His expression is blank. You probably would have recognised him anywhere, but that look sparks your sense of recognition on a visceral level. You noticed that same expression that day, the day you met Raikou. It was too blank to even be described as 'cold'.
You've faced down countless trainers in those intervening years, and it's fair to say your reputation has sometimes gone ahead of you; not everyone gets to meet a Legendary Pokémon, let alone save one. You've seen all kinds of reactions, and you've always thought that there's a kind of intensity in someone's eyes when they look cold, which doesn't quite match with this man's gaze. He looks at you like you're not there, like you're just a fixed point on a wall and he's daydreaming about something.
Like a cat, you suddenly realise. Even down to the way he blinks - slow, almost lazy, like blinking is a waste of precious energy and he resents it.
And yet, not like a cat. When felines go into predator mode, their pupils widen to let in the light. They become tightly sprung coils. No cat would look at its prey with such an unfeeling, vacant nothingness; only a human being could do that.
You don't want to be afraid. You're doing a good job of hiding it, but it's tying knots in your insides, and you can feel them pulling tight, one by one. One in your stomach, one in your throat, a quiver in your leg, a chatter of teeth…then you find a surge of courage and the knots slacken for a moment, only for the whole thing to repeat itself.
It's the silence. They're playing games with you.
But you know, and you smirk a little, thinking about how stupid they are, these Rockets. The setup really got you, sure. Your trainer belt is gone, your head is still hurting from whatever hit you, and the ropes keeping you on that uncomfortable chair are painfully tight.
On the way down here - you assume it's 'down'…these places are always 'down', aren't they? - you thought you could hear screams, and you were glad of that heavy canvas hood, hiding the look of terror that must have appeared on your face. Your legs stopped working, they had to drag you along by your wrists, the side of your shoe dragging along the floor like nails on a chalkboard…
But now they're trying to break you with silence and blank feline stares. This guy, he knows that if you could break free, you would knock his lights out. That's why he's standing between you and the door, just out of reach, even though you're restrained. What an anti-climax. What a coward.
You can't turn around to see what else is in the room. There's probably a table behind you. You don't want to imagine what might be on the table.
You break the silence, because it's better than imagining how you're about to be broken.
"Get on with it."
The man's expression doesn't change. He waits, then replies with one word. His voice is languid, bored, like a Purugly's yawn.
"What?"
"You didn't bring me here to talk - "
"I didn't bring you here at all." He raises a hand and briefly examines his nails in the dim light. "That was someone else."
You might have known this guy would be pedantic. You can see it in his face. Or so you imagine. In truth, you can't see anything in his face, but your mind is desperate to fill in the blanks. Just like you couldn't take the silence anymore. Nature abhors a vacuum, right? You heard that once; you're still not totally sure what it means, but there has to be a reason why it suddenly came into your head.
You try again.
"I remember you. And your partner. Where is he?"
Let's get that out of the way.
Marina told you all about what happened on the plane. How she got those bruises, the ones she tried to hide. If you're going to be afraid of one of these guys, it's the one who isn't here.
Now it's amusement that you imagine you can see - just a trace of it in his eyes, a glint of silver as he raises one shoulder in the most idle shrug you've ever seen. What's that supposed to mean? That he doesn't care that you remember him? That he doesn't remember you? That he doesn't know where his partner is? What?
"This is about revenge," you say. You're saving him the trouble and hoping he might be…what, grateful? "Yeah. I know. I know. And I also know you're wasting your time. You can't change what happened. We stopped you. You think I regret that? Looks like you're the one who's been stewing all these years, and now you think that torturing me's gonna make any difference to how you feel?"
"I'm not here to torture you."
He starts speaking before you're done, as soon as the T-word passes your lips. But you're insistent, your sentence carrying on like a runaway train. You both fall silent at the same time, and you blink, sure that you must have misheard.
"I'm not here to torture you," he says again, speaking slow this time, like you're still the child he met last time.
Hope.
Arceus, you haven't felt a swell of hope like this since…since that day, actually, when your own Pokémon's life was hanging in the balance, along with Raikou's.
You didn't realise you'd been straining against the rope, but suddenly you sink into the chair. The pressure on your wrists and ankles is replaced by the faint sting of rope burn as air seeps in, carrying a trickle of sweat, and touches broken skin. You let your head fall forwards, so that your chin is almost touching your chest. Breathe.
"Alright," you say, whispering into your lap. "That's good."
Gazing down at the ground, you catch a blurry movement out of the corner of your eye. His shadow. His footsteps are too quiet, but you think you hear something else: a few notes, too slow and drawn out to be recognisable as anything but a dissonant, tuneless hum. You wonder if you were imagining it, but when he speaks again, there's a trace of mocking song in his voice.
"Someone else will be here to do that. It's not my job."
You lift your head, fast enough to hurt your own neck, because you want to catch sight of the smirk that you think you can hear in his voice. But when you look up, his expression hasn't changed. Bastard. You'd spit in his face, but he's even further away from you now, leaning against the door. Against your only escape. His arms are folded. He looks comfortable, like he's been there this whole time.
Your breath quickens and deepens, until your lungs feel more like bellows in a broken organ, a cacophony of fear and anger hissing through clenched teeth.
"Rocket scum! This is the only way you could do it, huh?"
Your voice is trembling now, and your vision is starting to swim, but there's no going back to that blank silence. You try your best to blink away the tears as they come, for one reason only: to see his face, to watch the impact of your words on whatever shred of conscience this hollow shell of a person might have.
"You knew…you couldn't beat me in a fair fight. You thought I was strong then? You don't know me now. You don't know me. You're a fucking coward. Hiding behind your partner, behind machines, behind the Pokémon you use like slaves…"
Words don't seem to be working, but what else do you have? You jolt against the ropes, trying to rattle the chair, as though that would make any difference. It's bolted to the floor. The Rocket doesn't react - no, not even in amusement or satisfaction; his gaze still passes straight through you - but you can imagine how pathetic you must look. You sit back.
Breathe.
"You know…after what happened, I only ever had one bad thought about you. Once. I hoped that Raikou would come after you instead, teach you and your partner a lesson…but then I got on with my life. My Pokémon and I, we grew together, we - hey! Hey! Are you even listening!?"
He's checking his watch now, and as though he's reached some kind of time limit, his fingers fall upon the door handle behind him. In a moment, you're bathed in light and he's just a shadow, turning his back. It gives away just about as much as his face, but you get the sinking feeling that whoever comes through that door next is going to be bringing more than just silence and apathy. This could be your last chance, and you give in to your desperation, just a little.
"Please listen."
The shadow doesn't turn around, but he hesitates in the doorway. Your mouth is dry. You swallow, buoyed up on another, smaller surge of hope: if he was so sure about this, why would he wait? Why listen at all?
"It doesn't need to go this way," you say. Not beseeching - despite it all, you're still too proud for that - but sincere.
Your words are slow and careful, shaking with tension as though they're walking a tightrope.
"What happened with Raikou was a long time ago. Whatever you do to me, nothing's gonna change. We're never gonna agree. I don't regret what I said or did, but…listen, when we talked that day, you said you could understand where I was coming from. Remember? You understood, so I know you're not like this."
Perhaps it's just more imagination, or a trick of the light, but you think that he has bowed his head. You pause to wet your lips. That surge of hope is growing, no matter how slowly. You start to prepare your counteroffer.
"If I hurt your pride, then let's settle it. A lot of trainers wouldn't, but I'm willing to give you that kinda respect, Rocket or not. A battle, a fight, whatever you want. You can even set the rules. How's about that? I'm not a kid anymore. It's not like you can just brush me off and refuse to battle me, right?"
You pause again, this time to drink in a few rounds of oxygen. Your chest is still heaving, and he's not moving. He may as well have been frozen like that, just a shadow in the doorway.
The final card in your deck is not a strong one. Not against this opponent. But it's all you have left.
"Alright. Look. You must have people who care about you. Everyone does. Don't you think I have, too? You might wanna punish me, but…what about them?"
Nothing.
Nature abhors a vacuum, and clearly, so do you. You've run out of things to say, and in the absence of a response, you start to imagine his face softening into something resembling sympathy, and a look in his eyes that speaks of a change of heart. You imagine his fingers glued to the door handle as though it's electrified, while he wrestles with himself. You have to be right. Why else would he still be listening to you?
He turns his head, his face half-illuminated by the brighter light from the corridor outside. At last, there's something. But it's not your hope. It's just a trace of a smile, a flash of teeth as he closes the door behind him.
"I hope you were finished, hero boy."