"I'm telling Mom."
For the older brother, he sure was a wimp. Always running to Mother for everything. If anyone in this family would turn pentito, it would be him.
Ignoring his whining, the girl forged down the carpeted hallway. At the end of the corridor was a lone door guarded by a lanky man with the build of a spaghetti strand.
"You're supposed to be in bed!" Zio Petrel hissed.
"But Father is in there!"
"Nu-uh, no children allowed! Your mom will cut off my balls if she finds you here. Scratch that—she'll cook them and toss them out on Seafoam Island!"
Oh Zio Petrel, always the crude one. Matching his shifting gaze, the girl announced, "You dare deny me an audience with Father?"
That, and Zio Petrel crumpled. "N-No, Young Mistress. Just… don't tell anyone I was on guard duty. Please, I have yet to hit up that sports bar in Saffron City."
With Zio Petrel out of the way, the girl eased open the wooden door—wide enough for her nose to catch the smell of olives and fermented grapes: food, sweat, and suspense.
Illuminated by a ring of candlelight was a space packed with men in sharp black suits. The eldest resided by the wall, the youngest circled a mahogany table.
"The ritual's about to start," whispered Zio Petrel.
Then a gloved hand rose from the audience, and chatter fell like bodies in a gang war.
"Welcome, all," said a voice as deep and dark like liquid chocolate.
The girl's heart fluttered as it shuddered.
A man of power and charisma, Father walked a fine line between light and shadow. Where he went, people bowed. People requested to kiss his hand. People looked the other way without needing to be told.
"You should all be honored to stand here tonight."
Father was speaking his native tongue. Only the most valuable business transactions were conducted in his mother language. For instance, the stories. Through rich vowels and animated consonants, Father painted a picture of his homeland: of sprawling pastoral fields and rolling golden valleys steeped in honeyed sunlight; a memory wrapped in lost traditions, in beauty misunderstood.
"You are here because you have been sponsored," Father was saying. "You are here because you have been chosen.
"Picciotto. What is your name?"
The young man in question, one possessing a large forehead, squeaked out a shrill, "Archer, sir!"
Father told Archer to create a cup with his hands, thumbs interlocking. The former slipped a slip of paper into the makeshift well, struck his silver lighter, and set the paper ablaze.
"This is how you will burn if you betray the Family."
Tongues of fire licking his skin, Archer screamed, "This is how I will burn if I betray the Family!"
Smirking, Father set a gun and knife on the table. "In this Family, you live by the gun and knife. You die by the gun and knife. As with any household, there are rules you must abide by:
"One. To betray the Family is to plea death without trial.
"Two. To violate an amico's wife is to plea death without trial. Admire them. Behave around them.
"Three. Do not kill soldati without his boss's permission.
"Four. Do not be involved in narcotics…"
As Father recited the rules, the young men scream over each other to repeat after him.
"Archer."
"Y-Yes, sir!"
"The finger you shoot with. Hold it up."
Pricking the tips of each men's shooting finger, Father took turns squeezing them until a sizeable drop of blood splattered onto the gun and knife below.
"The omertà has been signed with your blood. Our fates are now intertwined. Welcome to the Family!"
A beastly roar erupted from the audience. The new soldati burst into tears. Hugs were exchanged, kisses generously distributed. From the back door entered trays of steaming food: spaghetti aglio e olio, veal, glasses of imported wine—
And Zio Petrel closed the door. "What happened tonight stays between us, all right? Cosa nostra."
Our thing. Our secret.
The girl beamed. "Cosa nostra!"
Mother was a large, imposing woman with a smoky temper. While the siblings received their looks from their mother, the girl resembled her father the most. At least, what's what Zio Petrel claimed.
Currently, Mother was frowning down at her daughter.
"Why were you snooping around at night?" she snapped.
How did she know? Someone must've turned pentito and tattled. But the only people there were…
Then the girl glimpsed Big Brother, hiding behind Mother's legs.
Of course.
"Stay away from the basement," Mother said sharply.
"What basement?"
At the sound of Father's heavy footfalls, the girl shivered with joy. Mother's frown deepened, and Big Brother tightened his grip over her belt.
"You conducted the omertà with your children present," she said coolly.
Father raised a brow. "They were there? Why didn't you introduce yourselves?"
"They are children!"
"In the future, they will be leading their own oaths. I oversaw my first omertà when I turned six."
"You grew up in a different time."
"And you grew up in ignorance."
The tension was so thick that a tear slipped down Big Brother's cheek, much to Father's chagrin.
"Boys do not cry," he barked. "Come, we must finish your training."
Mother placed a protective arm against Big Brother. "He is going to the park today."
"I have to leave in thirty minutes. My son is severely behind on his regiment."
"Our son is not yet 10!"
"He's old enough to hold a knife."
With a glare of towering derision, Mother took off with Big Brother. After they left, the girl slowly turned to Father, whose teeth were flashing like grenades.
When he noticed her, he pulled down the brim of his fedora.
"You overheard the ceremony." Not a question. Nor a statement.
It was difficult to match Father's gaze, so the girl directed her answer to his shadow. "Yes."
"Were you scared?"
"Why should I be scared?"
When Father responded with silence, ice shot into the girl's heart. Then a low, rumbling sound escaped his throat.
"Mamma mia," he sighed. "I asked for two sons, Celebi. Was it that selfish a wish?"
Father's work kept him away for long periods of time. He missed Big Brother's birthday. Missed his and Mother's anniversary.
The girl's family was different from what was depicted on television. When Father left for work, Mother did not rush to bring him his breakfast nor straighten his tie. He did not kiss her goodbye. Big Brother didn't run for a hug, not that Father would ever be inclined to give one.
One thing's for sure: Father was a very busy man. Whatever his profession, it was very important. Oftentimes more important than family.
One night, the girl glimpsed Father's headlights pulling into the driveway. Accessing the stillness of the house, the girl slipped out to the foyer, where Father stood in the darkness alone.
In the absence of light, the stains on his coat resembled the consequences of running through the rain without an umbrella. But the sky had been as dry as a bleeding throat.
When Father's gaze fell upon the girl, she stiffened.
"What's the best way to dispose of something?" he said. No "Hello" or "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Burn it?"
"That's the traditional way. You can also dissolve it in acid, but that takes time, especially with organic substances. Not to mention that finding a provider can be very expensive."
He made a face, as if annoyed,
"I'll meet you upstairs," he said, "once I clean up."
True to his word, Father met the girl in her room. A shared room, with Big Brother snoring away in his side.
Father sat on the girl's bedside. She had never seen him without his trenchcoat and fedora. Tonight, he was as vulnerable as any other man.
"Did you do anything fun today?" he said.
"Zio Petrel told me jokes. He laughed at all of them."
"Heh, Petrel's a made man. One of the few I trust, though he might not look the part. He knew your nonna."
Grandmother? The girl sat up. "I have a nonna?"
"Yes. Petrel's family has serviced mine for generations. I grew up with him. Your nonna thought he was a wise guy—he tends to talk out of his ass."
"Where is nonna now?"
"Retired."
That answer was spoken with cold finality, effectively closing the subject for further questioning.
Then Father smiled. Not his usual smile around the soldati. This one felt more… intimate.
"How old are you again?" he said.
Once the girl replied, he rubbed his chin, as if mulling something over.
"Growing up, my caretakers sang songs from the land up north. Shall I sing for you?"
The girl excitedly settled into her pillow. Chuckling, Father ran a rough, warm hand over her forehead and channeled a language both familiar and strange.
"Ninna nanna, ninna oh
Questa bimba a chi dò..?"
Aside from the soldati and caretakers, the household was relatively quiet. Nowadays, Big Brother spent a lot of time with Mother, doing who-knows-what. The girl entertained herself by trapping Caterpie under the large oak leaves and jumping on them.
Crunch. Crunch. Familiar sounds which emanate from the basement at the dead of night.
Then the hairs on her neck bristled, an indicator that someone was watching her. Someone with ill intentions.
"Playing all by yourself?" said Father.
Huh. He's home by broad daylight? "Big Brother's with Mother," she said.
"Good. I have something to show you, bambina."
At Father's command, the girl cautiously followed him into the mansion. Caretakers bowed as they passed, some glancing the other way when they reached an unmarked door located at the pinnacle of the winding stairwell.
Of all the places in this house, Father's study was an object of rumors. Yet here she was, standing small under shelves and shelves of mounted firearms.
Father held a finger to his lips. "Cosa nostra."
So Mother didn't know about the contents of this room! Neither did Big Brother!
"Cosa nostra," the girl repeated breathlessly. This was a secret only they shared.
The variety of guns before her rivaled the amount of people in this world. Some were plated with silver, relics from the past. Others were newer, their serial numbers scratched cleanly off. She tiptoed to his desk, ogling in fascination as he disassembled a pistol with surgical precision.
"Always wear gloves," he said. "Isotoner gloves work best at keeping fingerprints from being left behind."
Then he patted his lap. Heart pounding, the girl climbed onto his silken trousers. Like a Pidgey spreading its wings for the first time, she saw the world in a new lens. Up here, she could smell Father's scent… smells veiled by his crisp, silvery cologne.
Up here, nothing could hurt her.
He guided her small hands on top of his, both cradling the grip of a heavy rifle. It's still warm.
"Never underestimate the power of a gun," he said. "When you pick one up, assume it is loaded. Never point a gun at anyone unless you are prepared to use it. And if you do, where should you aim?"
"The heart?"
"If you aim for the torso, the other person might shoot back before you get a second shot. Hence, the safest place to aim is the head." He tenderly taps two fingers against her temple, inciting a chill down her spine.
"Have you ever shot anyone?" she asked, although deep in her heart she knew the answer.
To that, Father chuckled. "I never shoot anything without a good reason."
"Does Father dislike Big Brother?"
Zio Petrel stopped sucking on his cigarette to shoot her an odd look. "When your big brother was born, your dad actually considered quitting the family business. Your mom was ecstatic."
He then exhales a whiff of smoke. "Of course, the organization took priority. He did climb over a mountain of corpses to reach the top."
Before the girl could request clarification, Father returned, his shadow draping over her head.
"What were you two discussing?" he said.
"My award-winning jokes, sir!"
"Petrel, I told you, don't use titles when we're alone."
"Right-a-mundo, Giovanni-o!"
As Zio Petrel started the sedan, Father boarded, motioning for the girl to board his laps. While she made herself comfortable, he adjusted the machine gun mounted on the swivel between his legs.
Where Father went, two more sedans brought up the front and rear. Later she would learn of the special metal plates on the sides of the vehicles, in addition to the bulletproof windows.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To see a side of my work," he replied with a sly grin. "Pull over, Petrel."
The girl had been to the city before. Just not with Father and his associates. Yet here she was, stepping down to the cobblestone path next to the Family's soldati.
"You needn't worry about a thing," Father said, a hand on the back of her shoulder blades.
Together they strolled into the colorful little shops on the side of the road. The shopkeepers kissed Father's hand. They allowed him to the back of their stores, where a mini pachinko parlor had been set up.
Father gestured to the back of the slot machines. Gleaming amidst the golden paint is a small red "R". The symbol of the Family.
"These stickers ensure protection," Father explained. Whatever that meant. "When lost, look for the red 'R.' Our Family will protect you from the evils of this world."
At the Department Store (also owned by the Family), Father picked a dress that matched the girl's hair. It was cute and frilly. She felt like a princess.
"Like a god of war," Father hummed.
Afterwards, they head into the Casino. It was very loud, bright, and cramped. Men were yelling at the screens, cheering some Rapidash and jeering others. Money was passed above the table while black envelopes were traded underneath. Navigating through the crowded space, Father took the girl to the back, where he lifted a poster and pressed a button. A new hallway opened into the basement.
"Telephone scramblers," he said, pointing to some strange contraptions. "Battleship binoculars. Shortwave radios in case Interpol sticks it nose where it doesn't belong."
"Interpol?"
"Villains. Never trust a badge, bambina. Once they ease you into their Bad Cop Good Cop routine, you have a guaranteed ticket to the hole."
"The cons run the prison," Zio Petrel added, falling into stride behind them. "They assign the good jobs, the good cell blocks, and all the extra privileges!"
"Prison?" That word left a scathing taste in the girl's mouth.
Father clicked his teeth. "She doesn't have to worry about that, comuto!"
"Hey hey, I'm just sayin'. In your line of work, it's very rare to pass away peacefully in your sleep, you get me?"
"Nothing bad will happen to her."
"You're not going to around forever, Giovanni."
Mild panic seizes her heart. "Are you going somewhere?" she said.
Father cast a long, unreadable look into the distance before sighing. "The more I invest into Silver, the harder he pushes back. Without an heir, the factions are sure to commit mutiny…"
Suddenly, Father became much older. The greys of his hair broke through their dyed shells. His shoulders were slumped, the creases on his forehead deep and crumpled.
It terrified the girl, seeing Father so miserable. So helpless.
Zio Petrel brought a box onto the table, filled with nylon hoses, cigarettes, liquor, and gasoline. Hard-to-come-by items at this day and age.
"Got a new shipment," he said. "We're planning to sell this at 200 per cent markup."
"300 per cent," said the girl. "If no one buys, cut off their access to supplies. That will create more demand, hence justifying the inflated prices."
Father snapped from his stupor to gawk, as if seeing his daughter for the first time. A grinning Zio Petrel coyly nudged his elbow.
"Why need an heir when you already have an heiress?" he hummed.
And Father burst into hearty laughter. "For once, you might be right."
While Big Brother was sound asleep, Father escorted the girl into the darkness of the mansion.
"You still have that piano wire I gave you?"
Retrieving it from her sock, the girl displayed the slender, razor-sharp cord. "I sliced the watermelon in half."
"So you've been practicing. That's my bambina. You're ready to apply what you've learned."
Upon arriving to the basement, the girl immediately covered her nose.
It… stank, the stenches indiscernible to anything she had ever smelled. Through watery vision, she made out plastic sheets sprawled across the floor. A lightbulb spilling out piss-yellow light, illuminating a blindfolded man tied to a chair. It could've been the absence of light, but there were dark stains on his pants, primarily above the crotch area.
Suddenly, recognition struck her skull. That man was a member of the Family! A soldati. A zio.
As if reading her thoughts, Father planted a firm hand on her trembling shoulders.
"This fool here killed a fellow soldato without my permission." Father's voice was cold. Very unlike the man who sang her lullabies in that wonderful language.
Through busted lips, the other man barked, "I'll never acknowledge you as our leader, bastard!"
"If you kill one of your own with your hands, then you lose the hands that once picked up the pistol." Father slapped on his isotoner gloves. Crunch. Crunch. "But I won't be the one administering your punishment."
"Y-You're gonna force your son to kill? You fiend!"
"My son? Fwahaha! Didn't you hear? The Family will soon be led by an heiress."
"Heiress? Y-You mean… You plan to corrupt the Young Mistress as well?!"
His smile decorated with barbs, Father tightened his hold over the girl's shoulders, pushing her forward. The piano wire burned in her clammy palms. The dizzying odors unpeel themselves: blood, urine, and fear.
"Young Mistress!" the other man howled. "Run away! Don't listen to him! He's evil!"
"In this world, there is only power," Father said calmly. "The strong will win. Strength has nothing to do with right or wrong."
"You killed your own mo—"
Red exploded before the girl's eyes. Adrenaline surging through her veins, she dashed forward, nabbed the revolver dangling from Father's belt, and jammed the barrel down the traitor's jaws.
Her heart pounded in her skull. The fool's muffled screaming thrashed in her ears.
Oh, when had this ever been so fun?
"Either I pull the trigger, or you do it. What'll it be, figlio di puttana?"
Ultimately, she never received her answer, for a stern force yanked her away.
Mother. Her eyes blazed with horror.
Father started, but Mother sliced her hand across his cheek. Without another word, she hauled the girl out of the basement.
The last thing she heard was screaming, followed by eight gunshots. Then all went quiet.
Father hadn't come home in a while. Mother shut down any questions about that subject. The caretakers refused to disclose any information.
These days, the girl spent more time with Mother and Big Brother. Parks. Cafés. Museums. Boring stuff.
The only fun things were the toys. Cloth dolls purchased from a land overseas. Yarn for hair. Button eyes. Handspun outfits usually consisting of aprons and dresses.
They made such docile specimens. On her fourth attempt, the girl managed to sever their heads with the piano wire. As Father said: "Don't stop when they stop moving. Stop when something breaks."
Of course, Big Brother snitched, and Mother confiscated Father's gifts. Whenever she looked at the girl, the latter wondered whose face was reflected in those golden eyes: the daughter, or the father?
When the girl's birthday arrived, Father was absent. Though surrounded by family, the girl felt… empty.
And she didn't know why.
While she retreated to her room, Big Brother stuck a foot into the doorway. Before she told him to fuck off, he tore off his head—
"Zio Petrel!" she gasped, remembering then that he had a knack for disguises.
Though the absurdity of Zio Petrel's giant head on Big Brother's tiny body was absolutely hilarious, she had no time to laugh, for he shoved an unwrapped box into her arms.
"From the boss man," he whispered. "Happy Birthday, Young Mistress! Catch you soon!"
Her heart ramming against her ribcage, the girl ripped apart the box. Inside was a stuffed Persian, a perverted replica of Father's beloved pet Pokemon. She located the slit in the belly, pried the seams apart, and…
Oh! Inside the secret compartment was a .22 pistol and a dagger engraved with the red "R." Beside that was a note:
Happy Birthday, my god of war. Now and forever, cosa nostra.
When the headlights flooded the driveway, the girl rocketed out of bed. Eager to reunite with Father and show him all the new skills she'd perfected, she slinked down the stairwell—
"I told you not to come back."
Mother? The light was hazy, but that was indeed Mother's fiery red hair.
"I came for my daughter." Father's voice was stripped of all familiarity.
"Oh? Last time I checked, you only cared about a second son. Trying to mold her into something I never gave you?"
"You'll wake the children."
"When have you cared about their wellbeing?"
Father snapped his teeth. Crunch. Crunch. The girl's heart sat in her throat, yet curiosity tightened its clutches, prompting her to edge towards the confrontation.
"She will lead the Family into an era of prosperity," Father stated sharply.
"She will be in school, socialising with peers and leading a normal life!" Mother snapped back.
"How dare you deny me the right to my daughter?"
"How dare you threaten your wife with that pistol?"
Suddenly a silence fell, barely strung together by quivering threads.
"Ariana," Father said softly. "I need to preserve my Family. Please."
Mother regarded his bowed head with a brittle shake of her own. "Your Family or our family? You have to choose, Giovanni."
"Many soldati died during the last civil war! There are still those who refuse to accept me as their leader, those who plot my assassination at every waking minute! If I leave, Kanto will experience bloodshed, the likes of which has never been seen before!"
Despite Father's rising volume, Mother kept hers steady.
"The children shouldn't need to prepare for their father's death."
"I won't die."
"That's what your mother said before you did the deed."
"Do not compare me to that witch!"
"Her blood runs through you. It runs through our children as well."
"Tch. You don't understand, Ariana. You never did."
With that haunting declaration, Father stormed out of the house. His tires screeched, headlights waned, then vanished.
Mother said nothing as she watched, although what resembled condensed moonlight glimmered down her cheeks, falling onto the rug like the first rain of spring.
That was the last time the girl saw Father. Eventually Mother took the children out of the region, a little vacation she called it. All the way in some hick land in the mountains with buildings so old they were living fire hazards.
Not to mention that it was so absolutely freezing. Compared to the bountiful sunshine at home, this place was an icebox.
Days passed without much incident. Until it happened.
The girl was rudely jolted from her uneasy slumber by the pale pink light of dawn. Someone was shaking her. Calling her name.
Mother. The urgency in her eyes sliced across the veil of sleep like a hot knife through butter.
"Grab what you can," Mother whispered, despite being in the comforts of their vacation home. "I need to wake Silver."
Something was very, very wrong. Nonetheless, the girl scrambled for her favorite red dress.
"Wake up," Mother was hissing as she rattled Big Brother's shoulder. "We need to leave!"
Then the door opened, and all the blood drained from her complexion.
Zio Petrel's eyeballs bulged from his sockets. As he surveyed the scene, his jaws dangled open, words frozen in his throat.
And he abruptly turned away. And all the tension evaporated from Mother like a popped balloon.
"Silver, wake up," she muttered under her breath. "Baby, please, we need to leave before—"
"Eeeee!"
Zio Petrel's yelp stilled all activity in the room. Beyond the safety of the walls, a new voice entered, a timbre as dangerous as a fully-loaded revolver.
"Why are you making so much noise so early in the day? Are you planning a rude awakening for the boss's family?"
"Why are you prowling around the premises, Archer?"
"Watch your tongue, Petrel. The boss made me a caporegime, a captain. I am the same as Miss Ariana."
"Your head is hot with delusions, kid."
"I am your superior, old man. You will address me as such. Now step aside. I must consult with the heir."
Meanwhile, Big Brother was holding tight to his blankets, unrelenting to Mother's vicious pulling.
Footfalls thumping erratically on carpet, Zio Petrel said loudly, "What the hell do you want with the heir?"
"We've scouted a hospitable location for our new HQ. Thus, we need someone to lead us in the takeover of Hearthome City. The boss would be so pleased once he comes back!"
"Not another step!"
"I vowed not to instigate violence against the Family, but you have forced my hand! Houndoom! Punish him!"
Before the girl could find Father's pistol, Mother grabbed her and lunged out the window. Strangled screams sliced the air and nanoseconds later the door slammed open, but by then Mother had scampered off the property.
"I'm so sorry, Silver," she muttered, over and over like a mantra.
"Father! Father!" the girl screamed—only for her cries to be clamped by an angry hand.
"Shut up about your father!" Mother barked. "He won't save you! Not anymore."
Mother ran until the sun peeked over the snow-capped mountains. She ran until grass grazed her kneecaps, until her boots crushed heaps of bulbous, colorful flowers.
When she stopped, she glanced over her shoulder.
"Silver is still there," she murmured, and in her eyes loomed a painful decision.
Ultimately, Mother slipped an envelope into the girl's dress. "Give this to the first person you trust." And she inhaled her daughter into her ample bosom, arms wrapped protectively around her fragile head.
The girl felt nothing from Mother's embrace. Not even a sliver of warmth.
Alas, Mother left. The girl stood there, envelope in her hands, dress rustling in the pollenated breeze. She peered into the distance, to spinning wind turbines and floating balloons.
Balloons. That was Father's code for money.
Father.
Where were the nearest candy stores? If she could locate those protected pachinko machines, she could call Father. He would rescue her. Like he promised.
The balloons carry in the unseen currents. Upon closer inspection, they possessed faces. They chirped and giggled and danced like the Pokemon back home. One offered a stringy appendage—razor-thin like a piano wire.
That's when the hairs on her neck stiffened. Someone was here. Watching her.
Gazes connected. Like a flash of lightning, his eyes immobilized her under its intense scrutiny. They're the same color as a broken, bleeding sky.
As the ghost approached her, she fumbled for Father's dagger tucked safely in her sock. The smooth, liquored grip soothed her screaming nerves. When his shadow blocked her sun, she plunged her weapon into his heart.
Or at least, she planned to, if her wrist hadn't jerked suddenly, jamming the blade into his shoulder instead. It sank a considerable amount into his flesh, wedging between a cavity of bones.
But he never flinched. Not even so much as a gasp.
She braced as he reached for his pocket… and withdrew an empty wallet.
"I have nothing to offer you," he said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. His ID shimmered in the extremities of vision.
Cyrus.
"Where are your pa—your guardians?" said Cyrus.
He was as young as Archer. But with the shadows under his eyes and his lack of eyebrows, this Cyrus figure made a much more intimidating presence.
Nonetheless, the girl held her tongue. She won't sell out her Family. Won't turn pentito.
Meanwhile, Cyrus continued staring with his creepy face. If only she had Father's pistol! Two bullets into this bastard's skull, and she's free!
"I have no intention of harming you," Cyrus said, holding up his bare hands. "If you took the wrong path, I can escort you back to town. If your guardians told you to wait here, that's fine, but you're a sitting target for the Drifloons."
"Drifloon?"
"The Balloon Pokemon. Despite their docile appearance, they take pleasure in spiriting children away to hell. Do you see that one?"
"That fat one?"
"The more souls Drifloon inhales, the bigger its body expands."
"But it's so cute!"
Cyrus's frown killed her enthusiasm. "You can wait here, but I advise you to exercise caution. Children have gone missing. There is a wall designated for their posters in town. A second one will be added tomorrow."
"Father is coming," she insisted.
"All right."
Yet he remained by her side, his hands always visible. Those funny Drifloons glided aimlessly by, filling the brilliantly blue skies with their low chanting.
When her stomach hurt, the girl realized she hadn't eaten since last night. Or was it two nights ago? When did Mother leave?
Cyrus handed her a Chesto Berry.
"What the hell?" she huffed.
His brow furrowed at her choice of language. "My lunch. I already ate."
She tossed the Berry aside. "I want zuppa."
He picked it up. Dusted it. "Zuppa?"
"Minestrone. Ribollita. Zuppa, duh."
Cyrus had his head tilted like a bewildered Pidgey. "I have sustenance in my apartment." He pulled out a black feather pen from thin air, scribbled something onto a slip of paper, and stuck it on the bench. "That's my address for now. You're welcome to stop by. "
A lot of this didn't smell right to the girl. But she was tired and hungry. Fortunately, this Cyrus person was a spaghetti strand compared to the soldati. She could easily jump him.
"Okay."
"If your parents come, they can find you there."
"I want my knife back."
"Not yet. Blood will squirt out once the foreign object is removed. Once Golbat feeds, I'll return your weapon."
Cyrus's home was… disappointing. Compared to the mansion, his residence was a shoebox.
And there's a kid in here. A boy around the same age as Big Brother. He was sprawled on the futons, wholly invested in his Gameboy until her hair poked him.
"Who's that?" he said.
Cyrus regarded the girl with a raised brow. She crossed her arms. He said, "Saturn, be courteous."
"Saturn?" she echoed. "Like the planet?"
The boy called Saturn wrinkled his nose. "You got a problem with that?"
"Saturn."
"Sorry, sorry…"
As Cyrus cleaned up the area, Saturn said to the girl, "Put your shoes away. Mister Cyrus isn't your man maid!"
"It's fine. I'll pick them up."
"Just because she's rich doesn't mean you should kiss her feet—"
"Saturn."
"Eeep!"
Soon the table was brought out, the food displayed. White rice. Gruel made from white rice. Drinks squeezed from white rice.
"Then don't eat it," Saturn snapped when the girl expressed her disbelief.
"Saturn."
"Fine."
The food fell into two extremities: either it was extremely bland like cardboard or severely overseasoned to the point that her eyeballs changed color.
Hopefully Father would fix everything upon his arrival.
Cyrus waited with her again. Same spot, that meadow infested with flowers and Drifloons. When he was occupied with work, Saturn (reluctantly) filled his shoes. Since neither the girl nor boy felt comfortable with each other, Cyrus assigned his Pokemon to accompany them.
"Let me play," she said while they waited.
Saturn scowled. "Mister Cyrus bought me this Gameboy with his own paycheck! You'll break it like you broke the plates!"
"That wasn't me!"
"Um… I saw you throwing them around like shuriken? I'm not some man maid that'll believe that day was actually night just to please you!"
Suddenly, Saturn blanched. The girl realized then that her cheeks stung, the source being streams of hot, salty liquid.
"S-Sorry," he sputtered. "Here. Just… be careful with it. Please. Mister Cyrus gave it to me."
So this chunk of plastic is that important? After pounding buttons for a few seconds, the girl returned the Gameboy, stating, "What's so fun about this?"
"In this game, you play as Proteam Omega to defeat the evil Demon Brioche! Did you know that this series was based on the adventures of a real Pokemon Trainer? I think he was from some region overseas… Ka… something."
"What else do you do for fun?"
Saturn deflated, his spirits crushed. "Mostly videogames. Anime. Sometimes Mister Cyrus teaches me how to fix stuff."
"What does Cyrus do for fun?"
"Mister Cyrus. He works. He's addicted to working."
Oh, so work is Cyrus's narcotics. "What type of firearm does he carry? What rank is he? What level of law enforcement exists here?"
And Saturn squinted at her as if she just fell out from a different world.
"You don't resemble your father one bit," she said.
That, and Saturn almost fell off the bench. "H-He's not… I mean, we both have blue hair." He donned that stupid grin as his brain struggled for ideas.
Yet when he spoke again, his demeanor changed. "I owe him a lot." He leaned closer so her face reflected in those cat-like eyes. "Instead of hurting him all the time, be grateful he didn't abandon you like they did."
Saturn was very lazy. He refused to get up when Cyrus mopped the floor—merely lifting his legs like a drawbridge. He groaned loudly whenever he had to get off his ass. But he was brilliant. His laziness enabled him to overachieve in making his life as easy as possible, such as when he wrapped his plate with foil so he didn't have to wash it.
Above all, he was a crybaby, especially around Cyrus. He cried when Cyrus crammed those small white pills down his throat; when Cyrus coughed too much; when Cyrus very convincingly played dead by lying there as if his neck was broken.
Their shenanigans were so funny.
Cyrus didn't cry. It was very difficult to elicit an emotion that didn't result in a scowl, smirk, or sigh. Even as she stabbed him, shot him, he never raised his voice (unlike Saturn, who constantly freaked out). Instead, Cyrus confiscated her contraband and scolded her on how her actions today carried heavy consequences in the future.
All that, and he never tried to change her. It was always her reflected in those foggy eyes.
One day, they waited like usual. Cyrus was staring off into the horizon, salvaging some distant memory into the present. He enjoyed spacing out like that.
"I'm leaving Floaroma Town," he said. No prior warning; no small talk.
She stared at him. He cleared his throat.
"There are better work opportunities beyond Mt Coronet. Hearthome City is actively hiring blue-collar workers."
He was leaving her behind.
"After today, I'll escort you to the police station. I'm… sorry I can't do much to help."
Those words churned out through gnashed teeth. Crunch. Crunch.
The girl's fingers hovered over Father's knife—no. Her knife now. She inhaled sharply. Then she held up that envelope.
Brows furrowed, Cyrus opened the contents. His brows shot up to his hairline. Plunged down to his nose bridge. His lips pulled back. Twisted into a frown. Crunch crunch went his teeth.
Then he scribbled out another note and added it to the bulletin on the bench. To the girl, he extended a hand.
"Would you like to accompany me from now on?"
Oh. This stranger whom she'd known since forever wanted her to go with him?
Oh… Who was she fooling? Mother always loved Big Brother more. Father… was busy. His Family took priority.
Warmth enveloping her heart, the girl grabbed Cyrus's hand. So cold. So real.
And Cyrus's expression was odd. He seemed almost… sad.
As they walked away, the girl stole one last glimpse over her shoulder. That presence was gone now. The one hiding behind the rowan trees whenever she would come to wait.
Whoever it was, it felt familiar.
From that moment on, the girl shed her old life. Almost immediately the changes arrived one after the other.
For instance, Jupiter was with them now. Saturn loved her, since according to him, she kept Cyrus from killing himself. Saturn told Jupiter everything. Everything like a good little pentito.
They had long stopped moving around when Cyrus built their home in the middle of mountainous nowhere. At his tender age, he started a clean energy company. Put money into fixing the desolate landscape, nurturing it as it grew into the bustling metropolis of the present.
Behind his staggering success, he harbored an ambition: a perfect world, purged from suffering and pain. To realize that noble goal, he assembled a team. A team whose sights were set beyond the constraints of the galaxy.
By then, the young woman had a new identity: Mars. The old bastard had complemented how she resembled the god of war. He was right. Plus, Mars was much closer to the sun than Saturn or Jupiter.
Years passed without incident. Good times coexisted with the bad. Despite all life's shortcomings, Mars had fun. She found herself truly happy with what she had.
Yet all empires fell, and Galactic was no exception. Everything became undone by a careless mistake. The lies which sustained Galactic all this time finally came into light.
Only after she cut that traitorous Cyrus from her life did Mars uncover a relic from her past: that envelope she gave him all those years ago. Back when she made the mistake of trusting him.
The contents of the letter only served to reopen old scars… and create new wounds.
You are my daughter's last hope.
Do not go to the police.
This is cosa nostra.
Our secret.