Sound and Silence

by Geekachu

[discontinued; being rewritten]

8. No One Can Find Them

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon.

A/N Hi guys, and sorry for the long wait between updates. :( I've just been a little tied up with random happenings. But anyway, here I am again, bringing you another chapter! :D I had a lot of trouble with this chapter, for some reason—though I guess I say that every time I update, haha. Seriously, though, this thing was a monster to write and edit. If you saw the original version of this, you would throw up, it was so bad. xD (Then again, so are all my other chapters before I edit the heck out of them.) Okay, this Author's Note is getting long, so I'mma go ahead and let you read the chapter now.

OoOoOoOoO

Chapter 8: No One Can Find Them

Gold hardly dared to so much as blink as the Rocket group slowly disappeared deep into the cave. Neither he nor his companions moved an inch. They simply waited in the darkness, hoping that the Rockets wouldn't come back.

Ten minutes passed before anyone spoke.

Gold? Quilava asked. Are we safe yet? She was still pressed firmly against Gold's side, and seemed disinclined to move.

Probably, Gold said, trying to act cool and confident. It really wasn't too hard; with the Rockets showing no sign of reappearing, he felt almost calm. Or maybe it was just the near-freezing temperature getting to him at last. Either way, he supposed, it was probably a good idea to get moving again.

His pokémon shifted around uneasily as Gold, with some difficulty, got to his feet. All right, guys, he said, let's get moving. Quilava, lights.

Gold lifted a hand to cover his eyes as Quilava reignited her flames. As he stood there for several long moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, he tried to come up with some sort of emergency plan.

If they were unlucky enough to be detected by the Rockets while they were still in the cave, what the heck were they going to do? Run like hell? Charge bravely forward with guns blazing? Play dead? (That last thought almost made him laugh.) He'd just have to improvise, he supposed. Gold released a soft sigh of resignation as he lowered his hand to unblock his eyes.

Let's go, he said shortly, as he slowly started to walk forwards, keeping one hand on the wall of the cave as he went along. Aipom suddenly spoke up.

Hey bro? he asked. Who were those guys? Are we gonna be okay? Gold noticed that the normal-type was shivering—whether with cold or fear, he didn't know.

We'll be fine, he replied, trying to sound calm and cheery for Aipom's sake. What, do you think we wouldn't be okay with yours truly under command?

Though it was intended as sort of a joke, Aipom clearly took it very seriously. What? No! he replied, sounding highly scandalized. I'd never doubt you, bro! The cave's just, uh, making me think funny. Uh, yeah, sorry! Of course we'll be okay! he stammered.

Geesh, calm down, Aipom, Gold said, rolling his eyes. It was a joke—I'm not that easy to offend.

Oh, okay, sorry!

Gold felt like banging his head against the wall. Aipom seemed to have a great fear of offending anyone—well, Gold and Quilava at any rate. It's fine, Aipom, he said. Now . . . do you know anything about a group called Team Rocket?

There was a pause as Aipom mulled it over. Finally he said, I don't think so. Are they bad guys? What do they do?

Yeah, they're bad. They do a bunch of nasty stuff, like stealing stuff and killing people. That description of Team Rocket was rather abbreviated, to say the least, but Gold didn't feel like trying to come up with anything better, so he left it at that.

Aipom didn't seem entirely satisfied. Why do they do a bunch of nasty stuff, like stealing things and killing people? he asked guilelessly.

I'll explain later, Gold said briefly, trying to concentrate on keeping his footing. Hey, Quilava? You okay up there?

Yeah, fine. How far do we have to go until we're out of this place, anyway? I'm sick of all this stupid water.

Gold thought it over for a minute. I don't really know, he said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Wow, you're useful.

Good to know you have such a high opinion of me, Gold shot back sarcastically.

There was a short pause before Quilava spoke up again. I'm sorry, Gold, she said apologetically. I just want to get out of here, and, I don't know, never have to see Team Rocket again. But I guess that's just wishful thinking, isn't it?

Gold sighed. I don't know, he said. Team Rocket's pretty unpredictable. (Well, wasn't that the understatement of the century.) But let's just forget about them for right now, and concentrate on getting out of here. Trust me, I don't like this place any more than you do.

As it turned out, 'getting out of here' was easier said than done. The dark was still oppressing as ever, and Gold found it hard to keep focused when it seemed like something was going to jump out and attack them at any second. It didn't help that the floor was getting more and more uneven as they went on. Gold ended up falling on several occasions, leaving his knees bruised and his palms bleeding.

He wasn't sure how long they went on like this, but it was long enough for the fear of the Rockets to fade a little and for him to decide to take a break.

Let's just rest here for a moment, he said, sinking slowly onto the ground.

The walls and floor of the cave, Gold noted, were even colder than the surrounding air. It actually felt kind of nice against his back, he though. He closed his eyes, trying to relax.

He wasn't aware he had fallen asleep until he felt something lightly nudge his face—Aipom was trying to get his attention. Bro? Are you okay? he asked hesitantly.

Gold opened his eyes and glanced at Aipom in mild annoyance. Yeah, fine. Why?

Because we've been sitting here for fifteen minutes, and you haven't moved the whole time, Quilava informed him.

Gold gave a sigh of irritation. That's because I was sleeping.

Is it a good idea to sleep in a cold cave? Aipom asked.

Probably not, Gold admitted. We should probably get going again, I guess—just give me a minute, though. He closed his eyes again.

Gold! Quilava said sharply. Wake up and get up. You're going to freeze to death.

Gold opened his eyes again and gave his starter a deadpan look. Do I look asleep to you? Or frozen?

Kinda sorta. Quilava paused. I'm worried about you, she said, nudging his arm with her nose. Come on—let's just leave. She turned away and began to slowly walk off.

Hey, Gold said, don't go running off without me. He still made no effort to rise, and only shifted a little in his spot. It was then that he noticed his legs were getting numb.

But he didn't have time to wonder about how bad that was, because Quilava's flames suddenly went out again.

Gold abruptly straightened up, feeling his vertebrae crack painfully. Aipom jumped slightly and clutched at Gold's jacket.

Quilava? Gold called out hesitantly.

As before, Quilava was quick to respond. I'm fine. So, are you gonna get up or what?

The hell? Gold gritted his teeth and took several deep, deliberate breaths. Why did you put your flames out?

Because I felt like it.

What kind of stupid answer is that? How the hell are we supposed to go anywhere without any light?

You don't need any light to get up, Quilava reasoned.

Dammit, Quilava! Gold snapped. Just turn on the lights!

I will once you get up, Quilava said, sounding infuriatingly calm.

Snarling, Gold abruptly heaved himself to his feet again, while Aipom clung tightly to his shoulder. All right, I'm up! Now turn on the damn lights!

Quilava, as promised, reignited her flames. Gold let out a harsh, shaky breath, and leaned against the wall of the cave. What the hell was that about? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?

No! I was just making you get up. That seemed like the best way to do it.

Gold rolled his eyes. You weren't wrong, he said tiredly, feeling his anger fade away. But if you ever do that again, I'm gonna die just to spite you.

Noted. Now let's go. Quilava set off again, and Gold slowly followed.

. . . Wait, wasn't he supposed to be the team leader? It was his job to make traveling decisions, wasn't it?

Ugh, whatever.

After what felt like hours of walking, Gold saw a faint light far ahead of them.

They had found the end of the cave.

Yes! Yes! Freedom! Gold began to walk faster when his feet reached less slippery ground. Quilava, speed up a bit.

Quilava picked up the pace, moving at a fast trot. The cave soon became bright enough for everyone to see clearly without Quilava's fire, and warm enough to defrost them (well, Gold and Aipom at least—Quilava never seemed to get cold in the first place).

Yay! We did it! Aipom cheered. We make a great team, don't we?

Gold let out a weak laugh. Yeah, I guess so. Now hold on a second while I send a text. He typed out a quick out of the cave now to Lyra, who promptly responded with that took a while :P. Gold snorted and rolled his eyes. He'd get her back for that—later.

Okay team, let's get to Azalea before—hey, wait. He stopped walking, and sniffed at the air. Is that rain?

Indeed it was, much to Gold displeasure. As they reached the mouth of the cave, he got a nice sight of the downpour outside. They would get soaked in minutes once they got out there, which really sucked, seeing as, according to the Pokégear's map, Azalea Town was a mile away. Okay, so that really wasn't much, but Gold didn't see why people just couldn't build the city closer to the cave. Quite ridiculous, he thought.

So, said Quilava nonchalantly, we going out there or what? While her words and tone were casual, her expression was quite disgruntled. Gold, taking pity on her, took out her pokéball from his backpack.

Yeah, but you can go back inside, he said, holding out the ball. There's no need for you to get wet, too.

Nah, I'm fine, she said dismissively.

Gold raised an eyebrow. Are you sure? he asked. I thought fire-types hated water.

I'm not gonna wuss out over some rain. Someone needs to make sure no one beats us up, and, no offense to Aipom, I'm the only one who can really do that.

I'm not that bad, Aipom protested. I know all these cool moves. . . .

It took a few minutes of arguing and discussing, but it was eventually settled that both pokemon would stay outside, and that everyone would assume the roles they had on the cave—Gold was the guide, Aipom was the sound alert system, and Quilava was the bodyguard.

Traveling in rain, Gold found, was not a pleasant experience in the least. Not only did it feel like he was walking under a waterfall, but it was stupidly windy, and he had to squint to keep the water from blowing into his eyes.

His pokémon weren't doing much better—Aipom, who was shivering badly, had his little arms wrapped tightly around Gold's neck, and Quilava was obviously not pleased with how soaked her fur was getting.

Not much longer, guys, Gold said. Despite being cold, wet, and thoroughly exhausted, he felt almost cheerful at the thought of reaching suitable shelter. He was determined to get straight to a pokémon center, get a room, and thenfall asleep. He didn't care that it wasn't even seven o' clock in the evening—it wasn't like there would be anything else to do tonight, anyway.

But wait, he still had to report to the police and tell them about his Rocket sighting. How bothersome. Maybe he could just tell the first person he came across about the incident, then get them to find the police.

Speaking of people . . .

Hey, there's someone up ahead! Gold said, pointing out the stranger about a hundred feet from them. Whoever that person was, he was sure that they could help.

. . . Now that he thought about it, though, Gold was beginning to feel doubtful of his own judgment. Since when had he been so trusting of complete strangers? And, as he got closer, he could tell that the person was a tallish man wearing a black raincoat over his equally dark clothes.

It wasn't until Gold was practically an arm's length away that the man noticed him, and before Gold could come up with some way to communicate his intentions quickly and effectively, the man held up his hand in front of him in a 'stay back' sort of gesture. Then he started to speak.

Now, Gold couldn't tell exactly what the guy was saying (in fact, he could hardly understand him at all), he thought he saw him say something along the lines of 'unsafe to go in there'.

Go in where? Gold looked past the man and saw a large indentation of sorts in the ground, and in the middle of it, what appeared to be a well.

Okay . . . why the hell would he want to go in there?

Suddenly, the man came closer to him and had the audacity to actually start physically pushing him back. Gold nearly tripped backwards in surprise, and angrily batted away the creep's arm. Quilava, who was standing next to him at the time, immediately reacted with far more aggression, jumping in front of her trainer, head and tail ignited. The message was clear: Back off or get burned.

The man wisely took the hint and backed away several steps (looking less than pleased). He started to talk again, but this time Gold couldn't make out anything.

Let's just go, guys, he said, stumbling away from the strange man. Neither pokémon protested to this, though they kept glancing back in the stranger's direction, apparently finding him to be very peculiar.

Gold, who was busy concentrating on simply getting to Azalea without any more encounters, didn't waste energy in looking back. If he had, he might have noticed several dark-clothed people hastily climbing out of the well and into the darkness of the surrounding forest, arms burdened by heavy sacks.

OoOoOoOoO

Kurt Oldman was by no means a worrisome sort of man. What with his days spent making custom pokéballs out of apricorns (a profession for which he was well-known), looking after his obscenely energetic granddaughter, and keeping pesky neighborhood kids off his property, he had no time to fret over small things.

Team Rocket, however, was no small thing.

Kurt squinted at his computer screen in distaste, as if that little action would do anything besides give him a headache. The article he was currently reading was published two days after the Violet City incident ('incident' really seemed like a very weak word for such a horrible event), and Kurt couldn't help but look back at it every day, as if it would give him more information if he waited long enough.

Kurt found himself reading the information on the statistics over and over again—there were two hundred eighty-nine people injured, and out of those, eight were killed. A good half of the people wounded were members of the police force—Detective Bertram (better known as Gym Leader Falkner), being among them.

The amount of pokémon affected was far greater—upwards of one thousand were injured, and at least a hundred killed. While many of those were young flying-types that had been trapped in the burning gym for too long, Kurt had read that all of the leader's pokémon were seriously wounded, and two were dead.

Things didn't stop there. Kurt had recently heard about a Rocket invasion that had happened at New Bark Town. Though no one was seriously injured, there was apparently a large amount of stolen items and property damage (particularly in the Elm Lab's case).

And to top all of that off, Azalea was now facing trouble. A few days back, four or five overly-friendly peddlers had come to town, advertising a 'rare, delicious delicacy'—which had turned out to be slowpoke tails. Most of the citizens were disgusted at the very idea of eating such a thing, and had been less than polite about making their thoughts known. The peddlers hadn't been able to stay long before they were practically run out of town.

The very next day, roughly a hundred slowpoke living in Azalea had disappeared. The one thing on everyone's minds, and where every finger pointed to, was Team Rocket.

"Grandpa?"

Kurt's head turned to the area on his right, where his granddaughter sat on the floor, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle in front of her.

"Yes, Maisy?" he asked in a rather gruff voice, as was his habit.

The seven-year-old, who was idly fiddling with one of the puzzle pieces, was entirely unaffected by his tone. "Do you think they're gonna find Slowpoke soon?" she asked for the fourth—no, fifth—time that day. Each time she asked it, Kurt noticed, she sounded a little less hopeful.

And, like every other time she inquired about their beloved household companion, Kurt replied with a simple "Pretty soon, I'd say. Just gotta be patient."

"Yeah," she muttered softly, staring unseeingly at her puzzle, hardly sounding like she'd even heard him. Suddenly, though, her head shot up, and her eyes flickered towards the door. Someone had just knocked.

In a flash, Maisy was on her feet, racing towards the door. "Maybe they've found him!" she squealed in excitement, and, before Kurt could stop her, grabbed the knob and yanked open the door.

Kurt was already walking over, scolding his granddaughter for her heedless behavior, when Maisy's shoulders slumped. "It's just a trainer," she said miserably, just as Kurt came to stand next to her. Maisy, without being told, slunk back to where she had been before. Kurt stayed where he was, staring suspiciously at the figure in the doorway.

The stranger was a short, weedy-looking young teenager who had obviously been out in the rain for a while, judging from his sodden clothes and shivering form. His two pokémon—a quilava and an aipom—looked equally pitiful, and were giving him identical grieving looks.

Kurt stood there a moment, taking in the sight. The kid stared silently back at him, looking unsure of what to do.

"Well?" Kurt said unsympathetically. "What do you want?"

The stranger stared at him for a minute before snapping out of his reverie and quickly typing something out on the Pokégear strapped to his wrist. He held it up in front of Kurt's face.

Kurt impatiently batted the thing away, and glared at the trainer in annoyance. "Kid, I can't read such a small screen. Now, state your business before I throw you to the curb."

The boy flailed his arms in frustration (as aipom clung tightly to his shoulder), and let out what sounded like a cross between a growl and a sob. He pointed to the general area of his ear and shook his head vigorously.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "You deaf, sonny?" he asked blandly.

The trainer nodded.

Kurt gave a short laugh of surprise—he honestly hadn't expected the kid to say yes. "A deaf trainer, eh? Well, I'll be." Kurt stood there thoughtfully for a moment. The kid continued to stare at him, probably hoping to be invited inside.

Kurt studied the kid for a minute before gesturing for him to come in.

The trainer grinned happily before walking inside—and promptly tripping on the doormat.

Kurt, startled, roughly grabbed the boy's arms before he could fall. That move had obviously been unexpected, for the kid flinched away upon contact, stumbling backwards and accidentally hitting his back against the wall. The aipom screeched in pain as its tail was squished, then flung itself into the air as soon as it was free.

Maisy, who had been watching the proceedings from a short distance away, suddenly found herself with a sopping wet aipom huddled against her feet. Maisy slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles. The quilava rolled its eyes in either amusement or annoyance, and the boy rubbed the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish.

Kurt shot the group a deadpan look before scanning his eyes around for something for the kid to write on. His eyes landed on a notepad and pen sitting at the corner of his desk. He snatched them up, wrote What's your name? on the paper, and handed it over.

The kid quickly scribbled out a name, then turned the notebook around. Gold Heart, it read. Who are you?

Kurt took the note pad back. Kurt Oldman, he wrote. Why are you here?

Gold took the notepad back. Kurt saw his mouth quirk upwards slightly, and Kurt knew that he found the name funny. Curt old man, he was surely thinking. Not that the kid had any right to laugh. Gold Heart, indeed.

Any annoyance Kurt had with the boy, however, quickly dissolved when Gold showed him what he had written next.

I saw Team Rocket in Union Cave.

Kurt stood there for a long moment, staring at the words on the page. He gave Gold a long, searching look. Gold's face showed no sign of dishonesty. But why had he come here, instead of to the police? Maybe he was just easier to find, he supposed.

Kurt decided against wasting time by asking. Instead, he simply wrote, Show me where you saw them.

Gold nodded, then made his way to the door. His pokémon, not needing to be prompted, quickly followed him. Kurt walked briskly after them.

"Maisy," Kurt called behind his shoulder. "Lock the door after I leave. Don't let anyone in unless it's me, understood?"

"Okay," Maisy said hesitantly. "But where are you going?"

Kurt paused at the doorway, while Gold waited impatiently outside. "I'll explain when I come back, okay?"

"Okay."

Kurt gave a stiff smile. "I'll be back before you know it." And with that, he followed Gold out into the rain.

OoOoOoOoO

As Gold lead Kurt to Union Cave, he wondered vaguely what they would do when they got there. Would Kurt make him go back in there? Pfft—as if Gold would agree to that. Maybe the old man would just phone the police when they got to the entrance, then provide some sort of witness statement . . . ? Gold didn't have a lot of experience with police stuff—he had no idea what the proper protocol was.

He was beginning to wish that he'd just taken the time to find a police station or pokémon center, instead of going to random houses and knocking until he found somebody who would open their damn door.

Now he was in this situation, half walking, half jogging in the pouring rain, being followed by Curt Old Man.

How lovely.

They were just passing the well when Gold felt Aipom's voice in his head.

Hey, Gold? What are those people doing over there?

Gold stopped in his tracks to see what Aipom was talking about (okay, so maybe it was more of an excuse to take a breather, but whatever). Over where?

Aipom pointed his tail towards the entrance of the well. It was hard to see through wall of rain, but Gold could just make out dark figures going out of the well, then into the woods.

What were they doing?

Gold looked over in Kurt's direction, where he saw the old man standing about three feet away, and, instead of staring at him impatiently like Gold had expected, was squinting at the strange spectacle. Without a word, Kurt strode off towards the well, making a 'come along' gesture at Gold, not bothering to look back. Gold huffed in annoyance—what happened to heading to Union Cave?—but followed nonetheless.

Well, something tells me that we're heading into trouble, Quilava said dryly, falling in step beside Gold. Who bets the old guy's gonna forget about us in—ooh, look at that.

Ahead of him, Gold saw Kurt having some sort of heated discussion with what he recognized as the guard he had met earlier. Kurt had his back turned to Gold, so he couldn't see his face, but the guard looked very angry and . . . worried?

Gold, Quilava, and Aipom watched watched from a safe distance as Kurt took several step forwards, forcing the guard to back up. The stranger groped around behind himself before finding the well's rim. He snarled, pointed a threatening finger towards Kurt, and then vaulted himself over the edge and into the well.

I . . . wasn't expecting that, Quilava said as they watched Kurt approach the well and peer into it. Let's hope he didn't fall too far.

Gold snorted. Screw that, he said. I hope he broke his back.

. . . Um, okay. Oh, and now it looks like the old man's going down there, too, Quilava observed, watching as Kurt cautiously descended down the well via an old-looking wooden ladder.

Gold gaped incredulously as Kurt disappeared into the well. Are you kidding me? I try to show the old geezer where I saw the Rockets, then he decides to go spelunking instead? What the hell?

Gold suddenly felt Aipom make some sort of vocal sound and tighten his grip on Gold's shoulder. Gold! he said urgently. I heard a shout! I think the Kurt guy fell!

Gold froze. Are you sure it was him? he asked. Slowly, reluctantly, he started to creep towards the well.

I'm pretty sure it was him. I heard sort of a gasp, and then . . . a bad word.

Gold couldn't help but feel guilty when he wanted to laugh at that. He leaned over the edge of the well, eyes focused on the forest in front of him, unwilling to look down.

He took a deep calming breath, steeling himself for what he might see. He looked into the well—and almost instantly stumbled back. Oh hell . . . I think he's dead. He's not moving. He's not moving at all.

Quilava's posture stiffened, and Aipom wrapped his arms around Gold's neck and promptly burst into tears. Oh no! We killed him!

Gold cringed at his words. Well . . . maybe he's not dead, he reasoned, trying to convince both himself and his pokémon. We'll just have to go down there and see. He gulped involuntarily, and looked at his two pokémon. If Kurt was dead, he didn't want them seeing that. He pulled out both pokéballs. Okay, guys, return.

Before either Quilava or Aipom could protest, they were both sucked into their pokéballs, leaving Gold alone in the rain. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and walked purposely towards the well before he could talk himself out of it.

The ladder that lead underground was very slippery, as he quickly discovered after nearly falling off immediately after he first grabbed it. It was also covered in cold, slimy mud, probably from all the time people had climbed it.

The journey down was over far too soon. It was surprisingly light in the well, thanks to a large torch attached to the far wall, and Gold could clearly see Kurt's still form just feet from him. He shuddered.

Get it together, you coward, Gold thought to himself. It's not the first time you've seen a dead person.

He took a slow step forward, then another, and that's all it took for him to reach Kurt. The old man was lying flat on his back. His eyes were closed.

Gold knelt down on the damp, pebbled ground, and slowly reached out a hand. He gave Kurt's shoulder a very light shake.

Kurt's eyes snapped open.

That movement was enough the send Gold scrambling backwards (he was really expecting him to be dead, okay?), nearly colliding with the stone wall.

But at least Kurt was still alive. Gold crept back to his side, wondering what to do next.

Kurt solved that that problem for him. He fixed Gold with a surprisingly sharp stare. "Hey, kid. Can you understand what I'm saying?"

Gold sent him a withering glare—what a rudely-worded question—but nodded anyway.

"Good," Kurt said, completely ignoring Gold's irritated expression. "So here's the deal. I fell down here—"

Kurt abruptly stopped talking when he saw Gold roll his eyes at the obvious statement. "Don't give me that attitude, boy. Anyway, I hurt my back, so I can't move. Do you understand?"

Gold threw his hands in the air out of sheer annoyance. 'Obviously. I'm not a retard, you old geezer!'

"I don't know what you just said to me," (no kidding) "but I'm guessing it's something your mama would have tanned your hide for. As I was saying, send out your pokémon, and go down that tunnel," he said, gesturing to his right. Gold looked to where he was pointing and saw a small tunnel—seven feet tall at most—that was pitch black on the inside. "See what's going on over there."

Oh, right. There was that creepy guard guy down the tunnel, wasn't there? And now it was apparently Gold's job to investigate. Wasn't that just great?

Gold slowly got up, and cast one last glance at Kurt before turning and walking away.

After reaching to the mouth of the tunnel, he released Quilava, who upon appearing, looked quickly at the injured Kurt. Is he alive? she asked.

Yeah. He just hurt his back, I guess. Now shut up before someone hears you.

Quilava glared at him. I wasn't talking out loud in the first place, genius.

. . . Well, never mind, then. Sorry.

You are forgiven. So, I'm guessing we're supposed to go down that dark, spooky tunnel of doom?

Yeah, said Gold, already starting along. Light the way.

Together, they walked hurriedly through the small tunnel, which turned out to be only about twenty feet long. The tunnel opened up to cave of sorts that was much larger than the other part of the well. The place was full of tall rock formations that blocked their view of much of the interior, and dark pools of water that looked strangely lifeless. Like the smaller section, this area was fairly bright—for a cave, that was.

Gold didn't see anyone. Besides a few zubat flitting about here and there, the place looked to be abandoned. But with all the rocks in the way, that wasn't exactly surprising.

Gold's slowly walked farther into the cave, eyes peeled for any sign of humans. Quilava suddenly stopped and pricked her ears forward.

I hear something. Footsteps.

Gold stood still. Where?

Somewhere ahead of us—oh shoot, it's that guy.

Before he could ask who 'that guy' was, Gold spotted a figure quickly advancing towards them. He saw two flashes of red light, and a pair of rattata appeared on the cave floor.

Almost on reflex, Gold ordered Quilava to use ember, which sent the rats scurrying in different directions. Quilava bounded after one of them, while the other just stood there, clearly wondering what to do next.

Then, without warning, it started to speed towards Gold, teeth bared.

Well, it looked like it was improvisation time. . . .

Gold held up a hand in front of himself. Stop! he ordered.

Somewhat to his surprise, the rattata actually skidded to a halt and looked at him in confusion. Hey, did you just—

That's all the rattata had time to say before Quilava made a sudden reappearance, sending the unfortunate normal-type flying into a wall with a powerful quick attack.

Nice one.

I know, right?

The man, apparently out of usable pokémon, turned and ran away, not even bothering to return his rattata. Gold, acting on instinct, raced after him.

The man was fast, though, and Gold quickly lost sight of him. They were deeper into the cave now, but, strangely enough, it was brighter.

The pair slowed down and crept along quietly (well, Gold hoped they were being quiet), keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of human activity.

It turned out that it was a scent, not a sight that tipped them off. Gold's nose wrinkled as he breathed in a nauseating, coppery smell.

I'm gonna assume that you can smell what I can, said Gold, keeping his mental tone calm, despite the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Quilava's reply was short. Yeah. Blood.

OoOoOoOoO

Proton was beginning to get impatient.

Not that impatience was something he was unfamiliar with—he felt it every day—but he had no particular reason to be experiencing such a feeling right now. Everything was going smoothly and according to plan; the town's slowpoke were all rounded up and in cages, their tails were being efficiently harvested, and several dozen tails had already been wrapped up and shipped out to Mahogany Town, where they would hopefully generate more revenue than they had here in Azalea.

But still, some part of him seemed to keep telling him to hurry it up, to get it done faster. Proton gave an internal huff (to do so out loud would have been indecorous) and crossed his arms, trying to content himself with simply observing as the Rocket grunts busily sliced the tails off the weakly protesting slowpoke, then handed the commodities off to the ones who would wrap them in paper and stuff them in bags for quick transit.

Surveying the process did help a little, but it wasn't quite enough. Sure, the pools of blood collecting on the ground were rather nice to look at, and the painful moans of the slowpoke had a sort of gratifying quality to them, Proton couldn't help but wish for something more . . . extreme.

Perhaps that was the cause of his current restlessness. He just wanted a bit of excitement. Proton stood with his back against a wall, staring blankly into space as thoughts of the more exhilarating kind—human blood pouring from open wounds, bodies impaled on wooden beams and metal poles, agonized screams of pain—swirled gently about through his head, giving him a distinct sense of longing. His hands itched to grab something sharp and start tearing at something. He didn't particularly care what he would tear, just so long as it was something that could flail around and make a lot of screechy noises. And could make a reasonable amount of facial expressions.

"Executive Proton, sir!"

Proton shifted his eyes slightly to look at the owner of the voice which had called him, and who was currently standing several meters in front of him, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. The man was wearing a hat that hid some of his features, and had on a long raincoat that covered him down to his calves, but Proton knew who he was.

"What is it, Alan? Why are you not guarding the entrance?" Proton asked, voice neutral.

"Uh, well, sir, there was some old guy wantin' to get down the well, and he kept tryin' to get me to move. Then I went down here to warn everybody—'cause he just wouldn't go—and he tried to follow me, but he fell most the way. I think he could be dead, sir."

Proton's expression was unreadable. "You think? Did you not check?"

Alan faltered. "Uh, well, I didn't see him breathin' or nothin', but, uh, I didn't have time to check, 'cause then I started seein' someone else climbin' down, and then stuff happened, and then he went and beat both my pokémon with just his one."

By now, the other grunts—numbering eight in total—had stopped their work to listen in to the conversation. All eyes were on the Executive, whose face was completely indecipherable, barring a single raised eyebrow, which some might say could indicate interest.

Now, Proton wasn't interested in either the incapacitated man or the 'stuff' that happened, but he was interested in the other intruder. "And is this 'someone else' coming our way?"

"Yessir, I think so—but I don't think he's got no chance of bein' real trouble. He's just some kid."

Proton smiled thinly. "'Just some kid,' you say?" he asked, then his smile dropped. "Well, children can call the authorities, too, my friend." Before Alan could come up with anything else to say, Proton snapped out, "Everyone, prepare for evacuation!"

As the other grunts rushed to collect all the tails they had harvested, Proton stared at Alan, and, for the first time, look angry. "Had you the meager ability to actually prevent a child from calling for help," Proton said lowly, voice barely above a whisper, "we may have been safe to finish our work here."

Alan turned an alarming shade of gray. "I-I'm so sorry sir . . . I deserve to be punished. . . ."

"Oh, you will be punished, grunt, you will be. Now go help the others!"

Alan quickly stumbled away from him, just in time for Proton to get a good view of a streak of fire being blown towards the ceiling. It clearly had not been intended to hit anyone, and simply faded in the air, but it had been enough to get everyone's attention—and for Proton to get a good look at the newcomers. Upon seeing the human, his brain jolted in recognition.

It was the boy from Violet City.

The one who had confronted him. The one who had attacked his pokémon. The one who had made him lose a hostage.

Proton felt like scowling, but instead simply smiled at the trainer in acknowledgment.

The grunts froze in place as they watched to see what Proton would do. "It's a pleasure to see you again, young trainer. You remember me, don't you? Though, as I recall, we never had the chance to introduce ourselves. My name is Proton," he said, then gestured to the other members, "and these are my subordinates."

The boy said nothing. He stared at Proton with intense dislike, then swept his gaze around the rest of the area, briefly taking in the sight of the grunts. His eyes stopped at the slowpoke in the cages. The pokémon standing next to him—a quilava, Proton noted—stiffened at the sight and raised the hair along its back. How cute.

Proton smiled in amusement and approached the trainer, who looked wary, but defiant.

The Executive stopped several feet in front of the trainer, still smiling. He casually stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and regarded the boy thoughtfully. "You know," he said in a conversational tone, "you remind me a bit of a trainer named Red—you may have heard of him. He was the strong, silent type, or so I was told—I never had the honor of meeting him, you see.

"You, too, are silent—" Proton though back to their first meeting, where the trainer had bested him, all thanks to sheer luck.

"—but not so strong." He withdrew a hand from his jacket and held up a gun.

Both trainer and pokémon froze in place as Proton pointed the firearm at the boy's forehead. "Back up against the wall," he ordered, removing all traces of friendliness from his voice, and replacing his smile with a sneer.

The trainer silently complied with his order, wide, golden eyes never leaving his face. Proton studied those eyes, looking for signs of fear. He was almost impressed when he observed that the boy's face was almost entirely blank. The fear was there, certainly, but it was well-hidden. Proton smiled in amusement. He would have fun with this child.

"Everyone!" he barked out suddenly, not taking his eyes off the trainer, "execute Evacuation Plan Four!

The grunts quickly ran out the cave with their most necessary supplies, leaving Proton and the trainer-pokémon duo alone. Proton coolly reached into the trainer's pockets, finding only a pokéball and a trainer card. Proton nonchalantly pocketed the ball, then looked at the trainer card, keeping his gun an inch away from the boy's head.

"Well, let's see what this card has to say about you," he said, smiling slightly. "Your name is Gold Heart—poor child, what a garish name—and you are only fourteen years old. So young, so young. And—oh! Well, well, well. Isn't this interesting." His smile grew wider.

Proton looked into the boy's eyes, which still held the same nearly blank expression. "It says here," he began slowly, "right in this little list of medical information," 'Profound deafness.'

"You . . . are deaf."

The boy squared his shoulders and looked at him coldly, as if to say, You got a problem with that?

Proton laughed softly. "A deaf pokémon trainer. What a joke." Proton was pleased to see the boy's expression darken at his words. Proton looked down at the card in his hand once more. "Oh, but it says here you live in New Bark Town. And yet you've managed to come all the way to Azalea—what an accomplishment!" Proton would have given the trainer—the handicapped trainer—a slow clap, had his hands not been occupied. He settled with a patronizing smile.

"Well, Mister Gold Heart, I suppose it's time for me to take my leave. But first, I'd like to leave a little calling card here—so that the people know what they're dealing with, you see." Proton slowly pressed the gun against his captive's forehead, enjoying the frightened look on the boy's face, and the pitiful whimper of the quilava next to him.

Slowly, deliberately, he cocked the gun. It was a shame he hadn't the time to have more fun with his victim. . . .

Then, without warning, the trainer dropped to the floor, and before Proton could readjust his aim, he felt an electrical charge surge through his gun and up his arm. It wasn't a severe shock, but it was more than enough to make him jerk back, dropping both items from his hands.

Proton swiftly stepped out of the way of an incoming Quick Attack from the quilava, and pulled out two pokéballs. "Koffing, Zubat, attack!" he called out as he flung his pokéballs into the air.

Koffing and Zulbat were onto the quilava as soon as they were released. The quilava fired a large ember at Zubat, but it flew around the flames and slammed into the fire-type at full force (which, admittedly, wasn't very hard).

Proton's eyes skimmed the area for his dropped weapon, and quickly found it. To his displeasure (though not at all to his surprise), he saw that the gun was partially melted, obviously thanks to the quilava. He growled and directed his gaze back to the battle.

The quilava was still very much alive and kicking, and had received a teammate. Proton raised an eyebrow at the small aipom running about, sending out thunderbolts—pathetically weak thunderbolts—in random directions. So that must have been the cause of the electricity.

Proton, now that he no longer had to worry about anyone hearing him, let out a harsh growl. "Koffing! Zubat! Target the quilava!" As he and his opponent watched the brawl, Proton regretted not bringing any strong pokémon. He certainly hadn't planned on needing them.

As Zubat flew after the quilava, which was dodging about every which way, the aipom sent a thunderbolt towards Proton's pokémon. Proton almost snorted in amusement when the attack didn't even almost connect.

His amusement faded somewhat when Zubat was hit straight-on by the quilava's flame wheel. Zubat was sent spiraling in the opposite direction, then fell to the ground, unconscious. Proton silently returned the bat, frowning in displeasure. That left Koffing to handle the other two on its own.

"Koffing, use tackle!"

Koffing was quick to obey the command—and hit the wrong target. Protong was very much tempted to facepalm.

"No! You were supposed to hit the quilava, you stupid pokémon, not the aipom!" He didn't bother to celebrate the fact that the aipom was now out of commission—it was a small threat compared to the fire-type.

Koffing gave a "Koff!" of apology, and went after the quilava instead.

It wasn't fast enough—the quilava was already speeding towards Koffing with another flame wheel. Koffing was sent flying backwards, nearly colliding with the wall. The quilava puffed itself up in triumph, and prepared another attack.

Proton knew how this fight was going to end. He started to slowly walk towards the part of the cave that would lead him back to ground level, all the while keeping an eye on the battle.

The boy's eyes darted over to him, giving him a wary, appraising look. Proton smile calmly at him, then pulled out a pokéball.

"Koffing, return!"

The instant his pokémon was sucked back inside, Proton sprinted off towards freedom. He had no time for this boy; he had other work to do, far more important work, work that would put thoughts of this Gold Heart out of his head.

And yet, as he raced out the well and through the forest, there was only one thought on his mind.

I'll see you again, boy.

OoOoOoOoO

Violet City's most popular outdoor cafe was jam-packed with customers tonight, and Lyra counted herself lucky that she had even been able to get a seat. She could understand why it was so popular—the food here was fantastic. The waiters were friendly, the ambiance was pleasant, and that fact that it catered to both people and pokémon was great, but seriously, the food. Lyra sighed luxuriously as she breathed in the smell of her perfectly seasoned pasta dish.

"Well, guys, how's dinner?" she asked her pokémon (plus Heracross).

Pidgey chirped in response, not looking up from the oatmeal muffin Lyra had bought her, while Marill and Herecross both made sounds of agreement to . . . whatever Pidgey had said. Whatever it was, they seemed to be enjoying their meals as well, so Lyra nodded in satisfaction. "Good," she said. Because this stuff cost me like a zillion yen.

"Excuse me?" a quiet voice to her left suddenly said, causing Lyra to startle slightly in surprise and swivel her head in the direction of the sound.

A blue-haired girl, probably about her age, was standing near the table. She gave an apologetic smile. "I can't seem to be able to find an open table. Would it be all right if I sat here?"

Lyra grinned brightly. "Sure! Have a seat," she said. She probably sounded a little too eager, but hey, she hadn't talked to a girl her age in forever.

The girl smiled again and pulled out a seat and sat down directly across from Lyra. She extended a pale, smooth-skinned hand in Lyra's direction. "I'm Crystal. Crystal Alma," she said. "But most people call me Chris."

Lyra gave Chris's hand a firm shake. "Nice to meet you, Chris. I'm Lyra. Lyra Lev. But most people call me . . . uh, well, they call me Lyra."

Chris gave a soft laugh. Well, it was more of a short 'hmm' with a laughing sort of undertone to it, but Lyra was going to count it as an actual laugh. "Nice to meet you, Lyra. So, are these your pokémon?" she said in a politely conversational tone.

Lyra nodded. "Yeah. Well, Herecross here isn't really mine—he's just been staying with me for the past few days, long story—but Marill and Pidgey are. Say hi, guys."

The pokémon friendly gave waves in greeting, to which Chris responded in kind. "Nice to meet you all," she greeted with a smile. "So," she said, turning back to Lyra, "you're a trainer, I guess?" When Lyra nodded, Chris asked, "Are you going to try the gym challenge?"

Lyra shrugged. "I'm not sure. Imagine trying to beat all eight gym leaders—especially Leader Clair! Ugh," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically (Chris looked slightly amused). "I might, though, who knows. How 'bout you? Are you gonna try for all the badges?"

Chris's smiled faltered, and looked at Lyra blankly for a second, as though unsure of how to respond. Lyra stared back, confused. Did she say something wrong?

It took a moment before she realized something. "Oh, wait! I didn't even ask if you were even a trainer, did I?" Lyra said, resisting the urge to nervously rub the back of her neck. "Hehe, I guess I'm just so unused to traveling that I assume everybody I meet is a trainer."

Chris looked somewhat relived at that. "Ah, that makes sense," she said, laughing a little. "I was beginning to wonder if you had been spying on me or something." She grinned sheepishly. "But yeah, I'm a trainer."

"Cool."

The conversation lapsed briefly as a handsome young waiter came to their table. Chris smiled politely as she made her order, and pretended not to notice when the waiter gave her a flirtatious wink. Lyra raised an eyebrow after he had left.

"Uh, did that guy just hit on you or something?" Well, maybe 'hit on' was too strong a phrase, but geez.

Chris didn't bat an eyelash. "Yeah, pretty much. I go here a lot, and I've kinda noticed that he does that with a lot of the girls who eat here. They seem to really like it, which I suppose is why he hasn't been fired."

Lyra frowned. "Well, he didn't wink at me," she said, feeling almost left out.

It was Chris's turn to frown. "I think it'd be pretty creepy if he flirted with someone your age."

Lyra looked at her indignantly. "I'm almost fifteen!" she huffed. "Geesh, what is it with people thinking I'm some sort of little kid?"

Chris gave a small shrug. "Hey, looking young's not such a bad thing," she said reasonably, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "You'll appreciate it when you're forty-something, and everyone tells you that you look thirty-something."

Lyra tilted her head. "You know, I actually never thought of it that way," she said slowly, pleased at the thought. "That's something I should tell my best friend. He looks pretty young for his age, too." Lyra grinned, then pulled her wallet out from her pocket. She took out a photo and held it up for Chris to see. "There he is, sitting next to me. He's thirteen in that picture. Isn't he cuuuuuuuute?"

Chris grinned at the photo for a split second before her smile dropped. "Wait a second." She looked up at Lyra, then back to the picture, then back at Lyra again. "You're Lyra," she said blankly.

"Uh, yeah. . . ."

"Like, the Lyra! Gold's friend!" Before Lyra could indignantly demand to know when she ever met Gold, Chris smacked her own forehead with her palm. "I'm such an idiot," she said rather loudly, attracting strange looks from both Lyra's pokémon and a couple of nearby restaurant customers. Chris blushed hotly when she noticed the stares—and Lyra's surprisingly intimidating glower.

"So," Lyra said in a faux-casual voice, leaning back in her seat, "how do you know Gold?"

Chris cleared her throat. "We, uh, met during the Team Rocket incident." She held up a hand when Lyra opened her mouth to speak. "Please let me finish—I'll make it short. We were caught up in all the ruckus, so we teamed up for safety. Later on, Gold mentioned you at one point, telling me to let him know if anything weird happens in Violet, because he's worried about you. That's all there is to it."

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "Okay, I guess that makes sense," she said. "But I'm still kinda mad right now—at Gold, not you, just to be clear."

Chris nodded. "I can understand that," she agreed. "I guess I wouldn't be too happy if I found out that my best friend did that."

"I know, right? I mean, he mentioned nothing about you when he told me about the Rockets. Seriously, since when do friends not tell their friends when they make other friends—"

"Wait, what?" Chris interrupted, furrowing her eyebrows. "Not to be rude, but first of all, Gold's not my friend—he's an acquaintance. Second of all, I was thinking you'd be mad that he's keeping tabs on you—not for making a friend."

Lyra gave an unladylike snort and rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. Keeping tabs on me? We're friends, Chris. We watch each other's backs. I would've done the same thing," she said. "That's what friends are supposed to do."

Chris looked at her doubtfully, but didn't argue. "I guess I really wouldn't know," she said with a shrug. "I don't have any friends. But still, if you really think about it, it does seem kind of—"

"Whoa, wait, seriously?" Lyra interrupted. She stared at Chris in disbelief. "You don't have any friends? Like, not even one? Why not?" she demanded.

"Um, no reason, really. I just don't happen to have any."

Lyra muttered a soft "wow" under her breath. Then she suddenly straightened in her chair and smiled broadly. Chris could practically see a light-bulb flash over her head. "Well, in that case," she said, holding up a finger for emphasis. "I have a proposition." She paused briefly.

Waiting. . . .

"I can be your friend!" she finally said, then sat there with a big grin on her face, waiting for Chris to make a response.

Chris stared at her, dumbfounded. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I, uh . . . well. You know we just met, right?"

Lyra paused for a second. "Well, okay, have it your way. We can be friendly acquaintances, then slowly and steadily become friends. Taking it nice and slow."

Chris wasn't sure how to react. "Well, that's very nice of you, Lyra," she began, "but I'm not sure I'm exactly friend material."

Lyra waved her hand dismissively. "You haven't even tried being a friend, though. Come on, Chris! Just give me a chance! We can head to Azalea Town together, and if you still don't want to be friends, we can call it quits, no hard feelings." Lyra clasped her hands together and looked at her beseechingly.

Chris, to her own surprise, was very tempted by the offer. Having a friend sounded . . . pretty nice. "Well . . . okay."

Lyra squealed and clapped her hands softly together. "Awesome!"

Chris held up a finger. "I do have a small condition though. Your pokémon have to be okay with me coming along with you."

"No problem," Lyra said with confidence. "Hey! Pidgey, Marill," she said, catching the attention of her companions, who had apparently been in some sort of deep discussion with each other. They stopped their chatter and looked at her expectantly. "How would you like it if Chris here coming along with us on our adventure?"

Pidgey, ever the agreeable one, made a chirp of consent, and Marill gave a little hop of excitement, probably liking the liking the idea of another potential playmate.

Lyra smiled in approval. "Sweet." She turned to Heracross. "Well, Heracross, I know you'll probably be heading back home any time now, but what do you think of Chris? Does she seem like a good traveling companion to you?"

Heracross gave Chris a critical, searching look, giving her the feeling she was being x-rayed. After a long moment, Chris seemed to have passed his test, if Heracross's smile was anything to go by.

Before either of the girls could say anything else, the waiter suddenly appeared with a steaming plate of spaghetti. Chris thanked him politely, and the server smiled and asked if there was anything else he could do for them. They both said "No, thank you," and the waiter turned to leave—until Lyra spoke up again.

"Oh, hey, waiter guy," she said. "I'm fifteen years old, just so you know. So you can hit on me if you want."

Chris nearly choked on a mouthful of her food, and the waiter just stood there awkwardly for a second before mumbling, "Uh, okay," and leaving the scene.

Meanwhile, Lyra just sat there serenely while Chris regained her breath. She gaped at Lyra. "I can't believe you just did that," she said, covering her mouth in an attempt to avoid a laughing fit.

Lyra shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Chris shook her head in disbelief, and studied the other girl for a moment or two. "You know, Lyra," she said slowly, a grin spreading across her face, "I think I'm going to like being your friend."

OoOoOoOoO

Kurt had just settled himself down on the living room's only armchair when the clock struck ten—two hours since he had gotten home. He sighed and let his head fall against the back of the chair.

The night had been . . . unpleasant. Falling down the well and hitting his back hadn't even been the worst part—it had only taken around ten minutes before he was able to painfully haul himself to his feet, and he'd be back to normal in a few days.

He had managed to walk up to a wall—he had wanted something to lean against to get some strength back before he went charging off deep into the well—when he saw a group of people in Rocket uniforms hastily leaving the well. Kurt had frozen in place against the stone wall, trying to remain unseen and unheard. None of the Rockets had noticed him as they passed by, and for that, Kurt had been relieved and grateful.

But then he had remembered something that no good-hearted person should have forgotten in the first place—the boy.

Even thinking about it made Kurt's stomach churn with guilt. He had unknowingly sent a child—a child—into a Rocket death trap.

Against all odds, though, Gold had been alive and unharmed when Kurt made found him at the end of the cave. How he had been able to stay in one piece, Kurt didn't know and didn't ask.

The slowpoke, on the other hand, hadn't been so lucky—they were all crammed tightly in metal cages, half of them with severed tails. Gold had been hard at work freeing them, yanking off sections of the cages after the quilava had melted the surrounding bars. As soon as Kurt had arrived, he had gotten Gold's attention long enough for him to borrow the boy's Pokégear and call the police. Gold, busy with the cages, had disregarded him completely after that.

The next half hour had been a pain in the neck, what with the police arriving and ordering witness statements from the both of them. As much as Kurt had found the whole process annoying, it must have been even worse for Gold, who had been forced to write his statements down, due to the fact that there was apparently no one in the entire Azalea police force who could sign. Incompetent dumbasses.

Gold had marched off as soon as he had been allowed, with a yay, freedom! sort of grin on his face, which Kurt found vaguely amusing. Kurt wondered how the police had been done with the kid so quickly—then again, maybe they were just too annoyed with him to keep him around very long. Kurt had watched his antics from afar, trying not to smile. It had been apparent that Gold had been doing everything in his power to be obnoxious as possible, from rolling his eyes at practically everything the investigators said, to trying to walk off before they were done interrogating him. Kurt would have liked to try that escape technique himself—had he been a bratty, immature teenager with no sense of decorum.

Oh, the sorrows of being a civilized, dignified old man who actually respected authority.

But at least he was home at last, with a safely returned slowpoke, a granddaughter who was cheerful once again, and the optimistic hope that the Rockets wouldn't make a return.

Well, not to this town, at any rate. Where they would strike next, Kurt didn't know.

OoOoOoOoO

A/N You know what I learned while writing this thing?

I. Cannot. Write. Dialogue. Between. Two. Girls. -.- Someone, anyone, please give me some advice on that; I just don't know what to do to make it less dumb. *cries forever*

Another important thing I learned is that I LOVE writing from Proton's perspective! :D I hope it turned out all right, because I'd hate for you guys to not enjoy that part while I did. D: Especially because that was perhaps my favorite part of the chapter.

And now it's Q and A time, just in case you people had these questions in mind (and because I'm a chatterbox):

Q: I noticed Chris seemed a bit more formal and proper with Lyra than she has been with anyone else. Why is that?

A: Think about it this way. In her first appearance, when she receives her starter, she's basically giddy with excitement (and she's also putting on a bit of an act with that, though I can't tell you why right now), so she's a bit out of character. Her interactions with her pokémon are also more casual, because, well, they're her pokémon. As for Gold, well, they met in a thoroughly unusual and awkward manner, which kinda threw Chris off her game. Her meeting with Lyra is her first real opportunity to be her more graceful and decorous self.

Q: Is it just me, or does Lyra seem kinda rude?

A: I'd say she's just a little socially retarded. Having Gold for a friend doesn't help matters, either.

Q: Kurt's last name. Why.

A: It was funny. Sue me. :P

Q: Kurt was being a bit of a grump, wasn't he?

A: To be fair, he was under a lot of stress, and Gold being inexcusably rude didn't help matters. Let's face it, folks, Gold kinda deserved it. (Except for Kurt's initial . . . curtness. That was uncalled for.)

Q: Gold didn't seem that afraid of Proton, or at least not afraid enough to be realistic.

A: Remember that Gold doesn't communicate vocally—he signs. Ever seen two deaf people having a discussion before? It involves a lot of facial expressions. Not to mention that when Gold is reading someone's lips, he has to look straight at their faces the whole time. As a result, Gold is very accustomed to various facial expressions and knowing what they mean. That gives him an advantage when it comes to keeping aware of his own outward appearance. (Though, Proton, being Proton, still saw right through him.)

Q: Dude, why does Proton even know Alan's first name?

A: Proton knows how to manipulate people. In the games, he's been described as scary and cruel, but also very much well-liked. It works like this: Proton refers to all the grunts (that he works with regularly) by their first names, and is generally civil and friendly to them, making them feel 'special' in a way—but if they displease him, they're in for a world of pain, and they know it. They all like and admire him in a twisted, Stockholm syndrome kind of way, and that's exactly how Proton wants it.

Q: While we're on the subject of Proton, why didn't he just kill Gold and go on with his business, instead of sending everyone away, then running away himself?

A: As a Rocket Executive, Proton's got a lot riding on his shoulders. The possibility that Gold (or Kurt) was somehow able to phone the police was enough for Proton to decide to get out before things got too complicated.

Q: Hey, how did Proton know Gold could understand him?

A: He figured it out on his own, silly.

Okay, that's enough with the Q and A. There's more I want to talk about, but I think you guys have suffered enough!

I would love it if you reviewed and/or voted on my poll. :D Whether or not you decide to do either of those, have a good day, and thanks for reading! This is Geek, signing out!