He'd been in this stupid room for hours, now, with nothing to mark the passing of time but his own broken heart somehow still thrumming along in his chest. His right wrist was handcuffed to the arm of his uncomfortable chair, his thick and curly hair frizzy and untameable in Ula'Ula's clawing humidity and falling annoyingly into his eyes no matter how much he tried to shake it out of the way. He stopped trying, eventually. Why even bother? He'd never been able to control his hair. It would keep falling in his eyes, over and over, whether he wanted it to or not. There was no point in fighting fate. This is where he was. This was what he had to deal with. He chose to let his hair grow out. He could have cut it short, and then he wouldn't be having these problems. But he liked it long. What was wrong with that?

It had its benefits, too. When Looker had initially tried to question him, Sycamore had utilized his hair as a blackout curtain, letting it fall into his face so he could avoid the detective's serious and determined expression.

"Augustine," Looker had said patiently to him, "this will go a lot more quickly if you cooperate. You know as well as I do that keystone was repossessed by the Kalos League. It doesn't belong to you."

"I want a lawyer," was all Sycamore had to say back, because although he had a terrible poker face, with his eyes hidden, Looker had no way of telling how guiltily his gaze shifted from side to side. He was tired, and he certainly wanted this all to be over—but it was the principle of the thing. He couldn't help but dig his heels in. The keystone did belong to him. They'd already taken everything else. He wasn't going to give it up, too.

Eventually, Looker had left him be. Maybe he'd been tired of spinning his wheels, or maybe he came to terms with the fact that this wasn't Sycamore's first rodeo and he wasn't about to break so easily. So there Sycamore was, left to his thoughts, and left to the echo of his voice.

It had been stupid. So incredibly stupid. But he would do it again in a heartbeat. How many chances would he have left? He could have contacted the first lawyer he saw online, but when they gave him his one call, all he had thought to do was dial in to his voicemail. He only ever left one on there. The same one, that he would listen to over and over and over, and who knew when he would be able to listen to it again? Whatever the outcome, it may as well have been truly the last time.

"Augustine, I am so sorry I missed your call. We must have just missed each other; I'll be in Geosenge for work until the weekend. I look forward to hearing how your excavation went when I return. Call if you need me."

If he were here, Sycamore thought bitterly to himself, he would have already found a lawyer and come with bail money. But no one was coming, now. And he would certainly never come home. History repeated itself. Sycamore was alone.

Except there was a polite knock on the door.

The depths of his spiral cut to an abrupt halt, Sycamore frowned as he finally lifted his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes as the door to the hall gently creaked open. A blue-haired man poked his head through, and upon seeing Sycamore, smiled, and came fully inside, shutting the door just as gently behind him. He wasn't too tall, really more average in height compared to Sycamore's long and slender frame, but he was dressed in a well-fitted white suit and expensive-looking oxfords, and he carried with him a heavy leather briefcase that he set neatly to lean against one leg of the table before he took the seat across from him.

Sycamore's brow raised in mild curiosity. He'd never seen this man before in his life. He didn't look like a cop—and despite Sycamore's squeaky clean reputation as a Pokemon Professor, the trouble-maker Augustine had enough up-close-and-personal time with cops to smell it on them. Or... well, he liked to think as much, anyways. He didn't look too much like a lawyer, either.

"Professor Sycamore," the man greeted him, and by the accent, he was Galarian, "it's good to meet you. Bit of a predicament you're in, isn't it?"

"I'd like a lawyer, please," Augustine answered him quietly, "as I've asked countless times already."

The man's smile broadened, and he drew himself up a bit straighter in his chair, practically looking down his nose at Augustine's hunched form.

"I am your lawyer," he answered confidently, "and if you're smart, Professor, you'll listen to me. I've seen the charges the Kalos League is levying against you; they seem adamant to put you out of the way for a long, long time."

"I would very much like to see them try."

"You won't have to wait long. Be my guest. I'm paid today whether you listen to me or not."

He wouldn't have to wait very long at all, actually—but something about the man's tone set Augustine on edge. Just a little bit. This felt strange. Was this supposed to feel so strange? He hadn't dealt with lawyers himself in a long, long time. There was something a little too sly in the man's face, he realized. An arrogant look. He was getting his way just by being there, and something in Augustine's gut told him that was wrong.

"You're as much a lawyer as I am a professor," he mused aloud, but the thought didn't really give him pause or conjure any anxieties. It was just... interesting. Why would this man, this strange, foreign man, whom he had never once seen, slink his way into this remote police office in the middle of Alola just for Sycamore? He shifted forward onto the table, leaning conspiratorially over his elbow as his chained hand tightly gripped the armrest of his seat. "Forgive me, but I don't think you're supposed to be here. I'm sure Detective Looker would be quite interested in why."

"Are you always this suspicious when you're offered solutions on a silver platter?" the man countered, and Augustine smiled patiently.

"If you know who I am and understand why I am here, you ought to understand as well why I'm not exactly so trusting, at the moment. My friend, you haven't even told me your name."

"All things in good time," the man answered, "and don't misunderstand me. I'm not here to extort you or cause any other sort of trouble. I'll admit, I didn't come to Alola for the express purpose of meeting you here—but I did come to meet you, Professor."

Augustine laughed and tapped a pensive finger to his chin. "Well, it feels nice to be wanted. Shall I sign my autograph for you? Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself!" He made a show of yanking against the handcuffs, motioning grandly to the hinges pulled taught. "My writing hand seems to be otherwise occupied!"

The man was already getting fed up with him; that was another thing Augustine had a good sense for. The smile remained on the man's face, but it was a business smile. A tight smile. A similar smile Lysandre used to wear, when they were young and Augustine would come home late and drunk or stoned out of his damned mind, laughing it up like nothing was wrong. A smile that demanded compliance and hid the minefield primed and ready to detonate at one wrong move.

"It must feel nice to wallow in your pit," the man said, "but I'm afraid I don't have time to indulge your depression, and clearly, this is not an ideal time to have a civil discussion with you."

"By all means, let's have a discussion!" Augustine finally flopped back in his seat, stacking his heels back up onto the table as he regarded the man and waited for him to begin. Instead, the man simply took to his feet and neatly straightened his suit jacket.

"When you're ready, we shall," he promised. "I'm leaving you with a show of good will, so do me a favor: don't leave the region. I'd hate to have to follow you across the entire planet. In three days' time, you will meet me at the Melemele sea port. We will discuss business there." He scooped up his briefcase and started towards the door.

"Shall I ask my wardens for a field trip?" Augustine snorted as he went. The man offered him one final smile, then opened the door and left. What a waste of time. He settled in to wait for someone to notice he still hadn't gotten an actual lawyer. Maybe Kukui and Burnet had someone on the way. Augustine was just tired. He could sleep for three thousand years, at this rate.

A hand caught the door before it closed. Strange. Augustine glanced back up.

Chief Nanu looked pissed as all hell, and grudgingly he entered the room, though the ex-professor wasn't sure why he bothered. He had to know as well as Looker by now that Augustine was more stubborn than a tauros. To his surprise, however, Nanu came straight up to him and slipped a key into the handcuffs to release them. Augustine quickly snatched his hand away, holding his arm to his chest as he rubbed his chaffed wrist to soothe it.

"Orders from above," was all Nanu told him, "the League won't be pressing charges."

"What do you mean, not pressing charges?" Augustine repeated, "Director Felix has his walking stick so far up his saggy, wrinkled ass, I can't imagine he'd just let it—"

"Do you want to go or not?" the old cop interrupted him, and wisely, Sycamore shut his mouth. "That's what I thought. I'm taking you somewhere you can't cause trouble until Kukui comes to pick you up."

He led Sycamore back out of the room and down long hallways to the reception office. Looker was there, standing at the front near the windows with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the sway of trees and clouds in the wind. He looked round as he heard their footsteps, but Sycamore pointedly ignored him as he gathered his things from the officer at the front desk. Wallet, phone, earbuds...

"I'm missing my pokeball," he told her.

"I'm sorry," she answered, "but it's already being prepped for transfer."

Of course it was. His fingers flexed at his sides, and for a second he wondered how long it would take them to stop him if he just decided to hop the counter and take it back. He was quick on his feet and taller than her. Longer stride. Younger than Nanu by far. He could outrun them easily. The only thing that stopped him was Nanu's vice-like grip clawing into his shoulder, and pressing his lips into a thin line, Sycamore quietly followed him out of the building and into the passenger seat of his squad car.

"You're not getting the lizard back," Nanu said as he started the engine and pulled carefully out onto the main road, "and you're not getting the rocks back, either. You should count yourself lucky they're even letting you go at all."

"Believe me," Sycamore answered, "I do. But why? That man shows up and all of a sudden the Kalos League rolls over? It doesn't make any sense, nothing has ever come between them and their rules before."

"Did you know him?" Sycamore shook his head, and Nanu hummed his confusion. They came to a red light, and the car slowed to a stop. The old cop drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, clicking his tongue idly as he thought. "Do yourself a favor. Stay out of his business."

"Who was he?"

But Nanu wouldn't answer. His mouth remained firmly shut as the light turned green and the car sped on off down the street. Sycamore sighed and settled back into the plush seat, letting his hair fall back into his face to drown out the harsh Alolan sun.


Crack. Crack. Crack.

Each slam of his heel against the particle board coffee table was a cathartic release that held no peer and no equal. There was something satisfying about the way the wood would split and splinter, how bits and chunks would go flying to expose the cheap craftsmanship, and something immensely pleasurable about imagining Nanu's stupid fucking face in the wood. It was just a bonus that they were going to haul this thing to the dumpster anyways.

Guzma slammed his heel into the wood again, an angry howl loosing from his throat as his rage channeled through kick and into the wood and watching it violently split with crash on the floor. His shoulders and chest heaved from the exertion, but still unsatisfied, he whirled around to find the next victim of his anger, his eyes tunneling in on an ugly lamp that had never worked and ought to have been thrown into the sea long ago. He began to stomp towards it when a pair of arms wrapped around his bicep to try and yank him back, and Guzma's ferocious sneer snapped over to Plumeria, who was unsuccessfully trying to distract him.

"Guz, come on," she pleaded desperately, "ya gotta stop, this isn't getting you anywhere!"

"I'm not some fuckup, Plumes!" he growled back at her, "that asshole drags me away from my work, goes behind my back to get me fuckin' humiliated in court again, and to top it all fuckin' off, he thinks I'm not worth shit—"

"Stop!" she said again, "stop, stop, stop! What the hell could you do there, Guz? You're not a cop, you're not a lawyer, alright, just—stop!" His jaw set, and he prepared to yank himself away from her grip, but her worried expression made him hesitate, and she doubled down. "You know he didn't mean it like that, man. Sit down. Breathe."

He let out a short breath and slumped back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the weathered hardwood with his knees drawn tightly up to his chest. Cautiously, Plumeria sat next to him, putting her arm around his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Guzma mumbled as he calmed down, "I keep doing it, don't I?"

"You worry me sometimes, you know?" she said. He buried his face in his arms.

"Sorry," he repeated. It was no use throwing a tantrum like a child, he tried to tell himself. And Plumes was right. There really wasn't anything he could do. He probably would have just made it all worse. He was lucky the only things to be broken were garbage, anyways. He took another breath, then slowly pulled himself back upright. Something about having the hard, solid wall on his back was grounding, and the cool plaster calmed his hot rage. He still wanted to break shit. Tear down walls. But the rampage left him be, for now.

"I dunno why I let it get to me," he told her, "ya right, after all. Ain't like there's anything I could do. Fuck." He rubbed his hair, scowling hard at the wooden floors. It was too easy to be insignificant. What could he possibly hope to offer Gus in a situation like this? What could he offer anyone? The best thing he had done for his Skull kids was to distance himself as much as he could. All he did was weigh them down.

Plumeria squeezed his shoulder. "Tell me about him," she coaxed him, her voice soft now as she tried to redirect him away from his rage. It worked, somewhat. Guzma imagined Gus, tall but not as tall as him, scruffy, but just as effortlessly charming, all of it hiding something far deeper that had only shown a glimpse when they sat together in the sand.

"His name is Gus," he answered, voice quiet and small, "he's Kukui's friend. And he's not—" For a moment, he struggled, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to decide what he actually knew about him. "He's not a bad guy... I think. He's been really kind to me every time we've met. I don't know what he's done, but... guy's just in a bad place, right now." Finally, he looked her in the eye. She was smiling just as softly as she spoke, and she gave his shoulder another squeeze.

"Doin' his best, huh?" she teased, "lookin' out for strays? Gettin' into trouble to give 'em a place?"

"Fuck off," he said half-heartedly, and she grinned broadly as his lips twitched.

"He's a little bit of an asshole sometimes, too, huh?"

"I said fuck off. C'mon. Help me take all this crap to the dumpster."

Together, they gathered the splintered wood and dragged it out of the shady house and around to the big, rusting dumpster that Guzma has already half-filled with debris in the past month alone. The town was huge; fixing everything up was a big project. Maybe it would take weeks more. Maybe months. Once all the buildings were clean and he had finished renovating the house, he could move on. He wasn't sure where to go, though. It's not like he was useful for much else. Maybe Nanu was right. How far had Guzma even come, really?

They were half-way through dragging the garbage out when the town gate squeaked and groaned on its hinges, grating as it dragged over the ground. Guzma very deliberately ignored it, hefting up a long plank of rotted wood to tip into the dumpster. Plumeria, however, stopped and turned to look, standing on tip-toes to see over Guzma's shoulder.

"Oh, wow," she whistled, "is that him? Yeah—yeah, bro I get it."

"What?" Guzma replied incredulously, still so absorbed in his thoughts and not quite able to get past what Nanu had told him earlier. Plumeria rolled her eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve, yanking him around. Nanu was there, at the gate. Briefly, his eyes met with Guzma's sour scowl. He looked even more tired than usual. Guzma didn't care. But next to him—next to him was Gus. He looked tired, too.

Actually, Guzma thought as he watched the two chat in quiet undertones, he looked more than tired. He was slouched, his eyes downcast and refusing to look up as he nodded along to whatever Nanu was telling him. He remained in place even as Nanu left and shut the gate behind him, lost in pensive thought that drew his attention vaguely to the sidewalk. When he did finally take a glance around the town and spotted Guzma, he looked this way and that before walking sluggishly down the cobble street towards them. Plumeria tugged on Guzma's sleeve again.

"C'mon," she invited him, "you can introduce me!"

"Plumes, wait," Guzma said, but she didn't listen to him and instead headed off to meet Gus half-way down the street. Guzma hastened to follow after her.

"Hey!" she greeted Augustine as she approached, and Guzma frowned as he struggled to offer her his usual charming smile, ending up with something closer to a grimace than anything else. "Gus, right?"

"Allo," he answered her, "I see my reputation precedes me. And you are...?"

"Call me Plumeria. I'm ya boy's sis." She held out her hand, and Gus took her by the fingers, raising her hand to place a soft kiss on her knuckles.

"The pleasure is all mine," he said as they drew away from each other, though he seemed to be going through the motions more than anything. Plumeria, unbothered by this, put her hands on her hips and shot Guzma a sly smile.

"Look at you, G," she teased, "makin' friends with a real gentleman! You're movin' up in the world." To Augustine, she added, "thanks for lookin' out for my big bro. He's always takin' care of other people and never watches his own back. You should hear how he talks 'bout you." But Augustine didn't reply. His eyes slid back to the ground, his hair falling into his eyes as he fidgeted with his hands, drawing into himself and clamming straight up. Guzma cringed as Plumeria began to panic. "Not that I mean he—I mean, not in that way, if that's what you're worried about, and uh, unless you're happy about that, I mean, y'all are cute, so like—but I know y'all just met, so it's not like—not like—"

"Hey, Plumes," Guzma said, "you wanna go scope out the Megamart with me tonight?" Gratefully, her eyes snapped to him; she was desperate to leave before someone started crying, and it frankly could have been any of them at this point. She took a step back to disengage from the conversation/

"Yeah," she said, "yeah, I gotta run by the trailer, anyways. So, uh... come meet me when you're ready?" She took another step back, then another, glancing between the two one final time. Then, she spun on her heel and dashed for the gates. It was quiet for a while after she left, the two of them standing and uncertain of how to proceed. Guzma wanted to ask what happened. It must have been pretty bad. Or was it? He'd only been there less than a day, after all.

"...Hey," Guzma finally managed out. He'd seen the look on Gus's face before. He'd seen it on the face of every kid that came crawling to Skull with nowhere else to go. He'd seen it in his own face in the mirror every day for years, now. "You good?"

"She seems nice," Gus tried to deflect, "I—didn't mean to shut down. Sorry. That was rude of me, she was just trying to be welcoming. I should—should I chase after her? Invite her back?"

"Don't worry 'bout her. She's a strong sumbitch; gettin' a li'l flustered ain't gonna hurt her pride that much." It was hot in the sun. He could feel beads of sweat rolling down his back, but he was used to the brutality of Alola's heat. It was unbearable for tourists, sometimes. By the redness of Gus's face, Guzma was certain it was taking its toll on him, too. He motioned with a jerk of his head, and together they sat in the shade of one of the many tall palm trees lining the streets.

"Is this where you do your community service?" Gus asked as they settled in, and Guzma nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "it's comin' together nice. Almost done washin' the town. Dunno what they're gonna make me do after that, but it'll be nice to have a change of scenery." He sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Maybe it would be more cleaning. He was starting to get pretty good at scrubbing spray paint. Idly, he considered how hard it would be to branch out into windows. Window-cleaning seemed like it would be very zen. He could use some zen in his life.

Gus was busy playing with his hair. The long and thick strands were wind-swept and messy, much different from the carefully styled, if frizzy, waves he kept it in before. He twirled the longer ends around his fingers absently, tugging and pulling occasionally in some attempt to calm himself down. Maybe it was working. Maybe it wasn't. He was still painfully quiet, and so Guzma began to poke at him.

"How did it go at the station?"

"It... went fine. Aren't you going to meet your sister?"

"I will later. Anyways, old man Nanu seemed pretty stressed when he heard, they try to slap you with anything bad?"

This time, Gus didn't answer, instead looking dismissively away towards the far side of town. Guzma tried to lean in and catch his eye; Gus deliberately turned even further. Guzma leaned in again. This time he got somewhere.

"Stop," Gus muttered, frowning as he tried to scoot away.

"Whatever happened," Guzma said, "it's okay to be angry. In fact, get angry. Get pissed. Break somethin'." He wanted Gus to know it was okay. Rage was okay. It was fine to feel it and not distract himself. It was fine to breathe it and tear something apart. Stomp in a fence. Break some old furniture. He reached his hand for his shoulder.

Suddenly Gus recoiled away from his touch, too quickly, far too quickly, and Guzma reflexively flinched back, freezing up as his hands flew up to protect his front. A moment passed and no blow came; slowly, he lowered trembling hands, sucking in deep breaths to ground himself. He was fine. They were fine. Po Town was safe, and so was Gus. Right? But maybe... Swallowing hard, he sought out Gus's confused and worried face. Maybe it was best to let him have space for a little while.

"Guzma," Gus started, and Guzma shook his head and pushed himself to his feet.

"Just think about it," he begged, "don't—don't bottle it up. That shit's gonna overflow, eventually. Let it out before you get hurt. Or before you hurt someone else. Alright? I—I been there, too. Trust me. Just let it out." He motioned vaguely to the remaining shitty particle board they had yet to throw into the dumpster.

"I'm sorry," Gus tried again, "I didn't realize I would scare you, I didn't mean to... to..."

"It's fine," Guzma said, "we're fine. I... I gotta go meet with Plumes. Take your time. We'll talk when you're ready."

Ignoring Gus calling after him, Guzma spun on his heel and ran out of town after Plumeria. He didn't dare look back.