This is the biggest chapter of Werewolves so far, at over 8K words, and it's a tear-jerker, so get those tissues ready. This chapter also gets us over an eighth of a million words, so that's pretty nice. Since it's so long, I'll give you guys five days to process it before Chapter 25 goes up.

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FELIPE MATAMOROS, 25

One evening in late November, a rather warm one even by Hoenn's standards, I drove to my parents' home to check on my younger brother.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" my mother had asked me over the phone earlier that day. "It's the full moon, after all."

"If he's been taking his wolfsbane diligently, Marcelo should be no threat to me. I'm going to come over just to offer emotional support."

"Brotherhood has to come first, doesn't it?" my mother replied. She didn't sound exasperated, per se, but rather taken aback by my assertion that I was more than willing to visit.

There was another reason I was coming over to my parents' house. I needed to calm my nerves before I executed my plan, and talking to my parents and brother would be an excellent way to do that. Besides, as stated above, Marcelo would need emotional support; being a were-Lycanroc never got easier.

I didn't tell my mother about the plan. If I had done so, she would have moved heaven and earth to try and stop me from attempting it. She would have pleaded with me, making sure I knew just how dangerous and insane it was. And honestly, she would have been successful; it wouldn't be that hard to talk me down from the ledge.

Anyway, I pulled into my parents' driveway, got out of my car, and rang the doorbell. It was a minute or so before my mother came to the door, during which time I appreciated just how grateful I was to be back here. The northern climate has never been my favorite one. Royal might have been used to it, but I would never be.

"How nice it is to see you, Felipe!" my mother exclaimed upon seeing me at the door. "How was your trip to Coronet City?"

"It was fascinating, but frigid," I said in response. "I don't like cold weather."

"You're hardly alone in that. But Marcelo's probably craving that right about now; he transformed this morning, and the air conditioning isn't helping. At least, not enough."

"I'll visit him upstairs," I insisted. "I need to be there for him."

"Are you sure? It can be very upsetting to see your sibling as a Lycanroc."

"He is my brother. Besides, no offense, but I didn't come here to see you. I came here to see Marcelo."

"Fair enough," my mother replied. "I guess you've taken it upon yourself to be your brother's keeper."

I entered the house, where my father was doing the dishes. The family had evidently just had dinner without me, which I didn't mind. Had there been food in my stomach, I would have felt outright nauseous, to the point that I wouldn't be able to focus on my mission. Already, the emotional weight of visiting Marcelo was going to threaten my focus, but I had to do it.

As I made my way upstairs to my brother's bedroom, I weighed whether or not to tell him about what was going to happen. What I was planning for tonight.

In the back of my car, there was a hot pink suit made of the same material as a rain jacket. There was also a black face mask with a white triangle stenciled onto it. For some reason, our enemies liked to dress like the guards from that popular show Tentacruel Game. I'd never understand it, but I didn't understand their hateful ideology either, so that was to be expected.

"Hello?" I called out as I approached Marcelo's room. "It's me, bro!"

All I could hear was quiet whimpering, which tugged at my heartstrings, since I knew who was doing the whimpering. To see (or more accurately, hear) my brother in pain like that…it wasn't fun. Let's just leave it at that.

I pushed open the door, and that's when I saw him.

He might not have been in his human form, but it was unmistakably Marcelo Matamoros. He sat on the carpet floor of his bedroom, curled up into a ball, a small pool of sweat forming around his body.

"Marcelo, are you okay?" I asked him. Of course, I already knew what he'd probably tell me; how could I think he was okay when he was obviously suffering?

My brother, as expected, shook his head. "It's not fair," he moaned. "Why does my brother get to travel and see the world, when I'm stuck here feeling sorry for myself? Why did that asshat have to go and bite me?"

It was then that I realized: My words of encouragement might not be as helpful as I meant for them to be. Still, I knew Marcelo well enough to know that he wasn't mad at me, he was mad at the situation at large. He didn't hate the player, he hated the game.

"Sometimes things just happen," I replied, trying to be as soothing as possible. "It may be that your attacker was once a victim just like you."

"Just like me? Felipe, do you realize what you just said?"

Too late, I understood that I'd made a huge mistake. If I implied that Marcelo's attacker had once been just like him, my brother might take it to mean that he, Marcelo Matamoros, might one day infect others with this horrible disease.

"I'm sorry" I said, putting my hands in the air like a criminal suspect. "I didn't mean that."

"It's fine," Marcelo responded, curling into the fetal position. "Did you guys make any progress at your organization? I forgot what it's called."

"It's the URI: United Regions, Incorporated. And we agreed on a resolution to make funding for a lycanthropy cure a higher priority."

My younger brother gave me a look I'll never forget. It was a vaguely pleading one, yet wild-eyed with fury at the same time, but I knew he wasn't actually furious with me. He was desperate for a solution.

"Please tell me, Felipe: Did they make any actual progress? Or were they just pretending to for the sake of their image? Please, I want to know."

I wanted to tell Marcelo that we'd had a significant breakthrough, that we'd find a cure before long, or at least make some headway into fixing the problem. That's not just what I wanted to tell my brother, but what he wanted to hear.

And yet, if what my brother wanted to hear came into conflict with what he needed to hear, then I could not, in good conscience, withhold the truth from him.

"I don't know, and that's the truth," I said simply. "I'm not gonna bullshit you about that."

Marcelo sighed, looking up at the light on the ceiling. I saw that there was an empty plate off to the side, one that had clearly once been full of food. I wondered if my brother's taste buds were more intense in his Lycanroc form, or if he craved specific foods more than he had before.

When my brother didn't say anything else, I told him the following: "I know that's hard to hear, but we're brothers. You know I don't like keeping things from you."

"I'm glad you didn't. I want to know what to expect as much as I can. And…".

I raised an eyebrow. "And what?"

Marcelo looked to be on the verge of tears. "When I was bitten, I was thirteen years old. I was going through puberty, dealing with all the awkwardness that goes along with that. And then I become a were-Lycanroc, and that makes everything worse. It's just not fair!"

"As long as you take your wolfsbane diligently, you won't need to hide away from the world every month" I told him. "You're harmless, and besides, Pokemon can eat at restaurants too. Maybe you could have a social life."

"Yeah, but you don't understand. I find social settings physically exhausting; they drain me of my whole life force, it seems. But it's not just restaurants; the other students all know me as a human, and if I reveal that I'm not always a human, what will they think of me?"

"But you're harmless, as long as you…".

Marcelo bared his fangs, and, had he not been on such good terms with me, I would have feared for my life.

"That doesn't fucking matter! They know that if I miss just one dose when I should have taken it, I'll be dangerous once again! And…I don't care if my attacker was once just like me, because if I should end up biting another person…".

"Have you ever bitten anyone, Marcelo?" I asked. I didn't do so in an accusatory way; I was just curious.

"No! And I wouldn't tell you even if I had!" My brother began sobbing in earnest, so I didn't think it would be smart to mention that based on his wording, there was no way I could know if he was telling the truth or not.

I sighed. "I believe you."

"As bad as things are for me now…if I ended up biting a human being, infecting them with the same thing I've got…I just wouldn't be able to live with myself. That's what keeps me from doing it, more than the fear of getting caught."

"Not to mention that if Team Skyward got ahold of that news, they'd pounce all over it. They'd wave it around as 'evidence' that all the werewolves of Sinnoh want to infect innocent people. Of course, we both know that's not true."

Marcelo knew of Team Skyward prior to this conversation. While I couldn't read his mind, I believed that for him, the hate groups were another reason to hide his condition.

The mention of Team Skyward also had an effect on me; my palms began to sweat and my stomach turned. Unlike my mother, I figured that my brother should know about my plan.

"Speaking of Team Skyward, I've got something else to tell you."

Marcelo looked as though he couldn't decide whether to listen intently or cower in fear. It seemed that he found a happy medium between the two options, keeping his eyes wide open but remaining in his current position.

"I'm planning to infiltrate Team Skyward's local chapter tonight. I've got one of their suits in the back of my car, and I'll pretend to be one of them."

My brother then did something that was rare for him: He laughed.

"Good one, Felipe!" he snorted.

I shook my head. "I wasn't joking. I'm going to go in there, disguised as a Team Skyward grunt, and listen in on one of their meetings. They're holding it tonight."

Marcelo looked as though he were about to go off the drop of an insane roller coaster. "You're going to get yourself killed, you realize? I'm sure they don't take kindly to intruders."

"That's why I have the suit," I told him. "As long as I don't talk too much, and act just like the rest of them, I don't see any reason why I'd be discovered."

I realized, belatedly, that Marcelo likely saw this as a betrayal. Although we no longer lived together, he still cared deeply about me. Even while I'd been in Coronet City, we'd talked on the phone frequently. The tyranny of distance didn't stop our brotherhood.

Based on all of that, Marcelo probably found it inexcusable that I'd risk my life like this. Because if I ended up losing it, he'd be without a brother.

"It's still an insane plan" Marcelo replied, looking as though he wanted to yell but couldn't. "How did you get that suit, by the way?"

"Ordered it online" I said simply, because that was the truth. To this day, I'm shocked by just how easy it was to obtain. The online retailer hadn't even asked for any verification that I wouldn't use it for hateful purposes.

Marcelo didn't look as though he believed my story, but he also didn't argue with me. Instead, he simply frowned, and, with his deep blue eyes staring into my soul (for he was in his Dusk form), gave me some words of encouragement.

"I don't want you to do this. It still sounds really dangerous. But if you do, just know that we all love you, and that you have to get back to us safely. We can't live without you."

"I will. Get back safely, I mean. I promise this to you, without a shred of reservation: I will still be alive when I return."

If there's one thing I hated doing, it's making promises that I couldn't keep. There was no guarantee that I'd survive this trip, but it's simply something I had to do.

After we hugged each other goodbye, I left my childhood home and got in my car again. I turned on my GPS, which gave me the quickest route to the HQ of Team Skyward's local chapter that didn't use any main streets or highways. (Technically, I didn't have to avoid the highway, but I didn't feel like being noticed.)

It took nearly an hour to reach the forested area in which the HQ was located. During this time, I had plenty of chances to get cold feet, to decide that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a risk worth taking.

I didn't take them. Instead, I spent most of the drive (while still keeping both eyes on the road, of course) thinking about the email I'd sent Royal last week. He'd responded the other day, apologizing quite graciously for the delay. Despite his apology, though, I felt more than a little annoyed with him.

Of course, it was possible he hadn't known what to say at first. Perhaps using the words "shadow government" had been rather extreme, but I'd seen a video on SC-SPAN in which Senator Snowhead, seemingly the only government official taking this threat seriously, had mentioned just how much power Jeff Monopoli, the leader of Team Skyward, was amassing. If this pattern continued, he might indeed have power comparable to a head of state.

When you're as rich as he is, you could practically buy your own private army.

Little did I know just how prescient those words would end up being. As I drove my vehicle along the dark roads of Hoenn, I barely even entertained the thought that Monopoli was building a private army. He might have been powerful, but surely he wasn't that powerful, right?

Eventually I reached the place. And, as soon as I did so, I could understand why, it seemed, not much effort had been put into neutralizing this base of hatred.

The headquarters of Team Skyward's Oldale Region branch were located in what looked to have once been a very small airport. It was surrounded by subtropical forest and swampland. Considering that it was in a rather rural area, it seemed like a decent place to hide your HQ (not that anything about Team Skyward should be considered "decent.")

I could see a few people in the hot pink tracksuits talking amongst themselves at the edge of the abandoned airplane hangar. Neither of them noticed the intruder in their midst, which was, of course, exactly the way I wanted it.

I took a deep breath. I had to put on the tracksuit and mask without anyone noticing, or else the infiltration would be over before it even began. I climbed into the backseat of my car and crouched down, doing my best to put the suit on.

My heart was pounding, and my hands shaking, to the point that donning the uniform was difficult. I had never been so grateful that my car was painted dark gray, and therefore blended in almost perfectly with the night. It would be hard, but not impossible, for the grunts to notice me here.

As soon as I had succeeded in making myself look just like a Team Skyward grunt, my anxiety spiked. I understood now that my plan was just like a piece of Swiss cheese: It had a lot of holes.

There'll be one more guard than usual. Unless I knock one of them out and hide them somewhere, but that's probably riskier than going straight in. I don't want to break any laws here that I don't have to.

The plan had sounded so good when I'd been thinking it up, but now that it actually came time to execute, it seemed a lot more questionable. Still, I'd come too far to give up now.

I got out of my car and strode carefully towards the entrance to the hangar. The guards who had been standing outside the building were no longer there; they had either gone inside or, more pessimistically, were waiting there just to ambush me.

Okay, it's probably the former. They don't know I'm coming, but if I'm not careful, that's about to change.

I became aware of just how hot it was beneath this tracksuit; it was a rather humid evening, and my body was producing a lot of sweat. Perhaps this was just due to my nerves.

The old airport hadn't been used for that purpose in some time; of that much I was certain. The only plane I could see had clearly fallen into disrepair. I couldn't fathom why it hadn't been destroyed already, because it didn't seem to serve any purpose. It definitely didn't make the place look any more attractive.

Upon reaching the outer wall of the hangar, I was suddenly seized by one massive jolt of embarrassment.

All of the vague doubts I'd had earlier about my plan metamorphosed into a solid understanding that I shouldn't be doing this. I should be at home in Oldale Town, or maybe even spending the night with my family. Marcelo could surely use the company.

And then I remembered exactly why I wanted to infiltrate Team Skyward, to see what they were planning. I wanted to make sure that whatever it was, they didn't get to put it into practice. With everything I knew about the organization, it could hardly be anything positive.

Sitting down against the hangar's outer wall, I put my head in my hands. To any casual observer, it would have appeared as though I were nursing a headache, but that was just an act.

In reality, I found myself reliving the worst night of my life.

It was a dark night in early December, and I'd just returned to my dormitory at Oldale University when my cell phone rang.

Who could it be at this hour?, I thought to myself, nonetheless picking up the phone. I wasn't the type to refuse to answer calls, even if my contact ended up being an annoying telemarketer.

"Yes?" I had asked, having looked at the caller ID to see that it was my mother. But this in itself was jarring; I was twenty now, an adult, and my mother wasn't exactly a helicopter parent.

My mother's voice was kind and gentle, but also panicked. She didn't seem to want to deliver the news, but she had no choice; after all, a mother must be honest with her children, even if said child is an adult.

"Good evening, Felipe. I'm sorry to bother you, but it's rather urgent."

My heart had risen into my throat. "What's wrong?"

"It's Marcelo. He got badly hurt tonight and is at the hospital. You'd best come over quickly if you want to visit him, he's about to go into surgery."

"What…what happened? Like, how did he get hurt?" Even though my mother had given me some details, I didn't think I was getting the full story.

"You'll find out when you get here. I don't want to shock you before you arrive. Unless you want to stay at school, which I'd completely understand."

What kind of question was that? Sure, I had finals coming up in a few days, but if Marcelo needed me by his side, I would take his side in less than a heartbeat. It was the least I could do, since brotherhood came first, always.

This wasn't something I normally did, but I found myself quoting Scripture in my response to my mother: "I am my brother's keeper, and I'll come over right now. I'll see you as soon as I can."

My mother didn't have to specify what hospital my brother was at; this much was obvious. There was only one hospital that my family used for all of our healthcare needs. Of course, it was best to stay out of the hospital whenever possible, and until now, my family had done a decent job of that.

Once I arrived at the hospital's emergency department, I saw that the waiting room was pretty crowded. Nonetheless, it didn't take me long to find both of my parents sitting in those very stark-looking chairs; even if the situation hadn't been so dire, I doubted these chairs would be very comfortable.

I ran into my mother's arms, because I knew that she could use emotional help. We embraced each other, not caring that there were many other eyes on us, wondering why the hell this adult male was hugging his mother like that.

"What happened?" were the first words out of my mouth. The whole drive to the hospital, I'd been wondering exactly this, my brain feverishly coming up with various scenarios, each more horrible than the last.

My mother grimaced. "I don't think we should talk about it here" she told me. "It's a bit of a touchy subject for many."

That didn't exactly soothe me. Judging by the tone of voice she used, it seemed as though the answer would be hard for me to stomach. My mind, already going haywire with possibilities, was now sprinting a mile a second as it entertained numerous different injuries.

Could Marcelo have been doing drugs? On the surface it would make sense; after all, when a thirteen-year-old boy took drugs, the events that followed would be unpredictable, and yet something unpleasant was bound to happen. You just didn't know what that unpleasant event would be.

Perhaps he'd gotten involved in gang violence. Crime was a problem in Oldale Town, but what gang would let someone my brother's age in? And why would Marcelo even want to join one, when there had been no such indication prior to this?

Or maybe the injury had nothing to do with illicit activities at all, and he'd just gotten mauled by a wild Pokemon. Of course, the word "just" shouldn't be applied there, since some Pokemon are absolutely vicious in the wild. But that was a more optimistic possibility, one that didn't consider any wrongdoing on Marcelo's part.

But then, as I held my mother's hand, I considered a fourth scenario, one too terrible and tragic to voice out loud. Even so, there's little doubt in my mind that my mother knew what I was thinking.

Why would Marcelo possibly do that?, I remember thinking. He's only 13, and he has plenty of friends at school, as well as a loving family. He has everything to live for, so why would he off himself?

I hadn't brought my laptop with me. I began to wish I had, because the surgery being performed on Marcelo took what felt like a long time. When you're that worried about your kid brother, even an hour or two seems like an equivalent number of days.

Finally, a doctor entered the waiting room and called my family name, Matamoros. He didn't look particularly frightened, but he had a grave expression on his face, and so I braced myself for the worst.

"Marcelo has made it through surgery. Unfortunately, we've determined that the dose of the lycanthropic agent was too large to extract, and any attempt at doing so would only cause more bleeding. He's currently resting in the room."

"Wait a minute…LYCANTHROPIC AGENT? What does that mean?"

In hindsight, I probably should have spoken more quietly, because what felt like half the waiting room shot me weird looks. But I was immune to their stares, for all I wanted was to know what, exactly, had happened to my brother.

My parents glared at each other, as if they both wanted to yell, "Why didn't you tell him?"

Once the staring contest was over, the doctor frowned at me. He didn't seem angry or annoyed, though, just sorry.

"Marcelo was bitten by a were-Lycanroc; the level of bleeding that occurred was a dead giveaway. So, too, was a test taken with some of his blood. I'm sorry to say that…".

I tuned the doctor out as I tried to process what I'd just been told. It wasn't good news, to say the very least, but if there's one thing I didn't like, it was when people tried to beat around the bush.

Until tonight, I'd always thought of were-Lycanroc as the stuff of legend. I was much too old to believe in fairy tales, and I had to come to terms with the knowledge that these creatures simply didn't exist.

And now, I found myself wishing desperately that they didn't. Because if I'd heard the doctor correctly, Marcelo was about to become one of them.

"...he will need to take wolfsbane for a week out of every month, for the rest of his life. If he forgets to do so, he'll be a dangerous were-Lycanroc, and he may end up infecting others. This is a serious crime in Sinnoh, and the law isn't very forgiving of the 'irresistible impulse' defense."

There could no longer be any attempt at ignoring the truth, not that I would have tried it in the first place. Marcelo, my younger brother, whom I cared so deeply about, had been infected with lycanthropy.

The doctor told us that as soon as Marcelo was stable enough to leave the hospital, he would write him a prescription for the wolfsbane. He once more impressed upon us the importance of being diligent about it, and the sheer gravity of the negative consequences if this was not done.

At some point, we came to the room to visit my brother, but he didn't look like my brother at all. While the doctor assured us that he wouldn't become a Lycanroc until the next full moon, seeing my brother connected to all of the tubes and monitors, as well as seeing an enormous dressing and ugly stitches on his arm…well, let's just say that it wasn't a pretty sight.

Marcelo was still asleep. He might not know just how much his life had changed. When he came out of the anesthetic, he might not remember the bite that had doomed him to a second-class existence.

No. Don't think like that. We can make his life a good one, and that's my responsibility just as much as anyone else's. He is my brother, after all.

After my mother left the room to head back to her car, and the doctor went to check on another patient in a different room, I knelt down by my brother's bedside. As though preparing to pray with him, I gently clasped his right hand in mine (being careful of the pulse oximeter clipped to one of his fingers.)

I didn't appeal to the heavens for help. Instead, I simply knelt there, Marcelo's hand in mine, pondering how I could have failed him so badly. I might not have actually done anything to result in this predicament, but that didn't necessarily preclude me from feeling guilty about it.

Tears began streaming down my face, but I fought them at first. I had to stay strong; I didn't want to be seen crying, at any cost.

It soon became clear, however, that there was no fighting these tears. The floodgates were going to open, whether I wanted them to or not.

And so I cried big, fat tears at the thought of Marcelo having to hide away every lunar month. He'd likely become an outcast, since he had every incentive to hide the truth about his condition from the world. It would have to remain a secret for as long as possible; otherwise, nobody would look at him the same way again.

Perhaps this is being overly dramatic, but I wondered, at one point, if I wouldn't be willing to take my brother's place. It's easy enough to say this regarding someone you love going through a difficult time, but how often do these people actually mean it?

It would be a very hard decision, and selfishly, if I was grateful for nothing else, I was glad I wouldn't have to make it.

Eventually, the doctor came back, telling me that visiting hours were over. His exact words were, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

I sighed, thanking the doctor for how well they were treating my brother, as well as sincerely hoping he hadn't heard me cry those manly tears.

And then I left, resolving that I would visit Marcelo again tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. I would visit him every day until he was released from the hospital, because that's what brothers are for.

"Hey, dude, you okay? You look like you're trying not to puke."

That was the voice coming from one of the Team Skyward grunts, and I realized that I'd been sitting against the edge of the hangar, head in my hands, for far too long. It had to have looked suspicious.

"Yeah, I'm fine" I replied, trying to keep my voice measured. I didn't know how much this grunt suspected, so it was best to say as little as possible. "Just a bit of a headache."

The other grunt nodded. "Very well. I hope you don't have a hangover before the cocktail party tonight. That would be…ah, rather unfortunate."

"C-cocktail party?"

I couldn't see this other grunt's face behind the mask, but I imagined that he was raising an eyebrow. His tone sounded thoroughly confused.

"Yes. It's been planned for weeks; did you not get the email?"

"I don't check my email as often as I should" I replied, shrugging. "That's why I was a bit confused, and that's on me. I'm sorry."

The other grunt said the following: "I'll have a word with you about that confusion. But come inside, if you're not too hungover to enjoy the party. We've got plenty of refreshments, and there will be other people to talk to. And, of course, we're discussing our next plan there."

I didn't let the Team Skyward grunt know that I wasn't aware of the plan. It would have made me sound extremely suspicious, and that's the last thing I needed. Instead, I let him do all the talking.

As it turned out, there wasn't much talking for him to do. I followed the guard inside the hangar, and we were pretty much silent during these few seconds.

During this time, I prayed hard that nobody asked me my name. If a grunt asked me for my name, I'd have to give them a name. It didn't have to be my own, but if I thought too long, they'd see right through me. Better not to open that can of worms.

The interior of the hangar looked, for all intents and purposes, like a nightclub. I had never been to a nightclub, but that's what I imagined it would be like. There was a massive disco ball hanging from the ceiling, and some of the grunts were dancing. None of them took off their masks or suits, though, and I briefly thought about how hot one must get doing something like that.

There had to be dozens of other Team Skyward members, maybe even over a hundred. They were either hitting the dance floor, talking with other guards, or sampling some of the hors d'oeuvres on the tables. There wasn't a single person there, as far as I could tell, whose mask did not cover their entire face.

While it would be easy enough to lose myself in the crowd, I also didn't know where I would find the information I sought. Truth be told, it was rather disarming to come here seeking secret plans and end up at a cocktail party.

Although there were numerous conversations taking place, none of them could be heard over the loud music. One of the masked grunts sat at the DJ table, and the song "Ghost Ship of Cannibal Rattatas" by Billy Talonflame was playing at full blast.

As stated above, I didn't even know where to begin. For a party, it was quite a stressful environment. It's like the worst cocktail party ever.

Little did I know, that statement was going to age very well indeed.

It would be best if I stayed off to the sidelines and didn't talk to anyone. Even simple small talk might blow my cover, and then get my head blown off along with it.

No! I can't be seen alone at a massive cocktail party. That would look even more out of place. But I can't talk too much either.

Fortunately for my sanity, all of this internal debate was put to rest when the music stopped right in the middle of "White Spearows", also by Billy Talonflame. The crowd audibly booed, but a grunt walked up to the DJ's desk and shooed him away.

"But I was just getting to the good part of the song!" the DJ whined. In spite of my rapidly racing heart, I got some amusement from picturing the DJ's face.

"It doesn't matter!" the other grunt snapped. I soon realized that, since he was speaking with so much authority, he probably wasn't a grunt at all. More likely, he was running the show here in the Oldale Region HQ.

"Please, Front Man?" the DJ pleaded, to which the leader shook his head and slapped the DJ in the face.

"I don't have time to fuck around, and neither does anyone else here. We came here to eat, drink, and be merry, yes, but that's not the only reason we're here."

I remembered the rest of that saying: Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. And panic rose within me; had they figured out that there was an imposter among them?

"Now, don't worry, anyone," the Front Man announced. "I know how the saying goes, but nobody will die tonight. At least, none of us will."

I began to shiver in spite of the mass of bodies packed around me in such a tight space. I should have been sweating bullets, and I was, but it was a cold sweat.

The Front Man cleared his throat before continuing his speech. "I have a slideshow for you all tonight. Feel free to continue eating and drinking during this presentation, but I ask that nobody talk any more than necessary. It is imperative that my message be heard."

Even though the atmosphere at the party had been raucous and lively earlier, this atmosphere seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. Now everybody in the hangar was paying very close attention to the Front Man.

The leader produced a remote of sorts and clicked a button. An old-fashioned screen descended from the ceiling of the hangar. This seemed to occur in slow motion, as though for dramatic effect. After about a minute, the screen, stretched out twenty feet below the ceiling, was complete.

The Front Man pressed another button on the remote, and the screen came to life with the image of a gorgeous valley. It contained a pale blue lake that looked extremely cold, what appeared to be a village of sorts (judging by the sheer number of houses), and a sparse evergreen forest off to the side.

Wildflowers were blooming in the image, which led me to believe that the picture must have been taken in the spring or summer, certainly not late autumn. It otherwise looked timeless, as though it could have been taken either ten years ago or ten years from now.

Probably the weirdest part of the image was the caption right above it. In bright red letters, so bright they hurt to look at, were four massive words in all caps: THIS HAS GOTTA STOP.

I barely resisted the urge to laugh dryly at that caption. A scene with that much natural beauty should not be stopped; it should be allowed to flourish. Of course, I wasn't going to laugh in front of the other grunts; they clearly took this statement as seriously as could be. While I couldn't see their faces, the other grunts were facing the Front Man without saying a word, and a few even had their hands on their chests as though saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

"What you're looking at is an image of Lycan Hollow, a colony for were-Lycanroc and regular Lycanroc, as well as the occasional other Pokemon who comes to visit. It is located in central Sinnoh, in the Coronet Range. The population, at last count, is 2,398."

Central Sinnoh. The Coronet Range. I was just there, and yet I'm sure I never saw this place! I wish I'd had time to explore outside of Coronet City.

This awe was short-lived as the Front Man began using extremely offensive language to refer to the village's residents. Some of the words were so egregious and awful that I can't print them here, or anywhere else for that matter.

Suffice it to say that the crowd seemed to eat them up, except for me. I was very glad Marcelo wasn't here with me, because he would have been quite startled by how casually the Front Man used such slurs against him. Not my brother specifically, but all of the people like him.

"When you see a community in which the lowest of the low reside, in which the community is built upon accepting those who have done terrible things, it's only natural to think that something must be done about it. That, in other words, this has gotta stop."

The last four words were emphasized with an increase in pitch, and fear rose within me as I pictured a deadly glint in the Front Man's eyes. It was evident that he relished using every foul word, every offensive term possible, to refer to the were-Lycanroc.

After that slide, the Front Man moved on to the next one. There was an image of what appeared to be a human brain (not that I was an expert on that), along with a study "confirming" that Pokemon had lower intelligence than humans.

"Now," the leader continued, "many people assert that Pokemon have an IQ sufficient to function in society. That they can be trusted to live among us, working the same jobs as humans. Never mind that each Pokemon who takes up a job means one less job that could be taken by a more effective human."

The crowd erupted into a chant of, "They took our jobs!" Just about every grunt raised a fist in the air as they spat out those words, and I forced myself to join in. Even so, joining in the chant felt like punching my own brother in the face.

The Front Man, who had seemed so eager to stamp out any side conversations, didn't appear to mind this chanting at all. Indeed, he raised a first in the air and joined in on the fun.

Probably the most worrisome part of it all was just how much the audience seemed to agree with each other. It was like a hive-mind, or, as some would say, a cult.

The cult leader, AKA the Front Man, eventually stopped chanting himself. He made the "shush" gesture with both of his hands, and the crowd slowly quieted down. Once that had happened, he continued to talk.

"Moreover, regarding the assertion that Pokemon have equal intelligence to humans, it's just not true. What you're looking at on the screen is a study that proves otherwise. If the average human IQ is 100, and that is how such intelligence tests are designed, the average Pokemon IQ is roughly 56. It's just not correct to say that the two races are equal, when we have clear evidence otherwise."

Although I wasn't lured in by the Front Man, I could see why the others were. The leader had a particular method of getting his people to agree with him. He stated his opinions as though they were facts, and it didn't hurt that he practically radiated an aura of authority. You were meant to trust this man with your life, because one day, you might have to.

As it turns out, it's not that complicated to become a cult leader. Hard, probably, but not complicated. All you have to do is exactly what this Front Man is doing.

"So if the two species do not have the same level of intelligence, then what is to be done? Some would suggest that Pokemon should be left alone; after all, our IQs are nearly twice theirs, so they should pose no threat to us. These people see no reason why the Pokemon of Lycan Hollow would mount an attack on humanity.

"But let me tell you", the Front Man continued, with trace amounts of venom in his voice, "this is a fallacy of the highest order. Just because Pokemon are stupid doesn't mean they aren't dangerous. In many cases, incompetence is more threatening than its opposite."

The way I saw it, the Front Man was trying to square a circle, to argue for something that was completely impossible; moreover, something that made absolutely no sense. How could Pokemon be at once too dumb to stack up to humans, and yet also a threat that had to be dealt with?

Not for the first time, I was very happy that Marcelo wasn't here with me. He would not have been able to handle all this talk of Pokemon being inferior; indeed, the sheer number of people in the room would probably make him faint from social anxiety.

The Front Man clicked the remote yet again, and the scene on the slideshow changed once more. This time, the image was of a small fighter jet with the insignia of Sinnoh's government, along with the caption: SOLUTIONS.

"So the solution, as you can probably guess based on the thumbnail, is rather simple. We've been coordinating with the other chapters of Team Skyward, and suffice it to say that there's a reason our headquarters are all in abandoned airports!"

The leader laughed at his "joke", but I didn't find it that funny. Then again, I hadn't yet been lured into his cult either, nor did I intend to be.

I don't remember much of what the Front Man said next; at least, not the specific words. I blocked them out of my mind, simply because they were such horrendous words that if I printed them here, this book would be pulled from the shelves. Suffice it to say that they would have made Marcelo scream, which would have given us away faster than one can say "Solutions."

"Assuming the current plan is able to go through, the airstrikes on Lycan Hollow will occur tomorrow morning at 5 AM. As the only Lycanroc-only settlement in all of Sinnoh, it holds great value for our enemies, and we are determined to make sure that it's no more."

They are going to destroy this Lycan Hollow place.

It occurred to me that I should probably call the police. Even if lycanthropes weren't the most well-regarded class of citizens in this world, a plan to murder a couple thousand of them via airstrikes wouldn't go over well with law enforcement. At least, that's what I hoped.

But how much power do they have to stop this? It seems like there's nothing we can do at this point; there's probably only nine hours left.

I checked my phone, and it was 9:47 PM, meaning that the remaining time before the airstrikes was approximately seven hours. (Hoenn and Sinnoh were in the same time zone.)

However, in doing so, I also discovered something very much unwanted: My phone was not only running very low on battery, but there was only one bar of reception here. There was no guarantee that my call would go through, and even if it did, I'd be speaking to the police in front of over a hundred cultists.

I quietly, discreetly excused myself from the party as the Front Man continued talking. Not only did I need a safe place to call the cops, but I just couldn't stand the horrible language the leader was using. Fortunately, I didn't feel too many eyes upon me as I exited the hangar (although this may have been due to the masks.)

Once outside the hangar, I opened my phone again. It's a strange thing, but when my phone reached a low battery percentage, its power began to drain more quickly than when it was at a higher battery level; one might expect the opposite. And I saw that my phone was at a measly 3% charge.

I'd only have a minute or so to speak to the cops. I'd need to make it count, especially given that there was still only one bar of reception.

While dialling the number for emergency services, my fingers were dancing all over the touch screen. Due to my nerves and frustration, it was harder than it should have been to type in the phone number accurately. During this time, the battery moved down to 1%.

Once I finally had the right number, I hit the "call" button and waited with bated breath for the call to get through.

Just as I'd feared, however, this took far too long. With every second that elapsed, panic rose in my throat as I knew what was going to happen if my attempt wasn't successful. And I kicked myself for not having charged my phone before leaving my house earlier; isn't that what you're always being told to do?

"What is the nature of your emergency?" the dispatcher asked me a second after I finally connected. As it turned out, I (or rather, rural Hoenn's shitty reception) was about half a minute too late.

My phone died. And with it, so would most of Lycan Hollow's residents.

I would like to apologize if this chapter did not contain a realistic portrayal of a cocktail party. Truth be told, I haven't been to very many; I'm not much of a party animal myself.

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