19.
Coffee House Scene
It's our time to shoot the stars…
We ain't gonna stop 'til the world is ours
Flight. The sensation of it. Like the hopeful confusion between dreams and waking. A drunken lucidity, shapeless and gaudy at once.
His crackling halo argued in favor of weightlessness as it struggled to keep a firm grip on the knots it spun in his muscles. His body protested, sparks of pain spitting at the haze of tingly pleasure until a big enough hole was singed and they raced up his nerves to his brain. Weightlessness can be the feeling, he reasoned, but flight is ultimately a compromise. You are light. I am not. You are electric. I am…
"You're next."
Marcell groaned, those sparks of pain finally bubbling into a wave that melted the lingering pleasure like a lightbulb on cling wrap. His feet were asleep. His legs felt like sausage. His back flared and his shoulders were forced closer as he fell into a sleepy slouch. Something like static pressed up against his sinuses. His brain still blazed at the warmth of that wonderful dream.
"Are you going to order?"
"Oh, sorry," he yawned, taking his elbows off the counter in the coffee house and nearly losing his balance the other way. "Uh, give me five espresso shots. Not a latte or anything. Just the hot shots… in a cup."
"You want to drink five straight shots?"
"Might as well."
"No flavor or ice or anything?"
"Well, you can put some orange in there, or payapa berry if you got that. I'm kinna craving that right now."
The barista tapped her tablet, sucking in a breath with eye bags that rivaled her customer's. Not that his eyes were visible under those dark sunglasses. His jeans were wrinkled. The collar of his faux leather jacket was caught in the zipper. His Raichu wrapped its tail around his legs, keeping them from buckling in exhaustion. He smelled like burnt rubber and petrichor and was that bit of hair poking out from his beanie straw-colored or actually made of ragged straw?
He slid a card across the counter, twitching fingers obscuring the name, save for —TA CLASS along the bottom edge.
"Ope, nope, can't use that one. That one's for the hardware store," he slurred, stuffing it back in his jacket. "Here," he said then, and slapped a stack of hundred dollar bills on the counter instead.
"Um… it's just gonna be $10.43 for the shots and flavor."
Marcell leafed through the bills. Eleven, twelve… damn, those screwdrivers were making bank. Just the one, then. Yeah. Math. That was a STEM thing, like from Lay School. Shocking, thrilling, engineering and Marcell.
"Do I have enough for a cookie too?"
"Uh, yeah," said the barista, avoiding all eye contact at this point. "Do you want chocolate chip or white chocolate razz berry?"
"No peanut butter?"
"No peanut butter today."
"Uuuummmm… yeah just gimme the shots."
"All right," the barista said, taking one of the hundreds. Marcell watched with glazed eyes as she pressed the keypad of a small counterfeit detection machine next to the tablet. Then pressed it harder. Then quietly cursed out a syrup spill that was making the machine read her 6 as an 8. Then running to get a paper towel and a squirt bottle and scrubbing the stickiness off the buttons the best she could. Then running the bill through the machine. Genuine. Processing the transaction. $89.57 needed in change. Time to go fetch the key for the lockbox where the coffee house kept the twenties. Opening it. Counting out $89.57 and sliding it over to the man boring holes into the fresh hot espresso trickling into tin cups behind the counter.
"Thanks," Marcell said, stuffing his wad of $89.57 into his jeans. He nearly put the eleven other hundreds into the tip jar before he realized those were for cheese food and batteries. Although he'd been spending less on batteries lately. The less he fed the beast, the more he could control his own body during "flights." Like yesterday, when he'd…
"Here are the shots," the barista said, placing a styrofoam cup on the counter in front of him and settling her gaze on the next peeved person in line.
Marcell replaced the bills. He then consumed the cup's contents in a single gulp and left the cup on the counter, traipsing away toward his teammates, who had viewed the whole exchange with a mixture of pride and disgust. When he reached their booth, he lightly tugged Raichu away from his legs and draped himself heavily on his stomach across the opposite seat.
"We've been waiting two hours," James said, removing his own sunglasses and folding them on the table before him. Jessie had her eyes closed as she leaned her head into the crook of his neck.
"I had things to do."
"Work things?"
"I wish. No. Somebody had the human food munchies, and now another pizza restaurant is waiting on maintenance and after I tapped out I spewed raw dough all over this guy's Psyduck."
There was a long silence.
"I t'ink Volky's fizzly friend fried his brain, Jim," Meowth whispered.
"Don't call me that. That's not my name anymore. My name's Marcell Thunderhead, like the tenor player."
"Volkner was your name once upon a time," James said.
Marcell tore up from the bench and slapped the table as hard as he could. "Shut up! Just shut up! What is your game!? What's the point of reminding me!?"
"We're in public," James warned.
"I know you're jealous. You're jealous and you don't think I deserve to be where I am. You'd be more jealous if I finished what you started, but I've left it to you, and now you just take jabs at my other ideas."
"'Cause you forced your way onto our turf," Meowth growled.
"I thought that's what you guys were about. Helping people who get disowned. Giving them a family."
"We help misfits. You ain't no misfit. You're da Triple-S."
"I am the Triple-S! Was the Triple-S! I double-handedly ended the Triple-S! Buzznuts, my back hurts! I need more shots!"
"No, no, no more shots. You're waking up fine," James said, and Raichu agreed, holding his shoulders with its paws.
"Any of you know where I can steal a copy machine? I just… I really wanna renovate a copy machine right now. I wanna rip open the casings and go absolutely Lechonk on that thing."
The three stared at him for a long while. Finally, he took off his sunglasses. The whites of his eyes were all bloodshot. The blue seemed a little too charged and glittery.
"The boss wants to speak with you," James finally said. "Personally, and as soon as possible. Given your thought process seems a bit inhibited, you'll have to delay."
"No, I can talk to the boss."
"You've overloaded."
"What does he wanna know about? Is he gonna promote me?"
"I don't know. He only requested you and not the rest of us."
"I bet this is about yesterday."
"Most likely."
"It felt incredible."
"Seems to be incredible recoil damage as well."
Marcell laughed. "I'm an Alololan Raichuuu. It's such a cuuute Pokémon! Can you believe that?"
Oh, they could believe it. It was confirmed when the espresso failed in its mission and Marcell slumped into sleep on the table, his Kantonian Raichu slipping the sunglasses back on his blissful face.
His dreams were long and glorious and strange.
Hovering a hundred feet above the building, both sets of plasma claws reached toward that wedgy excuse for a rooftop. Effortlessly, he tore it away. Then he found the main power supply — deliberately this time — and with a flick of his wrist he zapped it straight to smokey hell. Felt every breaker weaken and burst like a delightful snap against his skin. Flames erupted blue-hot. Alarms screeched their futile battle cry. He felt the structure collapse around his flickering form, steel beams and loose cables crashing into dust. Then a spark met oxygen. Then the dust ignited. Then the half-melted ceiling corroded completely. Then he turned his glowing gaze to the growing pile of rubble and it crushed itself under the overwhelming pressure of his rage. Then he drank in the power, let it build within his body like a spark, a jolt, a crash of thunder, a white streak of neverending heat that he turned toward the sun and released through his open palms.
The noise was terrific. The lightning beguiled. All concrete fell dark in a wicked eclipse…
And the lightning continued, crackling across his cheeks until he was forced to open his eyes. His limbs seemed to exist again — in the painful, physical sense — not in the odd, cold, idling way of before. He sat up in bed, two pairs of eyes watching his movements. Raichu was cuddled up between his legs, while the floating rectangle of a Rotom Phone, or at least, a crude contraption resembling one, hovered just inches from his face.
[You are Volkner! You are the Gym Leader called Volkner! The Shining, Shocking Star!] the Rotom buzzed with glee.
"No, I am not," he told it, giving it a flick and then fishing around on the side of the bed for his jeans. He was back in the underground apartment. A glass of water and two ibuprofen tablets rested on the nightstand for him.
[But that girl with the Glaceon! She wanted to know what you did with Volkner, and we told her you wouldn't say! Then Jamez called you Volkner! I heard that. And also you understand Electric-Type Pokémon, and you told me you are friends with the human Emmet, and you have a verrrry strong pointed chin that looks like the one Volkner has in this issue of Poké Chic. It has an article called "The Secrets of High-Voltage Volkner," where Volkner opens up about his love of machines and his battle with chronic arrhythmia, and I noticed you often cough to relieve an irregular heartbeat, especially after I have taken over your body~]
"Why would I be Volkner?"
[I am not mad that you are Volkner! I am happy that such a powerful trainer freed me from that boring, boring glass canister and you feed me and you let me use your body to eat hotdogs and pizza and I was a little bit sad that you did not let me try espresso because you said it is like battery acid for humans and I wanted to know what it is like for a human to consume battery acid because digestion is verrrry different from the way I take and exert my energy! Zzzt!]
Marcell bent down and picked up the magazine Emitter had dropped on the floor. The cover showed Volkner sitting coolly on a sea-sprayed rock, his Luxray perched above him and his dirty-gold hair gone full electric-yellow in the baked heat of July. An old issue, Marcell thought. Volkner would've been at the height of his positive popularity. Back when his moniker actually applied.
Raichu wrapped its tail around his chest. It looked up at him with curious eyes, squeaking and sparking. Almost without thinking, Marcell traced his jawline, finding only stubble and static where there used to be a fluffy wing of hair. Or… sometime in the distant past… or another lifetime entirely… or…
"It's true. I was Volkner, the strongest Gym Leader in the Sinnoh region," he told both of them. "But Volkner was trapped in a world that couldn't handle his power, and so I relieved him of that pressure. I'm someone different now. I'm a villain. With you guys, I'm a supervillain, and there's no limit to how strong we can become."
"Raichuuu!"
[And we will make money with your screwdriver and digest pizza all over the sidewalk!]
"Digestion happens when the food stays inside me, Emitter. You're gonna have to work on not steamrolling my organs so much."
[Your organs make the best noises though!]
"Gross. Anyway… should take these pills and call the boss. My head does feel a lot clearer now. Mmh, right after I…"
He tried not to make a big deal out of coughing up the rest of his steamrolled organs in the bathroom, with Emitter being a little too giddy with the commentary.
"Now," Marcell said, zipping up the vest of his fresh, clean uniform and gathering his companions on the couch. He placed the Rocket communicator on the table before him and sent out the private transmission to headquarters. He sucked in his breath. His heart fluttered like normal.
Today I get even stronger…
It wasn't Giovanni who answered. It was a very cross Matori, with a bandage strapped across her left cheek and her black beret missing.
"What do you… oh… Marcell."
"I was requested?" he said with a sneer. Sneering! Was that the next level up from smirking!?
The woman ground her teeth for a moment, her cheeks going redder than his sunburn, which had only gotten worse with the "flights."
"Yes, Giovanni did request an audience with you, though he's still asleep this early in the morning. You should've called last night. Where's your sense of timeliness, Beta?"
"When's a better time to call back? Delay this discussion further?"
He sat up straighter. She scratched at her bandage and sighed.
"Giovanni has approved your promotion to Elite Class. Though such a promotion is unprecedented, he feels your skill and intellect are essential to the next phase of his grand plan for a new world order. Know that your hard work has not gone unnoticed, and neither has your little… renegade scheme."
"I hear they're just calling it 'Vermilion,' like it's one for the history books."
"Don't get cocky."
"I wasn't trying."
"Oh, you were. That's how all Betas act. I was one once. You're suck-ups. You already had the ego where you never sucked up to anyone, and that's where we run into problems."
"Agent Matori, when will I get the pleasure of designating my own directive?"
"After you bind your side of the contract. Your promotion is contingent upon completion of a mission."
"That twerp's Pikachu? If you'd like me to get serious about that, I'll have it to you in an hour. Just tell me where HQ is."
"We'd all like to see that happen, but I'd rather leave it to that trio of troglodytes and then there's no chance of them sharing my office. No, you've been given a new mission. One that requires a little more than mottos and mechs. A mission that will determine if you're truly Team Rocket Elite Class material, or just another grunt at the bottom."
"What'll it be?"
"I can't say. I don't have the clearance for a complete briefing. But I know you'll be dealing with an enemy of ours — someone causing Giovanni an awful lot of indigestion as of late."
[What is indigestion, Marcell?]
He threw the nearest blanket over the floating indigestion next to him.
"In two hours, you will rendezvous with a Rocket Craft at your squad's warehouse. Once aboard, you will depart for the Sinnoh region and receive a full briefing of your mission. Take any Pokémon and materials you feel will be adequate for a tactical situation."
"In Sinnoh, huh…"
"You'll be away from your limelight for a couple of days. I hope that's all right with you."
If Marcell wasn't trying to punch the floating blanket out of the air, he would've seen Matori give her own small sneer.
"Yeah. Sinnoh. I just hear it's even hotter there than it is here."
"Sinnoh is a region of mountainous permafrost. The heat shouldn't trouble you too much."
"You know what part of Sinnoh specifically?"
"I do not have that information. Please be prompt. Every move counts toward your legitimate promotion. Headquarters out."
The projection cut, and Marcell was left with little time to ponder the new information. It was a long trek up to the warehouse. Cutting that time down with Emitter's assistance wasn't the best preparation, and so he spent a good ten minutes chasing it around the apartment to force it out of its shell and into the mini jam jar, where he dropped in a battery and left it to devour.
There was a quick check in the mirror. Brush teeth, clip nails, comb straw, touch up thunderbolts, trim sideburns and shape the beard instead of shaving, (if everyone was going to bring up his chin!) Then scrape all the crispy dead skin off the curves of his ears and slather his face in aloe gel.
"Do you have any idea what's happening in Sinnoh right now," he said to his reflection.
No response. He crossed his arms and gave the double a firm smirk.
A fearsome sneer.
And then an awful yawn. It was time for another cup of shots, and a walk in the Vermilion sunrise past that glorious crater where the gym used to be.
"You wanna try coffee, Raichu?"
"Rai-rai!"
"I'll ask 'em to put spicy syrup in it for you. Just don't tell the tinsel ball. It'll give it indigestion."
"Chuuu?"
"Me? I'm having the same as last time. Plus I think I'll eat a whole dang bagel!"
His vest jumped. He slapped it.
"Behave."
~N~
What do you think Marcell's mission will be? Drop a comment with your predictions~ This chapter was not without a big hint!
Sometimes I wish I was writing a screenplay. Can you imagine a real actor playing Volkner in a movie? Just the physical humor with his character could be insane. Coffee houses and hardware stores are never safe.
Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net June 28, 2022. Reposters cursed!