It was dark and it was quiet. Still. He saw, faintly, the stars glowing just over him, unyielding in the face of Goldenrod's all-consuming light pollution. No—it wasn't Goldenrod, was it? The air smelled different. There was no sidewalk beneath him and no skyscrapers rising overhead. He remembered his voice, gently guiding him towards the waking world. He was sleeping. Was it a dream? He felt cold. Clammy. Sweat beaded down his body and his hairs stood on end. There was scratching at the door.

It was methodical; familiar. It shouldn't have been here, in his room. At his door. In the mountain HQ. She had been hunting him in his dreams. Her malevolent corpse dragged itself across the region, inch by inch, her claws speared into his mind, deep into his subconscious, and now with each scrape, scrape, scrape, she threatened to peel layer after inevitable layer from the cheap door. More talismans. Incense. Charms. He needed to get up, but he only stirred and groaned.

The door clicked open, nearly imperceptible as the odd-ended clunking of feet sounded over it. Something warm and soft and wet on his forehead. Proton sighed his relief, his tense muscles relaxing as his weight sunk back into the firm mattress.

"Lance," he would whisper when he came in, and sometimes he would rub his hair. Sometimes he would light incense for him, and something about the smell eased his worries. He would be gone as quickly as he appeared. Sometimes Proton wondered if he was even there at all. Once, and only once, Proton did more than stir. His eyes, however weak, opened, and the world spun and wavered around him. Even so, he saw Petrel's narrow face in the shadows, watched him wring the warm washcloth out before pressing it to his forehead. He was so gentle as he checked his temperature. So tender as his fingers sought out his pulse.

This time, too, he was gentle. He rubbed his hair and kissed his cheek and helped him drink. He tried to open his eyes, his hand twitching in longing for even the briefest of touches, but as he began to mumble, Petrel shushed him.

"Keep your strength, sweetheart. You're almost to the other end."

Proton's heart burned for him, even as the door clicked shut and all he was left with was shivering chills and the never-ending rake of nails along his door.

Decarli was having a hell of a week. It wasn't even that anything was particularly out of the normal, really, despite Proton's extended absence. Things rolled along as they always had: a little bit hectic, feeling a little bit short-staffed and a lot-a-bit overworked, but he spent his days plugging away just like the rest of their squad. Somehow everything got done one way or another, sleep be damned. What he really wanted at that moment was to be sneaking off-base again to catch his girl Ai in Vermilion—and what he was working on was supposed to get him there. Or at least close. He'd been pouring over documents from the Game Corner for nearly a week now, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to their pokemon shipments, but he was still no closer to getting through them than when he started.

"Stop pissing yourself over this shit," Carillo advised one day over lunch in the break room. "just go to Celadon, follow a shipment out, and see who screws us over."

"Oh, yeah?" Decarli prompted him, "what, me and my single whismur? You think I'd stand a chance in the field?"

"Well," Carillo snarked in return, "you can either give it a hail mary, or you can keep sitting around with your thumb up your ass waiting for Proton to come back."

And that was a huge part of the problem: Proton was definitely supposed to be back by now. He was only supposed to be gone for a few days, long enough to hit Celadon, then Cinnabar, then to come home. Decarli had been banking on him to bring them something to work off of, but now at nearly a week they hadn't seen hide nor hair of him. Even stranger, the other three executives had all made their returns, which he knew by the rumors and gossip every last member of their squad collected with gluttonous fervor to rival a day trader honing in on her newest big investment.

Carillo heard Archer was frequenting an access elevator on the far end of the base, riding it up and down as he worked diligently on stacks of papers that certainly had nothing to do with Rocket's finances, judging by the secretive way he kept it from even Ariana.

Speaking of Ariana, Heim had heard she, for some reason, had been at the training field every afternoon after lunch. She'd been running doubles against a couple of Archer's Silver Squad agents who supposedly favored her over her overworked brother. Stun spores from her vileplume had caught the wind and landed a few grunts in the infirm.

The infirm, of course, was running double time, and two of the three grunts affected were back to work the next day. Peng, whose old partner from the field division now worked treating pokemon-related injuries there, relayed to Decarli that there were no records of the third grunt: they simply went missing, and that was how he knew Petrel was back and settled in.

There were always other signs, of course. For instance, Archer's returns always coincided with anonymous bulk requisitions for energy drinks and the entire HQ running a little warm in the summers or a little cold in the winters. If Ariana was around, there would always be a sharp spike in the number of reprimands the security division would have to give out to rowdy grunts—men, especially—and the various plants and ferns in the upper levels of HQ would magically come back from the brink of death. Petrel was an odd cookie, as he rarely left the base, and was easier to see in the gaps remaining when he did leave: things as simple as a drop in quality of the food in the mess, fewer maintenance requests, and somehow, less drama in HQ overall.

Forhan thought he was as crazy as Peng, pegging Proton as 'missing' already; how did he know Proton hadn't just stayed in Celadon? After all, he had his own tells when he returned from work in the regions. Food would go missing from the break room, vending machines in their division were always well-stocked, and younger grunts would whisper relentlessly about his pretty face in the halls, none of which had yet to occur. Decarli had even gone so far as to sneak into the garage reserved for Master Giovanni, where Proton was allowed to keep his bike, and all he'd found was an empty parking spot next to Executive Petrel's convertible. By all accounts, he ought to have been out in Kanto somewhere.

Except—and this was a very big except—he'd seen Twitch out hunting in the twilight not long ago. Proton wasn't a battler, but he didn't go out without his zubat, especially now that something was... wrong with it. Twitch used to be small and sweet, happier to eat berries than other pokemon. Now, he was big and aggressive, just as likely to chomp down on a grunt as he was a rattata, and where Decarli preferred to keep his distance, Proton kept the thing closer than ever. So he didn't sit around waiting for Proton to come back; Proton, he was certain, was already there.

That was why Decarli found himself skulking around the halls near Proton's office later that afternoon, ears perked for any odd sound and eyes alert for any sign that his friend had made it back in one piece. Alto, his whismur, toddled along hot on his heels, singing quietly to herself. No one should have been around this time of day, not while there was work to be done. The halls were clear and quiet. Even when he arrived at the door to Proton's office, there was no noise, and so he took his spare key to let himself in.

Proton wasn't there, though he wasn't surprised; as he turned on the lights, nothing had been touched since his friend first left. There was a fine layer of dust over everything, the desktop was off, and miscellaneous pokeball parts were scattered over Proton's workbench. Decarli's eyes swept across the room, and he sighed his discontent. No new crumbs or snack wrappers. Nothing had been touched.

"I don't know what I was expecting," he said to Alto, who had busied herself with a sizable dust bunny under Proton's desk. He would have checked Proton's dorm next, he thought awkwardly, except he didn't really know where it was. Any time he'd asked, Proton always told him Petrel valued his privacy, and so he at least knew they must be rooming together. That led him to his next, far more uncomfortable course of action, and he sure as hell didn't want to go to Executive Petrel's office. Not by himself, anyways.

It was Alto's ear-splitting shriek that drew him from his thoughts, and he spun wildly on his heel. She was on her back on the floor, squirming under the sharp claws and massive paw of a lithe and powerful houndoom, its devilish tail whipping delightedly through the air. Decarli swallowed hard around his nerves, because standing in the door and cutting off his one and only escape route was none other than Executive Archer, who wore suspicion as clearly across his face as his disdain. Decarli didn't dare reach to recall Alto to her pokeball. He froze at attention, eyes wide and darting between the houndoom's razor-like fangs and Archer's equally sharp eyes.

"E-Executive Archer," Decarli stammered out, because Executives did not and would never greet an underling first, "forgive me, I didn't expect to—"

"Where is Executive Proton?" Archer asked in his soft and proper voice, and Decarli hastened to comply.

"I don't know," he admitted, "that's—why I'm here, I just—I'm not breaking in, he's given me a key—" Archer merely rolled his eyes and shoved past him. Decarli watched helplessly as his senior rummaged around Proton's desk, pulled through the drawers of his filing cabinets, then swore under his breath as he came away empty-handed.

"And you haven't heard from him at all?" he pressed. Decarli shook his head. Archer swore again, burying his eyes in one hand and rubbing his temples as he thought and paced anxiously. It occurred to Decarli that he was worried. Actually, properly worried. The thought emboldened him, just a bit, and he drew himself up.

"Sir," he ventured, "excuse me, but the three of you came back. I thought he was supposed to return, too." Alto squealed again, and he winced. She would need to hold out just a bit longer. He tried again. "I've seen his zubat, but his key card hasn't been—"

Archer's eyes snapped up.

"What?" he said, "no—repeat that. You've seen what?"

"His zubat," Decarli clarified, "Twitch. Hunting in the grounds. Proton—"

"—never goes anywhere without that zubat," Archer finished for him. "Where precisely did you see him?"

"Just west of the wall."

He could hear the gears turning in Archer's head, watched the track of his eyes as he mulled this information over carefully. He stood up even straighter as suddenly the executive's attention snapped back to him, and Decarli felt nothing short of relief as Archer nodded his approval.

"That will do," he said, "you may return to your duties. Coyote. Heel."

The simple command drove the houndoom to sit back, lifting his paw from Alto's poor, fluffy little body, and hurriedly Decarli scooped her up into his arms. She shivered, on the verge of crying out again, and so he bowed low to Archer and backed towards the door before he could change his mind.

"Please, Executive," he dared to beg as he went, "let me know if he's alright?"

Archer didn't answer. Decarli bowed low again and spun on his heels, speeding back off towards safety.

One chance. That was all Petrel was going to get—one, only. Archer felt that, given the circumstances, one was far more than generous and just as equally far more than Petrel ever deserved. It was one thing to pick a fight. Archer grudgingly had to admit they both tended to choose violence when it came to dealing with each other, so he had no high ground to stand on there. But it was another thing altogether to steal such a prize as the Silph Scope right out from under Master Giovanni's nose.

That wasn't entirely why Archer was looking for Petrel at the moment, but it was a nice side goal that kept his sister off his back.

Trouble happened quickly at Cinnabar, and that trouble included Proton. Archer was worried, to put it bluntly. Maybe it was psychic residue. Maybe it was something more sinister. Maybe it was just Proton finally snapping like Ariana had always warned him, but whichever it was, Archer was bound and determined to ensure he was alive, which was a bit more than difficult at the moment. There was no sign of Proton anywhere. But Petrel knew. Petrel had to know. He was the one who brought Proton back. Or, Archer hoped he brought Proton back. Perhaps he'd buried pieces of him somewhere in the woods. He didn't want to have to promote a new executive, again. It was stressful enough the first time, helping to narrow the candidates down. Proton hadn't actually been his first pick, if he was being honest, but the fact remained: the goblin grew on him, and he preferred him alive and well.

That was why Petrel was getting one chance, now: for Proton's sake. The infirm was busy as always as Archer marched past the front desk, largely ignored by the staff as he took the twists and turns far to the back, where Petrel's usual examination room sat away from the noise. Petrel was inside, and he wasn't alone. Through the cracked door, Archer spotted a couple of grunts waiting patiently on the makeshift exam table.

"...and you'll be taking that orally twice a day for the next ten days," Petrel was telling one of them, who was nodding carefully, "take this to the front desk. They'll get you sorted."

"Thank you, Executive," the grunt said, and his partner shifted awkwardly on the table next to him.

"Is there anything for the pain?" she asked, "I heard one of the admins saying something about no pain meds, is that true, or—?"

"Sorry," Petrel said, though he didn't sound sorry in the least, "we're rationing those for important units. You're done. Get out."

Archer pulled the door open as the two grunts stood and took paper slips from Petrel before starting for the door.

"Wait—actually, there is something."

He huffed petulantly as the grunts paused and turned back.

"Really?"

"Yeah. How stupid of me not to think of it. You two like hot springs? A nice, long soak will do wonders. Here, I'll mark it on your Gear..."

Archer glanced over the shoulder of one of the grunts on their way out, and as their excited buzzing floated on down the hall, his brow furrowed while he lingered on the coordinates Petrel had given them. He stepped into the exam room, and Petrel, who was seated in a rolling chair and filling out a few more lines on a patient sheet, greeted him with a jerk of the head.

"Yeah, it's about that time, isn't it?" he said as he scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to see you suffer, but Master Giovanni is always happy when you're functioning..."

"My debriefing physical is scheduled for Saturday," Archer replied, though he cast another glanced down the hall despite the grunts being well gone by then. "Really, though? Hot springs?"

"Ah," said Petrel mildly, "you heard that. Yeah. Just thought it would help them out a little."

"Just north-west of that little valley with the stream?"

"That's the one."

Archer's frown grew disapproving. Petrel's expression betrayed nothing—but Archer's knowledge of the mountain did. He leaned imposingly over Petrel's seated form, and drenched in irritation, carefully reminded him, "there are no hot springs there. That's ursaring country."

Slowly, Petrel's blank stare morphed into a gleeful grin, and he settled back in his seat, knees leaning wide apart as he tucked his hands comfortably behind his head. "I know," he replied eagerly, "smack dab in front of a den. Imagine the looks on their faces! It's Darwinism at work."

He was a pain in the ass, and Archer wished every day that Giovanni would wake up and do something about him. More often than not, he even considered doing something about it, himself. No one would mourn Petrel—not even his own brother. Proton might kick up a fuss, but Archer was certain he would be better off, all the same. And it would be all too easy, in the end: how often did Petrel fall, after all? How simple would it be to ensure his next fall was a little more impactful? But Archer held himself to a higher standard than his fellow Executive, and as long as Master Giovanni still had use for him, Petrel would unfortunately live another day.

"Grunts aside," Archer bitterly moved past it, "I need to get in touch with Proton. He isn't answering his gear, and his lieutenant hasn't seen him."

"He needs rest," Petrel told him without missing a beat, "whatever you want can wait."

"There is no record of him in the infirm."

"He needs rest."

"Is he at your dorm?"

"He. Needs. Rest."

Archer leaned in further.

"Ariana knows you've taken the Silph Scope."

Petrel's smirk broadened. "I don't know what you mean. Why would I keep something so important from Master Giovanni? Even if I hid it from her, don't you think I'd have given it to him by now? How else would I get enough brownie point to snipe your job?"

In a flash of seething malice and, admittedly, a moment of nerve-driven weakness, Archer lunged for his neck to put him in his place, but with reflexes to rival his own, Petrel's own hand shot out and caught Archer's wrist in a steel grip, instead. He tutted mockingly, then laughed.

"Oh, please, sweetheart," he jeered, "Don't underestimate me just because I've got a fucking limp. I've been doing this a lot longer than you."

"If you have done something to him, I'll take pleasure in peeling you apart, layer by insignificant layer," Archer hissed in return. "Every day, you skirt the edge of your usefulness."

"Stop being such a catty bitch," Petrel laughed. He let go. Archer yanked his wrist back, glowering. "What's the big deal? Master Giovanni knows what happened. We're all still alive. Hell, no one's even been reprimanded. Proton is sick, but he's recovering. You're the dick who came here looking for a fight."

"No one's been reprimanded yet," Archer reminded him with a sneer, "but with evidence, I'm sure Master Giovanni will change his mind." Petrel cracked up into a fit of deep, rumbling laughter, rubbing a hand over his face in an exaggerated show of disbelief.

"What evidence?" he cackled, "dumbass, there's nothing for you to find. C'mon. Be honest with me. You're just jealous, right? Want to play nurse for the hottest twink on base?"

"His zubat's been spotted at night."

Petrel's lips twitched, but to his credit, it was the only tell. Archer felt a smirk of his own coming on as he laughed again, the mechanical smile holding fast to his face.

"So?"

"I'll let you think it through. You're supposed to be smart, after all."

And that was his chance.

Archer could feel the sour stare the instant he turned his back, but he walked with his nose in the air and a spring in his step. Proton's lieutenant ought to still be at his post. He would have Proton—and the Silph Scope—by the time the sun set.

He was awake. Or he was asleep. The room still spun. He heard his blood pounding in his ears. Proton sat on the floor with his back against the wall, tucked between his bed and the night stand and curled defensively into a ball. He would hear her rattling breaths. Her wails. Her scratching on the door. He shivered and cold sweat trickled down his forehead and over the straps fastened tightly over his tangled hair.

The Silph Scope pressed harshly into his face, its weight pulling down and making his neck ache, but he kept his head up and his swirling vision trained carefully on the door. Once, when Petrel had come to care for him, he begged and begged and begged for wrought iron, and when he woke however long ago in his warm, sweat-dampened sheets to the sounds of her hostility, a fire poker from Master Giovanni's private wing waited at his bedside. He grasped it feebly as she came for him. He would do it again, if he had to. As many times as it took. His stomach churned and threatened to spill. He didn't want to do it. He just wanted peace.

She clawed again at the door. The latch clicked and it swung open with a slow and eerie creaaaaaaak. Closer. Closer. His hands trembled, but he held the poker viciously at the ready.

She wasn't there.

"Shhh... shhh, it's alright, sweetheart. It's alright. It's me. Just me."

Petrel peeled the Sliph Scope from his head and gently placed it on the night stand. Proton sagged backwards and a long breath left him, resting his head against the delightfully cool wall. As always, Petrel checked his temperature, then his pulse. He pause for a moment; Proton breath quickened when he felt their foreheads press together, their noses bump, Petrel's hand in his hair.

"I'm sorry," Petrel whispered to him, "I'm so sorry, Lance. I didn't think you would be sick for so long."

"Petrel," he managed breathily, but he wheezed, and Petrel only shushed him.

"Master Giovanni has to know. I'm so sorry, Lance. But I need you alive."

His kiss was soft and sweet as always. Blissful. Holy.

"I don't want you to worry. I'll take the fall. But you're going to owe me, alright? So you can't—you have to get better."

Yes. He would get better. He would make her leave, and when his spirit was purified, he would get better.

It was only a matter of time.

Just as Decarli had told him, Proton's Zubat was out hunting when dusk fell. Archer was sitting on top of the wall when he caught sight of him; he'd been there for hours, waiting and watching the sky. Got more than his fair share of strange looks for it, too, but it didn't matter. Archer was used to getting strange looks, because he was used to sitting in weird places. Thanks to the help of his ariados, there was virtually no part of HQ he could not scale, and despite the sheer height of the sentry wall, she carried him easily to the top. It was the perfect vantage point to watch Twitch flit high overhead before diving into the trees—and Archer was ready.

"Archaede, after him," he ordered his ariados, and she chittered excitedly at his side, "catch him in your webs." She, too, leaped into the trees, flinging herself with her long legs. He watched until the trunks and underbrush blinded them from his view. There was no time to waste. Gripping the ledge of the wall tightly, Archer lowered himself until he was hanging the full length of his arms, then tucked his feet up against the wall and shoved straight off. He tucked and rolled into the fall, feeling the dirt and rocks of the mountain scrape into him and his once-pristine white uniform, but he would have to walk it off. There were more important things at stake. He could hear them still moving up ahead, and so he pushed himself to his feet and dashed, dodging familiar rock and foliage as he went.

At some point he heard the scuffle: Twitch's screeches were impossible to miss. When he slunk closer through the trees, he caught sight of them between branches. Archaede swiftly crawled in the upper levels of the trees, a hidden predator as Twitch zipped and zoomed overhead, only to dive at her when he saw her sound. He beat his wings with the same vicious and twisting malice as his trainer, sharp fangs tearing at her exoskeleton. As much as Twitch had grown larger, more cut-throat, he was still a weak and under-trained beast.

"Archaede," Archer ordered as Twitch prepared to dive again, "Sucker Punch!"

He swooped down, and as he did, Archaede threw her head up, jabbing her sharp, poisonous horn into his belly. Twitch screeched again, sinking his fangs into the false legs on her back, and she bucked to throw him off. He hit the tree trunk, and wasting no time, she climbed over him, spinning a sticky Spider Web to tack him to the bark. Proton needed a better training regimen, Archer thought as he grabbed a branch and hauled himself up; as much as Twitch would probably be a contender against any youngster with a rattata, no seasoned pokemon trainer would struggle against him. The dark balls had been a dead end after all.

"Good girl," Archer praised the ariados when he finally clambered up, "you've done well." Archaede chittered happily and sat with her many legs tucked neatly under her. Archer briefly rubber her head, but just as quickly turned his attention back to Twitch. The zubat weakly struggled against the webs. It was almost pitiful. Archer pursed his lips.

"Twitch. Calm down," he told the zubat. He dug in his bag for a minute, then pulled out a plump, ripe sitrus berry. "I've brought you food."

It was like a magic word. Twitch calmed almost immediately at the berry's sweet smell, his big ears twitching eagerly. Archer held the berry out—and quickly pulled his hand out of reach as Twitch snapped it up.

"There," he said, and reached to gently scratch behind the pokemon's ears, "doesn't that feel better?" Twitch snuffled his agreement. "I'm going to let you loose. Fly back to Proton. Do you understand?" Another snuffle. It was as good as anything. He dug in his pocket briefly for a utility knife, then cut at the webs. The instant his wings were free, Twitch took off, beating them hard as he rose further and further up into the air. Archer quickly unclipped a pokeball from his belt and aimed it at the ground below, letting his houndoom out in a flash of red light.

"Coyote!" he then ordered, "follow Twitch!"

Coyote let out a howl, loud, long, then darted off just as quickly as he appeared. Giving Archaede one last pat, Archer recalled her into her pokeball and carefully made his way down the tree, strolling along leisurely towards the base.

By the time he arrived, Twitch was almost certainly back inside—but as he walked around the building, Coyote was waiting for him in the back, sitting on his haunches and staring high up into the air. Archer followed the point of his nose, squinting hard through the dark as he stared at windows. No... no... not that one... It took a minute.

"There," he finally said, and Coyote barked his agreement. High up, towards the right side, was a window left open just wide enough that a zubat could get through. That had to be it. He whistled to his dog and made his way inside.

To Archer's immense surprise, as he exited the elevator on the proper floor and turned the corner, about half way down the hall and heading the same direction was Ariana, Giovanni at her side.

"Sir?" he called out, and they paused in their step and looked back at him.

"Archer?" Giovanni replied.

"You're here for Petrel, aren't you?" Ariana pressed, and Archer nodded.

"I am," he confirmed, and unable to keep the smugness from his face, looked between the two of them, "I have reason to suspect Petrel is keeping—"

"He's got the Silph Scope in his dorm," Giovanni cut him off, and Archer deflated bitterly, "he texted Ariana ten minutes ago."

Of course he did, the bastard. Knew the jig was up, so he went crying to her because she coddled him. Archer didn't care how useful she found him or even whether or not she was calling for Giovanni to reprimand him now—she had enabled this. Petrel was a coward and little better than a spoiled child.

But now was not the time. Archer drew in a deep breath and let it go. All of that work for nothing—he would get even, sooner or later.

"I expect you'll enact suitable consequences?" Archer replied stiffly, and he was certain any other day his tone would have earned him a rightful backhand, but instead Giovanni considered it carefully.

"I think you ought to take away his toy," Ariana added on, "it's been nearly a week. This is unacceptable."

"Proton's had no part in this," Archer rounded on her, unfaltering under her sharp glare.

"Proton bit you," she snapped, "when are you going to learn to stop playing with fire?"

"Petrel stole the Scope from Giovanni."

"Why would he steal it on his own? What does he have to gain?"

"Both of you!" Giovanni cut in, "stop! Stop arguing for five minutes! I swear, if I knew what I was getting into with this family...!" He was going to pay for that later, Archer noted with a hint of amusement as Ariana's eyes flashed dangerously. "I will deal with Petrel. You can yell at each other later." He continued off down the hall, and grudgingly, Ariana and Archer fell in step behind him.

Archer always had a vague idea where precisely in the base Petrel lived; when they were both younger, he'd actually known exactly where Petrel lived. Petrel had known where he lived, too. Somehow they kept getting into fights. After one in particular involving dangling Petrel out the window and a toaster in Archer's bathtub, Giovanni had moved each of them and made certain neither were able to ambush the other at their dorms again. As he knocked, Archer considered the fact that, if not for that stupid rule in the first place, he would have already had Petrel by the balls, and everything would have been resolved a lot sooner.

All of that anger and resentment was flushed away and replaced by confusion when Petrel pulled the door open. What Archer was used to was Petrel's apathy. It was always there, masked just behind his sadism and devious soul, tainting every emotion he emulated in his expressions. Something was wrong, today. He looked more like a kicked lillipup, his head lowered and tail between his legs, and today he emulated nothing. The worry settled across his brow was anxious and raw in a way Archer had never known was possible.

"I think he needs a hospital," were the first words out of his mouth, before even Giovanni could confront him, "something is wrong. Nothing I do changes anything, his fever won't break, and I—"

Archer exchanged his confused and concerned glanced with Ariana. Even Giovanni seemed taken aback for the briefest of moments, but ever in command, he commanded Petrel with a mere motion, and stepped inside just past him.

"Where is he?" Giovanni asked. Petrel led him through the den and to Proton's door.

"Inside," he said, "I don't understand it. He'll sleepwalk. He's put... these... all over." He motioned vaguely to the door.

It was covered, top to bottom, in papers. Some were ripped and torn from larger sheets. Some were sticky notes. A few were the backs of receipts. Archer approached the door, mouth agape as he studied the characters written across their fronts. Some were neat. Artistic, even, with graceful and sloping curves and peaks. That handwriting deteriorated over time. Lines became jagged and shaky. Some where completely illegible. Some appeared to be prayers. Other bore names.

"Ho-Oh," Giovanni read, "Celebi... Lugia... Raikou... The names of gods." He frowned at one sticky note in particular, leaning in a bit closer to ensure he was reading it correctly. Stumped, he told them, "this one just says 'salad.'"

"I don't—I don't understand why," Petrel said, "those started last year. I don't know why he's put up so many more."

"He's trying to keep something out. Old superstition," their boss explained, "to ward off evil spirits."

"I never pegged him as the spiritual type," Ariana hummed.

Archer was the one to reach for the door.

It was dark inside; Petrel left no lights on for Proton, it seemed, and the only faint glow came from the glow-in-the-dark star stickers decorating the ceiling and the illumination of the den's lights cutting through the doorway. They heard him stiffen and scrabble on the other side of the bed, and Ariana flipped the light on as they passed on it. Proton yelped, lowering his head. It was with a sinking feeling that Archer recognized the Silph Scope strapped on tight.

"I'm sorry," Petrel quickly apologized, but Giovanni ignored him and knelt in front of Proton, who desperately tried to push himself away, only to be pinned in on all sides by his furniture. Giovanni peeled the Silph Scope from his head, then grabbed him by the hair with his free hand and jerked him back. He was pale, deathly pale, his eyes dilated wide and his gaze blurry and distant. He seemed to be struggling for breath.

"She won't leave," he wheezed desperately, "she won't leave me alone."

"You said the talismans started last year?" Giovanni asked over his shoulder.

"Yes, Sir," Petrel answered.

"Please," Proton begged, and their attentions all returned to him, "please, she—"

Giovanni let go, and Proton crumpled down to the floor, unable to hold himself up for long at all. Then, their master pushed himself to his feet, eyes darting this way and that as he became lost in his thoughts. No one spoke. No one hardly dared to breathe. It made sense, now, to Archer; he should have trusted Ariana's judgment. It was unfortunate, and he would have to apologize to her. He was uncertain what Proton's fate would be.

"Archer, Ariana," Giovanni finally said, "take the Scope somewhere safe." He handed it to Ariana, who bowed her head.

"At once," she agreed, but Archer hesitated as she left. Giovanni caught his eye and jerked his head towards the door. Reluctantly, Archer, too, left.

He couldn't help it, though; on the way out, he looked back one last time. They were leaving Proton to waste away on the floor, Petrel and Giovanni facing each other as though ready to conspire. They were waiting for Archer to leave. With one last look at Proton's pathetic form, Archer turned on his heel and went.