Someone was standing on the motel porch. Cell phone in hand, the glow was stark and blue over on the far end where neither the lamppost or the flickering porch lights managed to reach.
000 looked for his room key, head down as he trudged up the stairs. Sweet already had her key out, spinning it around her finger. The plastic number 7 kept hitting her knuckles as it spun.
She unlocked her door. "I'm going to re-dye my hair."
"Have fun!" Said Looker.
000 checked his pockets again. He was grinding his teeth together.
"Do you need help?"
"I need the key."
Looker hummed as he thought. He reached inside his trench coat and pulled it out with a goofy grin.
000 was about to have an aneurysm.
Looker held the door open, the yellow light and the beds inviting.
"I think I'll have a smoke first." He said, forcing his voice to be nice and level.
"Does McDonalds do delivery?"
000 grabbed the doorknob and pulled it shut as hard as he could. He stepped away, slumping against the banner of the stairs. Out came the pack of cigarettes. He tapped them against his thigh, not ready to take one out just yet, as he looked over his shoulder at the low moon. It touched the ocean. The waves were distant and black.
It was either horribly late or horribly early.
He lit a cigarette.
"Hey."
The voice was familiar, a woman, but he couldn't put a face or a name to the sound of it. He turned. A glimmer of jeweled earrings caught his eye, just far enough away that he couldn't make out anything else.
She turned the corner, and it clicked: Ada Dale from the ruins.
000 wasn't sure how to feel about that, actually. He nearly inhaled his whole damn cigarette with a gasp, and then a gag, coughing and spluttering, one arm wrapped around that banister as he bent over and tried not to die.
"What are…oh, cripes…" He wheezed. He stood up and put his composure back where it belonged: in keeping his resting bitch face a resting bitch face and his posture in a firm 'I'm too cool to stand straight' slouch that was anything but firm.
She chuckled-coughed. "Take your time."
"What are you doing here?"
Eloquence wasn't a skill he brought to the International Police. Period.
"I followed you."
"Why?" He asked, cigarette hot on his fingers.
"Well, I started to leave, but then I saw Tapu Bulu."
"Did you watch us?"
She nodded, her teeth like a Colgate commercial, straight and white as she bit them together. "You guys freaked me out, okay? I had to make sure nothing went wrong."
The image of her waiting there in the dark outside the altar filled his mind: pressed against the wall, Metagross' pokeball clenched tightly behind her back, head turned so that she could hear the fight. He could see the way she tried to flatten herself harder into the corner when they'd left before trailing behind.
How she'd gotten to the motel first, he didn't want to know.
"I'm fine." He gestured at himself, dusty but intact. "Leave.
"Exactly!" She closed the distance between them, firmly in the range of hug or strangle. "You're fine, which means Tapu Bulu liked you."
"Okay?"
"I need to check something."
Up this close, 000 thought her eyes looked more yellow than they did any shade of brown, like Shinx in Sinnoh. (Specifically the one that had bit down into his ankle so hard he still had a scar.)
Ada Dale held out her hand.
000 did nothing.
The nearest porchlight turned off, and the darkness inched closer. The ocean seemed just a little louder.
She huffed, wiggling her fingers at him. "Give me your arm."
"What if I don't?"
Ada Dale shrugged, arm bobbing. "Guess you'll have to figure that one out, Zeroes."
He felt his blood simmer beneath his skin
"Take off your jacket."
Boiling.
"Please…?" Her voice wasn't as sharp now. Almost pleasant. She smiled. It was genuine but placating. The corners of it were soft and not too wide, her eyes crinkling underneath, too.
He tucked his jacket under one arm and offered his hand.
She didn't stab him or snap his wrist or anything. She just held onto his forearm lightly, not enough to even hold him still. He could've pulled away if he'd wanted. Turned and slammed the motel door in her face.
But he didn't.
She lifted up the short sleeve of his shirt, mouth pursed and brows raised.
"You got any tattoos?" She asked.
He huffed a little. "Just one on my back."
"You might want to check a mirror then." She said, dropping his sleeve and giving him a nice, firm pat on the shoulder.
She stepped back.
"What?"
"The Tapu has plans for you."
His stomach dropped.
"Alola!" She went down the stairs. The grass crunched under her boots. "Oh, and good luck!"
"Excuse me?!" 000 called after her.
She rounded the corner of the motel and was gone.
000 had been showering for thirty minutes.
Looker had a Big Mac and a Sprite and was sitting at the room's desk. He'd stripped to a tee-shirt and boxers because even the air inside felt like glue, hot and sticky. All the air conditioner did was make a bunch of noise.
There was a lamp next to where he'd folded his trench coat, but it didn't turn on. The bulb wasn't blown, he'd checked, but the lampshade was covered in flour-thick dust.
The TV wasn't on, either. Jeopardy wasn't playing. Macgyver was. But Macgyver always made Looker mad, so it was better to eat his cheeseburger and go to bed. Like a normal person.
He wadded up the wrapper and basketball-tossed it at the trash can. The wad hit the rim. It bounced off and sat there, disappointingly yellow. He hadn't touched a basketball after getting kicked off his highschool's team. It showed.
Matilda looked up. She'd been laying on his lap like a poisonous, damp-skinned dog. With a leap that pressed hard into his kneecap, she hit the floor.
"Tilly?"
She picked up the wrapper.
"Ma-til-da." His gaze narrowed as he stressed each syllable.
She ate it.
He groaned and got to his feet.
He knocked on the bathroom door. There was water running, not the steady whoosh of the shower head but the quieter rush of the sink.
Actually, the sink sounded angry. It ran with the kind of ferocity that sloshed water on the counters and sprayed your shirt after you turned the knob too far.
He knocked again. "Zeroes."
"'M busy."
"Hurry up. I need to pee." Curse you, McDonald's Sprite, and juice boxes that had been in his trench coat since March.
"It won't come off."
"What?" Looker jiggled the doorknob. "I'm exhausted, Zeroes."
There was a stubborn sink handle squeal, and the water cut off all at once. Swoosh - nothing. The door opened.
000 stood there. V-neck tank top and 100% nylon, palm tree print shorts that must've come from a gift shop. His hair was plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. It had grown out. The gray at his temples was more prominent than ever, creeping slowly up from around his ears.
There was a shape on his shoulder. The skin was red like he'd scrubbed it with a washcloth, furiously. (He had.)
Looker shut the door.
000 threw himself on a bed. He lay on top of the covers, eyes closed, all the lights on (except the lamp) and the air conditioner rattling. The toilet flushed. The pipes in the walls groaned.
"That thing tattooed me," 000 said, at the same time Looker said, "Do you also find scented toilet paper weird?"
000's eyes snapped open. The shock of hearing 'scented toilet paper' at two a.m. was enough to force him up.
"What motel has scented toilet paper?" Last he checked, they barely had 1-ply.
"Oh. They don't."
"Then why did you -"
"I was just thinking about it."
000 stuck out his arm. "Look."
The shape was definitely a tattoo.
"Was it free?"
000's expression fell flatter than soda left open in the sun.
"What kind of question is that?"
"Was it?"
000 pretended to think about it. 'Pretend' meant he threw himself backwards so hard he cracked his skull against the bed's headboard. He rolled onto the pillow in pain.
Looker watched him. He was pretty sure he heard, "fuck you and your frog," somewhere in there.
"Play stupid games," he said, sitting down at the desk, "win stupid prizes."
The pillow had swallowed 000's face, muffling what he said next. "The battle was an interview."
Click, click, click, click. Looker was flicking the lamp on and off. It didn't do anything, but the noise was satisfying.
"It wants me." He nudged the furry lump nestled against his elbow. It was Pierce, snoring."To help, I think. It's lazy."
More clicks. The bulb fizzled once.
"Tapu Bulu knew us. It saw what we did to Assembly."
"Hm?" Looker rested his head on his palm, elbows on the desk like his mother had never told him not to do.
000 had his arms over his face. "It was in my head, okay?"
"What was?"
"You're not listening."
Click, BZZT - a sound like a waffle iron shorting out.
CRACK.
The filament exploded inside the lamp bulb in a tiny light show. Glass tinkled across the desk. Looker spun his chair around fast and put on a halfhearted smile.
"I'm listening."
"Just get over here."
He did. 000 showed him his arm again.
The tattoo was still there. Duh. Can't have it magically disappearing the way it came.
The ink was black (if it was ink), not in the slightly blue-green way most were. The outline was thick. Neat and straight and shaped like a folded half moon - or a hoofprint. Intricate plant life was drawn inside: swaying wild grass with a bull's skull in the center. There were thorn vines curled around the horns and roses blooming in the eye sockets.
"The artist did a very good job."
000 punched Looker's arm. Not hard, but it made him pull back and make a face.
"What the hell, Nanu!?" He said, rubbing his arm.
"A deity. Literally. Branded. Me."
"And it looks cool!"
000 glared.
"I got an email from HQ."
"Tomorrow." He said, and laid down, pulling the sheet over his head.
"I'll fix the, uh," he looked back at the desk, "glass."
From: SupernaturalChief .hn
To: 100KR .hn, 000 .hn, 533T .hn
Encrypted
Subject: Wormhole Appearance Predictions And Briefing
During the following week, between one and four wormhole(s) are predicted to open over Poni Island's west coast. Beast signatures have not yet been detected.
Tickets for the ferry to Seafolk Village have been pre-purchased and are being held for you at the Malie Marina. Await further instruction upon arrival.
Good Luck Agents,
Supernatural Chief 653
"I thought TC was supernatural's chief," Sweet said over a banana nut muffin. Her hair was banana-blonde now, black at the roots.
"He was." Looker stirred his coffee. It was pale and smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. "Or, he is? Was."
000 had black coffee. That didn't mean anything about the amount of sugar in it. But it sure did look like a cup of tar.
It smoldered next to some kind of frittata.
He huffed. "Probably got fired."
"Or 653 is covering for him."
"That ain't how it works, ya know."
"What'd he do?" Sweet asked.
Looker flapped his hand and made a sound before turning his head.
They were at a little bakery. Little, as in the building was squashed between an attorney office and a chiropractor, leaving it a thin strip of a place. Looker could've probably touched both walls if he'd really stretched out and let Matilda grab one hand and try to reach the other.
(The owner had kindly told him to stop.)
The marina was just down the road. Its crowd surged the streets, hot tarmac sucking at flip flops. A crosswalk beeped steadily, and streetlights changed without cars.
The beach sloped down from the road. It was bright out. No clouds. Sunlight bounced back off the water in sparkling shapes. There were fishermen along the sand and the docks, digging through big orange tackle boxes. Lines crisscrossed, and bobbers floated.
Sweet watched a kid wearing a puffy Finding Finneon life jacket and a bucket hat lined with fish hooks pass by. He had a sand pail in one hand, a fishing pole in the other.
"We should go fishing." She leaned to the side a little, reaching for something.
"I had to re-line my whole pole thanks to you." Looker said.
She sat back down, holding a thick, silver tube. Fish-O-Matic, the handle read - the famous collapsible fishing pole brand. She put it on the table with a plonk, thumb hovering over the button.
000 coughed, definitely not because the coffee had burnt his throat. "Why do you have that?"
"I caught a fish." She said. "In Unova."
Looker snatched the fishing pole and put it away.
A group of children sandwiched between teachers started pointing. A boat had docked, blue hulled and bobbing pleasantly.
000 stood and trashed his coffee cup, pulling his arms back in a stretch. "Is that ours?"
They slipped through the crowd like molasses, which meant trudged and dodged elbows before their tickets went in a blank, glass pickle jar. Their seats were hard plastic.
Straw papers and twigs were piled on the intercom, a fat Wingull's nest, two little eggs under her. The engine chugged to life. She squawked and puffed up to twice her size.
Ula'Ula grew small behind them.
The dock rocked underfoot. It dipped with their weight as they left the boat, wobbling up and down.
Looker was pale.
"Ya good, KR?" 000 asked.
"I get seasick."
Sweet looped an arm behind his back. "Come on, buddy. Let's go."
She stepped forward, and he nearly fell. He staggered, finally bending his knees so that he didn't fold in half at the waist or upend like a tree. She pulled harder. They walked.
With one last sway of the docks, they were on solid ground. The dirt was powder dry and as beige as a boring room. Yellow grass grew in sprigs, sparse, wind-flattened clumps. It stretched as far as the eye could see, the sky wide and washed out like an old blanket. Every step crunched.
A mile passed in silence. The silence was sweltering. Mostly, it was because they all had on some sort of suit and tie and thick boots, and the rest of it was because the walk was nothing but uphill.
"Are we there yet?" Asked Sweet. She'd undone her tie so that it was just a line, one end draped under each lapel. It shone in the sun like silk.
"No."
They went forward about ten steps.
"How about now?"
"Do you see the beach?" 000 said.
It was peachy on the horizon, a strip of sand and sheer cliffs. Jagged rocks broke the water like shark fins.
Sweet stared right at it. "No."
"'Kay, well, HQ narrowed it down to there." He swept his arm out. "Or there."
"I think the sky should stop." Looker said.
There was a patch in the sky, darker and bluer than the rest. It was perfectly square.
(He felt the pistol cold against his hip bone, holster shoved in the waist of his pants).
They stopped and stared. The square was out above the sands, smeared like vaseline on a mirror, thick, greasy, and slowly churning. Reality bulged.
"We need to go."
The beach was nice. Would've been nicer if they weren't hunting aliens, but hey, what can you do?
When life gives you lemons, battle them, and then shoot them and confiscate the corpses for further study.
The sand was soft and loose underfoot, waves lapping at the shore, and the sky had imploded and left an emptiness hanging like a new moon. Or no moon at all. The nothing pulsed.
"Get ready." 000 said, tossing Twitch onto the beach.
Sugar and Matilda followed. They were a line of fangs, ribbons, and whatever went on with Croagunk hands. (The general consensus was poison).
Glowing lines netted across the hole. They shone. Light gleamed off the blackness in an iridescent sheen, rainbow colors that twisted and swirled.
The blackness was house-sized with round edges and thick limbs. It fell.
Like a meteor, it streaked downwards, heat growing in a dazzling flashbang of light, palm trees bent back until their trunks started pulling apart. Berries and leaves and jagged, wooden splinters fell like rain.
Looker ducked. Something sharp shattered behind him, and the blackness hit the beach.
The world exploded. Crashing, snapping, sand stinging skin red and raw. One second, everything was airborne, the ocean falling backwards into the sky, seashells and beach glass glittering. Rocks plunged off the cliffs.
There was nothing under Looker's feet.
Then, gravity. He slammed ribs-first into the ground with a crunch.
He couldn't breathe. Pain lanced him from lungs to spine, and the air was ozone-thick.
The beast towered in the haze of sand. It was dark and misshapen, swollen with jagged barbs. It looked like play-doh. Mounds of flesh.
It roared. The sound vibrated from the ground up, chest-deep. Its mouth was jagged and endless, a gaping hole through its middle with teeth like rotting yellow stalactites. They scraped together as it breathed.
Its breath was hot, a smell like fish left in the sun.
"What the hell IS that," he heard 000 say over the ringing in his ears.
There were lumps in its mouth. Or. More mouths in its mouth, long, black arms that ended in teeth. They roared when it roared. The noises all blended together into one bellowing cry.
His legs shook as he pushed himself up, but he was up, and he was backing away one step at a time. Matilda inflated her cheeks.
000 was off to his left, Twitch a smudge in the beast's shadow. "Confuse Ray."
A little light zipped around the thing's head. Its eyes didn't follow the movement; it just shook itself like a wet dog, body rippling.
"Reflect!" Shouted Sweet, voice faint.
A glow shimmered across the beach. The air sparkled in the sunlight, almost crystalline.
"Okay, Matilda." Looker said, nodding and still backing away. One foot after the other. "Use…Mud Slap? Yeah!"
There was a look in her eyes. He wasn't sure what it meant, but she reared back like a major league pitcher and threw a handful of mud. It went in the beast's mouth.
It didn't swallow. It didn't flinch. It just…stood there.
Well, huh. That was. Different.
"New plan!"
A mouth-arm swung at them. He scrambled sideways, and Matilda launched herself over it with all the fear and velocity of a bottle rocket. His knees were shaking. His mouth tasted like stomach acid.
"I believe in you!" He shouted as he ran.
He ran like it was a marathon to the cliffside, and you know what? He was winning. Of course, he was the only person running, and he was pretty sure there was a scream of, "Hey, KR, what the FUCK," but that could've been the blood rushing in his ears.
And then he wedged himself in a deep crack in the rock. He could barely turn himself around, and the soothing cold pressed from every side.
The beast grabbed a palm tree and tore it out of the ground. It was velcro on steroids, the ripping and tearing, and then it tossed it back like a piece of popcorn, ground to splinters, every bite wood chipper-loud. It turned.
From here, he could see Sweet. He could see her tense, arms up in front of herself and hands curled into fists. He could see Sugar slinking around the beast.
Twitch burst out of the sand, blazing in shadows, and dug every claw deep into its side.
It shook her off as easily as a Cutiefly. She fell with a resounding thud.
A glob of poison struck the side of the beast's…head? It hit something vaguely eye-shaped and glowing, and Looker cheered for Matilda. Silently. Not that that thing cared.
Then Sugar screamed, and the sound slammed into the beast hard. It staggered back, and a growl rumbled up through its gut.
All four of its glowing eyes narrowed.
Sweet went stiff.
"Dodge it!"
Two steps. The growl became a gurgle. Okay, so now it cared.
Bile the color of a blue-raspberry slushie spewed from its mouth-arms, a gagging wave of it that drenched Sugar, sticky fur clinging to her frame. It splashed Sweet's boots. Rot perfumed the air.
"I, oh Arceus, - Hyper Voice!" Stammered Sweet, pitch high enough to be classified as a new brand of dog whistle.
Another scream. The beast didn't stagger this time. It didn't even flinch.
Instead, it swung its arms like whips or the world's worst jump rope. Sugar jumped, and Sweet tried to weave out of the way.
Teeth sunk deep into her thigh.
Something popped.
A blurr streaked across the field, springing up, glowing horn coming down on the mouth-arm. It came off with a squelch.
For a few, sickening seconds, it writhed on the ground. Thrashing and leaking.
Pierce. 000 had let out Pierce, fur on end so that he looked like a spiky ball twice his size, and fangs bared. Black…something dripped from his horn.
Twitch climbed the beast, sharp teeth sinking in at the knee. She ripped out a chunk of flesh.
Poison pelted it from behind. It didn't turn. Its four eyes never lost focus: Sweet's pale face, hand clutching her leg as blood seeped between her fingers, slacks drenching through.
Looker drew back, rock pressing into his spine. The gun's grip dug into his stomach.
He needed to do something. He took out the gun, felt the weight of it in his hand. His heart hammered in his chest.
How do you shoot something that's mostly a mouth?
Was the nub on top its head? …Did it even have a brain?
Sweet let go of her leg, and she crumpled. She curled up on the sand, chest heaving, and stared at the hulking thing in front of her.
"Night Slash!" Said 000, with a nod to Pierce. "And Shadow Claw!"
The Pokemon moved in sync, bearing down on the beast. They cut through its second arm like a hot knife through butter.
And it whimpered. It whimpered like a Growlithe that had its tail stepped on or a scolded child.
In that moment, all he could think was, "Mindless killing machines don't whimper," and it really sunk in that whatever that thing was, it was a living creature.
He aimed, but his hands were shaking. And shaking.
They. Wouldn't. Stop. Shaking.
"LOOKER!" Sweet screamed, knees drawn to her chest, swallowed up by the creature's shadow. "DO SOMETHING!"
The next sound was wet. The slap of the tide breaking against rocks.
No. Not that.
A soaking wet towel dropped from two stories up, splattering on the sidewalk.
No, not that either. Something worse. Wetter.
Raw hamburger meat slapping pavement, a squishing, squelching noise. Crunching and cracking - a high, keening that suddenly stopped.
There was half a shape on the ground. How he knew it was only half, he wasn't sure, but he felt nauseatingly deep in his gut that he didn't want to know. He squeezed his eyes shut until it hurt.
A thousand brittle snaps echoed in his eardrums. When he opened his eyes, the shape was gone.
The gun was heavy in his shaking hands. A shot rang out, finger squeezing the trigger until metal bit skin, until it hurt.
The thud that followed was deafening.
Gone were the squishing and the snaps.
Gone was his heart's racing beat.
Gone was the gunshot's echo.
The beast had fallen, and there lay its body, black ooze dribbling from what was left of its head. Gooey chunks of brain meat were scattered like Easter eggs.
He stepped out into the sunlight, and he stood there. Staring. Something yellow sat by his foot. It stank of sulfur.
"100KR!" Spat someone, sharp and venomous.
He knew who, he just. Couldn't. Not right now.
Footsteps crunched across sand and around disgusting, wet goop, growing slowly louder.
He could feel eyes on him, the hairs on his neck on end, buzzing heat on his skin, under his skin, somewhere deep inside. The gun was still in his hand. The barrel smoked.
It wasn't supposed to be doing that now, but he wasn't sure that he could care.
"100KR!"
Was it just him, or was it suffocatingly hot out here? It felt like someone had a bag over his face, like all his blood was in his cheeks, and his lungs were saran wrapped.
Something dug into his shoulder. It hurt.
He turned his head and saw a hand. Then, he saw 000, attached to the hand, which made sense, actually.
000's tone was hard and cold. "Luther."
That was his name, his real name, and it hit like a brick.
"What WAS that!? Do you realize what - are you even fucking listening to me!?"
The edges of his vision were kinda fuzzy.
"Are you - "
He held out the gun, and looked 000 dead in the eyes. "Zeroes, hold that."
"What?"
"Hold it."
000 took it, and he looked at the barrel, smoking, and held it as far away from his body as he could because that was…concerning. He remembered something HQ said about, "experimental tech," and, "might explode."
He shuddered, and then heard retching. Looker was bent over, puking in the bushes.
Some tiny, shrinking part of 000's brain decided to give him a minute. But only one.