiselled out of stone and left that way. I knew for a fact that he was barely in his thirties, but his frown lines had long etched permanent groves into his forehead, making him look older.

"There," I finished with the tie before fixing his collar and brushing the Persian fur from his shoulders… shoulders that, like his chest felt as hard as rock.

Making my way over to his chair I gently grabbed his suit jacket and slid it onto his shoulders. Saying nothing, he nodded a silent acknowledgement before pulling a pen from his jacket and singed my paperwork. Fortunately for him, it wasn't his writing hand that was broken.

"Come on," he said, moving me along. "You've got work to do."