Disclaimer: La programa -Pokémon- no es el mio.
A Descent into Rancor
Part I- The Scent of Smoke and Snowfall
Sometime in the future. . .
The paper crumpled easily in the hand of the executioner, and he closed his eyes lightly as he tossed it into the garbage. Rain sifted through the clouds and into his hair and onto his face, and it dripped off his jacket onto the black paved asphalt of the alleyway, of the night. He was comforted by the damp and somewhat ominous red bricks which surrounded him as his straight jacket, keeping him from lashing out at the world which had corrupted his soul.
He tipped his hat downward, crossing his arms beneath his trench coat one last time to make sure what he needed was there. Somewhat to his dismay--it was. He coughed nervously as he knocked on the door. Every time he had to do this he was nervous. Nothing could ever calm his nerves, no matter how many times he accomplished his job. He wasn't afraid of death. Death could claim him and his hell doomed body and force him into its fiery depths for all eternity. That was not his concern. The reason why he was damned, however, was what caused his anxiety.
He had to knock again, as the first was ignored. He knocked more fiercely this time, looking away, looking toward the rain which latched onto his eyelids and made his vision almost teary. He would have been crying, but he didn't cry anymore. He cried the first five, six times before he approached a shoddy place like the one he stood before. He was but a living cadaver at that point, however, and he was more focused on hurrying up and leaving than the sadness which ate away at him.
Finally, the door was opened.
A huge man stood in its opening, his arms folded neatly across his chest.
was all he had to say.
The executioner clenched his teeth a moment as he tried to remember the password. It was more poetic than most of the passwords at these sorts of places, and it actually stung his tongue a little as he said it. It seemed like nonsense, but something about it struck a chord in his being.
By the chains of the table, the snake has its cage, he shoved out of his throat as it suddenly became dry, the scent of smoke and snowfall adds to the rage.
The man stepped aside, and the executioner adjusted his hat once again. He wasn't used to wearing the damned things, and this one was so wide rimmed that it as constantly trying to slide towards one way or the other. It was mostly used to keep his identity a secret--not that anyone had ever lived to recognize him anyway. He tried to keep his hands away from the inside of his jacket, for that would make people suspicious.
Footsteps from his shoes were all he heard as he strode up to the bar. The place was noisy, but he had to drown the noise out or his conscience would drag him back to earth. He was on a high of drugs designed to soothe his nerves, and he couldn't let anything get in its way.
The bartender leaned over the counter, his elbow gathering dust. The executioner wrinkled his nose at the state of the counter, but his own condition was blood stained, so no amount of filth could detour him from taking his ceremonial drink.
What would you like? the bartender asked, not quite as enthused as he probably should be.
Just get me a beer, the executioner grumbled, never looking into the eyes of the bartender.
He could never look into their eyes. Their eyes were death to his mission. Their eyes could dampen his soul with the inhibition it craved, the inhibition he fought with all of his being.
He sang to himself softly as the beer arrived, and he sipped it with caution. No, it wasn't poisoned.
You're not the same man I knew, he imagined her saying. You're someone else. Someone dark, someone filled with hate.
he gulped, and began singing again as the memory ended. The smoke from the bar and the incense of his beer clouded his mind. He always drained his mind of thought before these things. He always had a beer, and sang the same song to himself.
Can I burn the mazes I grow? he sang. The bartender looked at him quizzically as the singing became louder. Can I? I don't think so.
The bartender's face fell, and the entrance to the room opened once again.
Right on time, the executioner grinned as the man yanked on the trigger of his gun quickly.
I don't think so, the executioner smiled, sipping his beer while ripping a gun from his coat, destroying the man before the trigger could be completely pulled.
This was the part that he hated. After his target was down, everyone else tried to kill him as well. He knew that he shouldn't let anyone survive anyway. No one knew what he looked like except for his own boss. Not even the other Team Rocket members knew what he looked like, except for two.
The bartender was the first to take a shot. The executioner had two guns, one in each hand, at this point, and no one could get a shot off on him.
He was the ultimate assassin.
He was the ultimate killer.
He was a weapon created by raw revenge--
He was a munition carved by the uneven hand of fate.
The movements of his hands were reminiscent of lightning, and the blood that spilled from the hideous wounds of his victims drenched the floor. It wasn't the time to think about them now. His mind was almost on auto pilot. He could aim and fire and kill without even thinking about what he was doing. His only weakness was the flashbacks which swept his mind during this time.
I'm so sorry, she cried. I'll do everything I can to get you through this.
I want to die. All I want to do is to die--
He remembered every suicide attempt vividly. He remembered when they stopped, what they turned into. Any innate reservation he held about the flow of blood was definitely scattered from his mind as he'd pressed a knife to his easily torn skin time and time again. He knew what it was called. Self mutilation. Every time she'd cry, and every time he would want to die a little more.
Then came his opportunity.
His opportunity to warp his depression into rage--a controlled rage. He hated Team Rocket, but the Cage was their new rival, their new total enemy. Anyone who wanted to annihilate the Cage couldn't be so bad.
The assassin froze as he realized he was just shooting at objects, and that all of his targets were dead. No one could quite believe how that one man could wipe out twenty or more gun wielding men at a time without receiving a scratch. He didn't know how he did it himself--when he got in that state of mind where everything became blank, he was an impossibly efficient killing machine.
But then it was time to leave. He always felt a little lost--like he didn't know where to go. He had to get out of there before the cops came. Not that that would present a problem. He was quick, and he was safely in the depths of town the block before anyone was even notified of a possible disturbance in that alleyway--
He supposed that he could go home. It was a strange journey. He knew better than to feel like eyes were drilling into his back. The night seemed strangely illuminating against his skin as he shuffled toward the street on which he lived. His skin--it tempted him a little, he didn't feel alive unless he felt some sort of pain. He was broken in a million ways, so being physically broken just seemed to come natural.
He was a picture of silence as he left the chilled sidewalks and ascended the stairs toward his apartment. Team Rocket provided him with an apartment, now that he was theirs.
The light came on reluctantly, and he sighed as it was still mostly empty--as always. He shook a little as the couch and the television and the tables and just everything seemed to oppress him. He felt like an addict suffering from withdrawals as he nearly jogged to the kitchen, barely stopping to flip on the light.
He pulled a knife from a drawer. He could hardly open the drawer because he was shaking so badly. Tears were coming to his eyes as he sat on the floor, stripping the clothes from the upper half of his body.
It was cold. But he didn't want to put the heater on. Goosebumps wracked his upper half, and his shaking tripled, though none of it could have been due to shivering. He licked his lips as he made about four tiny gashes on his arm, and he seemed to relax slightly as he let the blood dribble down his arm.
Pain.
It was so inviting.
Yes--he was indeed alive. And he would remain that way. He was becoming very proficient at gashing himself in order to minimize blood. Old scars were making it difficult to get clean cuts, but sometimes, after having assassinated a lot of people, he didn't mind the extra work and pain that came from tearing through old scars.
He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly as drops of blood fizzled upon the linoleum. He didn't know why he always imagined it wearing at the floor as if it was acid, but he thought it might have had to do with the nerve-calming drugs.
The shaking ceased, and he stood back up to go to the kitchen and clean up.
He allowed himself to become tired as his eyes focused on the lonely dark which was all there was to see outside the kitchen window. The blood began to run thin as cold water from a rag obscured its direction. Though the shaking had stopped, he was breathing heavily, his heart pounding furiously, and his mind flipped over in his skull, allowing him to cry. To lament the deaths of the people he'd killed and to lament the death of himself.
The tears continued as he walked into his bedroom, and after having his rush, he flipped the light switch of this room very leisurely.
The blankets upon his bed stirred, and he allowed a smile to dampen his lips as a red-furred fox sleepily poked its head out from the blankets.
He took his pants off and replaced them with flannel pajama bottoms, then flipped off the switch and felt his way back to his bed. He shivered as he remained still under the blankets, trying to warm up.
Vulpix snuggled under his arm, adding some warmth to his otherwise frigid upper half. He was sweating as the drugs wore off, but he knew it would soon pass. He began to pet the fur of his dear pet, and cried himself to sleep all while wearing a smile.
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The Next Day
The grass splashed around like a weathered sea, mimicking the movements of life's animation as it toyed with the pant legs and the skirts of those who only had death on their minds.
They had cried at the last funeral. The funeral they attended only three months before. It was hard not to cry with nine sepulchers littering a grass fitted earth. But they weren't necessarily sobbing for the dead.
At that funeral Brock was on his knees, unable to keep from hysterics. He was the only one alive to deliver a eulogy, but he could not. Misty comforted him best she could, hugging him, wiping his tears, but there was no comfort to be given.
They understood this.
And they couldn't cry at the funeral now.
There was no ominous sepulcher, nor tomb nor casket, but the headstone would be there just the same. There was no body--not because it was assumed that he was dead, but because the decimation which had occurred didn't leave a body to be buried, only pieces to char into ashes.
They weren't crying at this funeral. They were too stunned. They couldn't deliver the eulogy because they were stunned speechless.
Explosion.
One word flittered its was across Misty's mourn-wrought mind. A tar, brainsickly rain began to invade her thoughts, and it only let her think in words or nonsensical phrases.
Dead?
Dead. Dead. Dead. She thought he would commit suicide--but he hadn't. As it was told, the Cage just finished the job.
Misty flinched at the mention of either of the conflicting gangs of the island. They'd brought their fair share of bullshit, dragging pain along their merry paths as they battled and strove to become better than the other.
And they played each other--in ways that Misty was just now learning about. She never told Brock what she learned about the Cage because of what she learned about Team Rocket.
But it wouldn't have mattered. Sure, it would have destroyed his existence. That is--if he had an existence in the first place. He left them, five months after what had happened. He left, and only Misty now knew why.
Dead?
Yes, dead.
It almost sickened her to think that it was perhaps better that way. Perhaps better for a great deal of humanity that he was dead.
But it wasn't better for her.
She knew she couldn't have--have--it didn't matter now. He was dead long before the explosion. She knew that. She could live with that as well. She knew that maybe if she played her cards right he wouldn't have died, but it was still the fault of no one.
She didn't think she really loved him. If she loved him, she probably would have blamed herself. Don't people blame themselves for the deaths of their loves? Brock blamed himself for the deaths of his family members.
Maybe she did love him. But it was a child's love. Despite her young age, she was no child now. She'd been blasted from that fanciful illusion in ways almost unimaginable.
She turned her head slightly, looking toward her remaining companion.
He was no longer a child either. He wasn't a child and he wasn't innocent. He still wasn't totally disillusioned about the ordeal as she was. Misty wasn't a child because she learned that people could kill and live vehemently for lies. They could pour their whole souls and actions into lies.
Misty's lip twitched slightly, and she put protective arms around Ash, clinging to his smaller body for the warmth to stave away the biting wind and the warmth to stave away the puncture which ate voraciously at her soul.
Neither of them said a word. They neither listened to a word the preacher said. Their minds strayed far away, and they knew it would be a while before they'd be up and moving like times of old.
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Three Months Earlier
They were packing guns, but they decided not to use them at that time. They must have meant to send a message. They must have thought this was the home of someone of high ranking in Team Rocket--but it was not. Their consciences must have been stripped from them somehow, as they were able to mercilessly knife the innocent lives from eight children and one adult.
It was a night and a distance plagiarized by horror novels time and time again, and Jessie's fingers grew slick with blood as she pulled the dagger from the back of the man.
It was a strange feeling. She was violent, in her way, but the blood made her sick. The man's slowly reddening body plodding to the ground in an unhappy collapse stung her eyes. And the glove on her hand came off quickly, though she didn't remember pulling it off seconds after doing it.
Let's go! James shouted, flinging a small child over his shoulder. We don't have much time! It's too late for the others.
Jessie blinked, entranced,
James hissed, they're all dead. Already. You saved this one, though.
The girl was screaming incessantly, and it was likely that the killers would not be all too pleased that their job could not be finished.
James took Jessie's hand and forced her to run through the clattering, underbrush jumped ground to their van. James prayed to himself as his fist-bruised back reminded him of the precious cargo he carried. He wasn't upset that she was pounding him. It was insanity driven punching, she wanted to go back and save her family.
The girl screamed enough to burst the blood vessels in her throat as James tried to gently place her in the back of the van. He felt pressed for time, but he knew that no good would come of trying to quickly force the little girl into the van.
Meowth jumped into the back as well, and James shut it, ignoring the pounding which ensued from the inside. He hopped into the passenger's seat, and as Jessie had already started the car long before, he didn't even have a chance to close the door before the vehicle tore down the street in a wheel-squealing mess. Their car was shot after, but none of the shots actually did anything effectual to stop Jessie and James from getting far enough away so that they could no longer be chased on foot. With Jessie's maniacal speed, James doubted that the enemy would have time to get in their car and give chase anyway. Meowth had made sure that the little girl's remained down for the duration of the drive, just in case any shots came through the window. She was still screaming, although rather hoarsely, but something about Meowth prompted her to listen. Jessie thought that it was probably a fanciful perception of a talking pokémon that a child might harbor--like myths about winged Rapidash--that made her trust Meowth.
Jessie was white-knucking the steering wheel hard enough so that her knuckles might burst through her skin, and a frozen expression of undisplayable emotion strewn across her pallid face.
James tried to say softly, but she didn't hear him over the little girl's screaming.
he shouted.
Jessie blinked suddenly, the only indication that she'd acknowledged his voice.
It's okay, James comforted loudly. We did as much as we could.
Jessie continued to stare ahead, her eyes shimmering as images of the scene they'd fled replayed in her mind, heightened by the screaming which filled the van.
James turned away, trying not to embarrass her as a tear dripped from the corner of her eye in a path toward the corner of her mouth.
Night was a time in which depression and fear, as raw emotion, were heightened. However, as dawn began to chime like icicles cluttering to a porch from an awning, tiredness settled upon everyone in the van. Jessie's eyes drooped as their surroundings seemed to blur, and James' head was lolling flaccidly against the back of his seat. The girl's hideous wails had softened into pitiful, anguished moaning, and she was crying into Meowth's fur.
Jessie could almost taste sleep as the apartment complex in which Team Rocket housed their workers blurred past the van. She knew sleep wasn't something that would come soon, and it depressed her a little. It was as if she was anticipating an injection, and it just wouldn't get over with.
What's your name? Meowth asked the girl.
she sniffled.
They pulled into Team Rocket headquarters--which was conveniently located near the lodging. Jessie was at least thankful for this.
The driveway called to her as her car inched its way into the parking lot. They were still wary of anyone who might jump out of them. The area was deserted, which amplified the tension between those who piled out of the van. It was an especially strange feeling since their tiredness made everything seem to pass as a surreal illusion, even Katie's crying seemed somewhat illusory as a mirage hand tugged at the door of the Headquarter's front entrance.
Though the outside of the building was fitted with silence, the inside was shockingly clamorous. The building was soundproofed for obvious reasons.
Jessie and James dragged their feet as they approached the counter. Katie was back over James shoulder, but she wasn't pounding him.
the receptionist, a young lady just breaking into the gang, asked. She looked up with a tinge of apathy at the debacle-worn faces of the two rocket members in front of her.
We need to talk to the boss, Jessie announced in a gruff voice.
Jessie didn't feel like taking the girl's snot, but she knew it was inevitable. For some reason neither she nor James struck a chord of respect in the hearts of even the receptionists.
He's busy at the moment, she yawned.
Jessie knew what she would have to resort to, but it almost felt forced as she used her sleep-weighted hands to grab the girl fierily by the collar. Jessie was quite bigger than her, and lifted her off the ground with ease. The girl stared at Jessie's snarl-bearing face with eyes wide.
Jessie put the girl down quite harshly, and repeated her request.
We're going to talk to the boss, she shouted.
I-I-I guess he can fit you in, the girl muttered, then pressed a button on a speakerphone on her desk.
It was a moment before a distorted voice spewed forth from the device, a moment of discomfort for Jessie, even though she knew she and James had probably done the most competent thing they'd ever done in their careers. She didn't think Giovanni would appreciate having his best secretaries maliciously manhandled, for a good cause or not.
he asked, with agitation in his voice. Which was not surprising to anyone listening.
These two Rocket Members have to see you, she replied squeakily. Jessie could not tell whether it was in fear of her or in fear of Giovanni.
If you think they must, send them in, he growled.
All right, the girl nodded, then pressed the speakerphone button again, shutting it off. She looked away from Jessie and pointed to the office. She didn't even want to speak to her.
Jessie didn't feel like she'd done anything so intimidating, but she was buffered with the knowledge that a little exertion of force could go a long way. She and James silently marched to Giovanni's office. Even Katie was being relatively quiet. There was an aura of silence-inducing fear around the rocket members, all caused by one man.
It was almost comforting that Giovanni was turned around in his desk and shrouded in darkness. Jessie and James both doubted that his real name was even Giovanni. He used some device to mangle his voice as always, which was an odd comfort as well.
But it was only comforting enough to allow his visitors to control their bladders. James was shaking, and Jessie reflected on how odd it was that a mere man who was once a child could instill such life-threatening terror into people. Katie was shaking as well as James, the nearly-grown man's terror seeping into her skin as well.
What do you want? Giovanni asked.
Jessie had a fleeting and inane thought of the Wizard of Oz before continuing, but she shook it off. The Cage had attacked a family living in Pewter City. We were in the area and tried to stop them as best we could. They-- she normally would have given a description, but she didn't want to be so blunt while in the presence of the little one who had just lost all that she lived for.
They what? Giovanni asked, almost softly. It didn't seem to be softened because of concern, more because of shock. Jessie was mildly insulted by his shock, but was made brave by the wavering in his steely countenance.
The family is no longer with us, Jessie tried to soften it. Except for this small child. I killed one of the Cage members, but the rest got away. We're sorry for being unable to do more.
Giovanni was silent for a good deal of time, which perplexed both Jessie and James. When he began to speak again, he seemed flustered beyond belief. This mildly insulted Jessie as well, as she assumed it was in shock because of their previous ineptness, but she shrugged it off.
Well, um, Giovanni stammered, good job--white team--um, what shall be done about the young girl?
Jessie's eyes widened impossibly. Giovanni was asking her what to do about the child? She must have invaded his privacy during his acid dropping session.
We can take care of her! a previously silent Meowth interjected. He didn't like to talk to Giovanni due to hard feelings, but apparently he'd formed some sort of motherly attachment to the child, which in turn loosened his tongue.
Good solution, Giovanni agreed.
Katie wiggled, trying to get free from James' shoulder. James put her down, pretty sure of her intentions.
Katie ran up to Meowth and hugged him tightly, begining to cry on him all over again.
We'll find out if she has any living relatives, James said softly. The girl seemed oddly familiar, as if she sported some resemblance to someone he couldn't quite place at the moment.
I think it would be better if you cared for her, Giovanni quickly decided, because the Cage might do anything to finish the job.
Then we'll find a possible relative and warn them, Jessie asserted herself, the cage might be after this poor girl's entire family.
The little girl suddenly became animated, and ran over to Jessie. she shouted. We have to find my brother!
You have a brother? Jessie looked down at the girl. Her task would be easier if the girl would cooperate. What's his name?
the girl shouted.
Jessie and James both suddenly froze.
The resemblance.
It was obvious now--she was the sister of one of the twerps. The tallest one.
And thus Jessie formed a motivation in her mind. The twerps must have done something to piss the Cage off, as they'd done to Team Rocket numerous times.
But that didn't qualify the actions they'd taken. The Cage had gone too far. Jessie also thought that they would have to warn the families of all of the twerps.
We'll be going now, Jessie affirmed. We have work to do.
Giovanni sputtered.
Jessie and James left the office, both stuck drowning in their thoughts. They would have to act fast and furiously, and they couldn't screw up this time. Too much depended on their success. They left sullenly, closing the door harshly behind them.
Giovanni slammed his fist on the table as he got on the phone.
A small female voice answered him, and he sputtered into her ear immediately.
The plan worked, he sighed.
So you think we'll be able to reclaim our experiment soon? she replied, a cold edge to her voice.
Jessie and James were ironically competent this time, and saved one of the children attacked, Giovanni began. She's very young. They brought her in. She was a real mess.
Poor thing, the female clenched her teeth, her statement not coming off as terribly sympathetic. Giovanni scowled a little, and continued.
Jessie and James are taking care of her, he continued. No one will suspect it, I've given them orders not to inform her family, so that they won't want her returned and in danger again.
Good plan, the female monotonously praised.
I think they know the girl's brother, though, Giovanni announced, almost excitedly.
This could make it easy to recruit him. We already have a liaison. He could help us accomplish our goals, he would help us get rid of the Cage.
the girl agreed. Saving his sister was very opportune, if you think about it.
It was indeed, Giovanni replied. Very opportune.
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Three Days After the Previous Occurrence
Nature seemed to mock Ash, Brock and Misty as it shone down on them with the rays of happiness and emerald green grass and leaves flirted with the heat-attracting garb sported by each person in the cemetery.
Misty sighed in a short, frustrated burst as she squeezed Brock even more tightly.
The young man sounded like someone dying the death of a thousand cuts as he leaned over, his hands which were cupped over his face just inches from the grass. His elbows rested on his thighs as he leaned over in a ball. He was wound so tightly that Misty had trouble sliding an arm around his waist and back to comfort him, but he seemed to be too gone to notice her attempts anyway.
Brock's extended family were few in number, so a good deal of helpful people from the community had to carry the caskets onto the cemetery grounds. Those same people had all pitched in to pay for funeral expenses as well, seeing as there was no way Brock could do it.
But it was a sight out of a nightmare as the clear blue, sunny sky greeted the surfaces of nine identical caskets, each white with a bouquet of flowers adorning the top. No one listened to the sermon of the preacher. Brock's caterwauling did his family service enough. He didn't seem so intensely affected by the tragedy until that day. But Misty knew it would hit him at some point in time. For the previous two days he kept going on about the possibility of Katie being alive, since her body was never found, but it really didn't matter now, at the funeral.
Misty cringed as she asked Ash to spelunk for a Kleenex in her backpack. Ash listened, and though it took a few minutes, eventually a small package of tissue was produced and handed to Misty.
Misty pulled a tissue from the plastic and gently pulled Brock's hands from his face. She wiped his face free of tears and snot, but was unable to clear away the redness. His crying didn't stop, and Misty took each of his hands in her own, wiping them clean as well.
Brock was indeed a mess, but no one expected any less. Misty pulled him to her so that he could cry on her shoulder, and he pressed his face into her with a feverish pressure, and Misty cried back onto his shoulder as well, trying to absorb every tremor and gasp that came from Brock's torn figure.
Ash bent down as well, putting an arm over Brock's shoulders. He was crying silently himself, and thought that Brock could probably use all of the comfort that he could get. Even Pikachu patted Brock's leg, trying to console him.
The precession ended after a lengthy drawl, but Ash, Misty and Brock remained. The caskets were being covered in dirt, and they remained, still sobbing, allowing time to pass around them without a regard. Everyone had left--and still they remained.
The trees behind them rustled, but they paid no attention to it. They didn't come out of their status until someone tapped Ash on the shoulder.
Ash looked up, amazed to see the face of Jessie. It was even more astounding to see her dressed in black, her face red as well. Meowth wasn't with her, and James had walked over to the freshly buried caskets. Ash didn't say anything to them. He was both too drained, and uncaring seeing as it was obvious they weren't making an attempt on his pikachu.
We have to talk to you, Jessie whispered.
Why was she crying?
We know the Cage did it, Misty fumed. They only left their sigma on everything they left--behind.
Jessie winced as she recalled how the Cage etched their emblem into the foreheads of their targets, whether they left them alive or dead.
That is part of what we had to say, Jessie softly continued. We think that your families might be in danger as well. We don't know what you can do about it, but we can't think of a reason why they would--
Jessie stopped her sentence short and looked to the ground.
The police believed they thought someone associated with the family was part of Team Rocket, Misty narrowed her eyes. But I don't know what would give them that idea. We've never even seen any agents from the Cage. But if I ever do--
I understand, Jessie pursed her lips, realizing that none of the twerps had ever done anything or associated with anyone in the cage. They were only harassed by Team Rocket.
Ash turned to Misty. I'd better go home and protect my mom!
Get your mom, Misty narrowed her eyes. We'll all stay at my gym, until, I don't know when. But we have to stick together, to be safe.
I suggest you get police protection, James said shakily, returning from having placed a rose on each grave. He handed one to Brock as well after returning. Brock kept it in his hand, but continued crying, not looking up or responding.
We have to go, Jessie whispered. The cage is after us too. But we will probably keep an eye on you guys, just in case. I'd hurry and get your families if I was you.
The three agreed, but remained in the grass long after Jessie and James returned to their van.
Did you tell him that I love him and I'll see him soon? Katie asked as soon as they sat in the front seats.
Of course, James smiled. He knows you're safe with us, and we won't let anything happen to you.
****A/N: this part was dramatic, but the next part will be more action/adventure. You'll find out the truth about The Cage, exactly how Brock got involved in Team Rocket and why they were so intested in him, and more. R&R! And, read and review Sanguine Dreams as well. It's a finished story and you should, err, read and review it. The next part of this will be more interesting. This just set up what's going to happen for the rest of the story. It's not going to be all drama/angst. So don't fret! ^_^ This is based on a few video games I've played. I won't say what until the end. But it's very LOOSELY based on them, so you probably won't be able to guess which they are.