Chapter Eight: The Federal Reclamation Act

Sorting through what useless documents Morganna Gnarl and her spawn had left behind, Cecille Freys pined for a cigarette. The situation was untenable; more than untenable, it was dangerous, embarrassing and wasteful. They had sent two agents - TWO - one senior civil servant and one untested enforcement officer, with no real resources, no security detail and no solid intelligence. The pair had been shoved into an unstable, unknown, uncooperative settlement, lacking any command, and expected to administrate it. That was, after informing the rabble their command had abandoned them.

There were untrained, unregistered, unwashed Poochyena everywhere. A gang of Murkrows, Cecille was certain were ex blackbird syndicate, refused to leave or answer questions. He had to account for at least a thousand human workers, a hundred vehicles, the factory itself, and on top that, the Muk. It insisted its name was Noxos, was the best tracker in all of Kanto, could read, see in the dark, speak to trees and absorb the memories of those it killed.

Packs of ruffians, Cecille could deal with; the Pewter City police were already on their way. Old gangsters, Cecille could deal with; he had shot one out of the sky himself, and threatened to call Don Poe. Humans and inventory, Cecille could deal with; he recorded everything, and never hesitated when he spoke. But a toxic… Cecille was neither qualified nor equipped to deal with a toxic.

A couple years ago he had audited a steelworks infested with two Koffing. Cecille had never been in the company of any creature as earnestly joyous and violently deranged as those two abominations.

And they were all the same: all toxics were insane. Cecille didn't blame them; he admitted it freely; if he was a pile of sludge, a floating vent, or a living garbage heap, nothing in the word could keep him from losing his mind.

Still, sympathy aside, they had to be dealt with - and that meant one of two things. The Federal Act for Special Authority In Regards To Ease of Access Under Extreme Circumstances stated: An agent of the government, endangered by or by any means hindered by a toxic entity, is legally authorised to contain and/or destroy the entity, or, in such a circumstance wherein the agent judges it more conducive, to their current and/or general office, to utilise the entity uncontained and alive, they are authorised to deputise said entity until such a time that the entity is deemed no longer useful, at which point the entity must be contained and/or destroyed.

Getting Noxos into a barrel, or risking whatever setting it on fire might release, was far more trouble than Cecille had time for. Cecille would send Kanto's best tracker in search of Morganna Gnarl. He judged that to be more conducive to his current and/or general office.

Cecille stepped in front of the large, ornate mirror in Morganna's office. The thing was huge, decorated with vines and blossoms, dirty with pollen. Licking his right paw, Cecille shined the gold coin on his forehead. Next he straightened his whiskers, adjusted his tie, patted down his suit, and ran his claws through the fur on his face.

"You are Cecille Freys," he barked at his reflection. "First government agent to be sent into the field under the protection of the Federal Reclamation Act. For all intents and purposes, Mr Freys, you run the Gnarl Corn Company."

Glancing back at the pile of documents on Morganna's desk, Cecille sighed and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "If you were really going to quit you wouldn't have brought them, Cecille." He placed one to his lips and lit it with a gilded lighter. "Okay. Federal Reclamation Act, you own Gnarl, you are the fuchsia fury of the federal government. Go tell that puddle of ooze to find Morganna, set up a data collection team from terrified humans that hate you - because there are no official records of the estate's size, contents or populace - convince the Pewter City Police the Poochyena are dangerous criminals, shoot any Murkrow still loitering, and somehow find time to come up with a plan to get this place running again at twice the yield for half the cost." Cecille Freys flashed his trademarked smirk, "Is that all? Come on, don't go easy on me."

Marching out of the office, down the metal stairway, through the dead factory, and out the doors, Cecille barely had time to acknowledge his partner before his eyes filled with dust.

Something had fallen out of the sky. Something big.

Hacking up dirt, wiping silt from his face and patting down his suit, Cecille clung to his authority. "You better be a care package, a meteor, or fucking dead!" As the dust settled and Cecille's eyes adjusted, he noticed Officer D.G Herk, his Pincer counterpart, stood by his side. A few human stragglers staggered around, one Murkrow had been knocked to the ground, and a twisted metal shape sat shaking in a crater.

For a moment Cecille thought it might actually be a meteor, or some other starsent mystery. Sitting spherical and shattered, crunching and quivering, the fallen satellite seemed to be made of bent blades, jagged plates and reflective panels. Cecille approached it slowly. Herk drew his pistol. The Murkrow whined pitifully. "I do not get paid enough for this…" grumbled Cecille Freys as he quickened his pace. "Herk, if this is a bomb, I want you to know, it's been less than a pain to work with you."

The pincer nodded, humorlessly.

"You know you can quip back, right? Wait, can you even talk? You haven't said a word since we met; I assumed you were going for a silent, stoic guardian thing, but now I'm worried you lost your voice in some horrible accident, or-"

"Listen…" croaked the twisted metal shape.

Cecille's eyes widened, "Did that thing just speak?"

"Listen…" it repeated.

Moving closer, he finally recognised what it was. Bent and broken, barely alive, a Skarmory was lying in the crater. "Herk, get on the direct line in the office and call Pewter Medical Centre." The Pincer hesitated. "NOW!"

As Herk rushed away, Cecille rushed towards. Reaching the the Skarmory's crippled form, the Meowth could do nothing but cringe, take a deep breath and say "Fuck."

Mustering what little strength it had, the Skarmory responded with the same word: "Listen…"

Cecille placed a paw on one of the bird's broken wings. "I'm listening." Flashing a glance back at the factory, Cecille tried to reassure it. "Help is coming."

"We found him…" strained the Skarmory. "Where is Gnarl?"

"The Gnarls are gone. I'm Cecille Freys, I'm with the government." The Meowth leaned in closer. "Who did you find?"

"Captain Haze…"

"You found Captain Haze?"

With a painful, high pitched wrench, the Skarmory lifted its head. "I… I am Captain Haze. Special force… special… scout. We were looking for… We found him."

Leaning under the Skarmory's wing, trying to get as close to its face as possible, Cecille asked once more. "Who did you find?"

"Alakazam… We found him. Last Alakazam."

Cecille felt his heart try to leap out of his chest. "Say that again." Pushing as far into the tangled web of Skarmory as he could, blades cutting his cheek and tearing his jacket, Cecille grabbed Haze by the beak. "Say that again!"

"We found him…" murmured the bird.

"You found an Alakazam?"

"We found… last…"

The Skarmory shuddered, dying.

Cecille watched as the light in its eyes went out. Even though the beast was made of steel, somehow Cecille felt the metal of its body lose all life; one moment it was a Skarmory, and the next it was a pile of scrap. It wasn't the first time someone had died while he held them.

Pulling himself out of the Skarmory's corpse, Cecille Freys, tasted blood in his mouth. The cut on his cheek was gushing crimson, and as he went to wipe his face he tore his sleeve. Cecille was a mess; his suit was in shreds, he was bleeding all over, he had lost a claw and two whiskers, somehow his tie had found its way onto the other side of his neck, and worst of all, his left shoe was missing.

But none of that mattered.

The Gnarl Estate didn't matter.

Even The Federal Reclamation Act didn't matter anymore.

Gesturing vaguely at the dead Skarmory, and doing his best to still sound interested, Cecille shouted "Clean up this mess!" to whoever was still around. He wasn't paying attention. Cecille was frantically rummaging through his pockets looking for his phone, his eyes darting from side to side, his breath heavy, his mind racing.

Finally he managed to pull his phone from out his jacket. Staring down at the small black rectangle he froze. Where should he make the call? He scanned the area, locked onto a nearby corn field, and marched towards it.

Once he was suitably lost amongst the tall stems and damp shadows, Cecille sat down. He checked the sky one last time for Murkrows, pulled out his gun, lay it next to him, and then unlocked his phone. Scrolling through his contacts, Cecille stopped on the name T. Tales. Pressing call, the Meowth took a deep breath and rubbed his coin for good luck. It rang twice before a radio-perfect, silk-smooth voice full of weaponised charisma said "Cecille! My main man with the financial plan! The mint of the mint who's sharp as a flint! The cat with the gold plaque who keeps the country in the black! How are you? Taking to the pastoral life? Do you love corn more than anything in the world now, tell me, do you? I bet you do." The voice shouted away from the phone, "Some quiet, please, the king of corn is on the phone!" Cecille could hear laughter erupting. "Seriously, what can I do for you, Frey?"

Usually Cecille would have sighed and fired back, but he couldn't even think of engaging. "You, me, Lamia and Cleo need to talk on a secure line, and we need to do it yesterday."

"Getting homesick, buddy?"

Cecille growled and gripped his phone so tight he felt his claws coming out. "Taylor, this is it. I have something big enough for us to… This is it Taylor! Just fucking listen to me! Secure line, all four of us, yesterday!"

The voice on the other end rained itself in. "Right, okay, sure. And how are you going to-"

"Taylor. Shut up. Call me back on a secure line."

"Good point, well made."

Taylor hung up and Cecille sighed. Now all he could do was wait and hope.

Almost immediately Taylor called him back.

"What the fuck are you doing?" asked Cecille.

"You're on the Gnarl Estate, right? What is that, a four/five hour drive? Why don't we just come in person?"

Cecille groaned, "I really don't think your physical presence outweighs the use of your influence at the capital."

"Let me ask you a question, Freys. This thing you've found, do you trust literally anyone else in the world outside of us four with it?"

"No.." said Cecille, uneasily.

"Are you going to be able to get it back or take it down or do whatever it is that needs to be done - all on your sorry little lonesome?"

Cecille sighed, resignation and resent leaking into his tone. "No…"

"Then, regardless of how exceptional I am at my job, it's probably a better use of my time to come down and help you with whatever task I am comically unqualified for. No?"

"Yes…"

Taylor laughed before kissing the speaker. "I will round up the gang and meet you at… We'll just drive up to the factory."

"Do not drive up to the factory!"

"Why not? Who is there to question us? You're the fucking king of corn, aren't you? Isn't this technically totally above board so long as you say it is, under the FRA?"

Cecille sighed once more. "Any Federal Agent appointed to an act of federal reclamation may enlist any citizen, who is legally obligated to comply, to assist in said reclamation - this includes government employees not currently engaged in urgent federal business, excluding supervisors, commanding officers, lawmakers and positions of static governance (such as commissioners.) Said citizens are legally required to-"

"You're just showing off now. No, don't get embarrassed it's very impressive. You truly are a man of particular intellect, Cecille Freys. So go on, enlist me."

"Fine, sure."

Taylor tutted three times. "Do it properly."

Cecille sighed a final time. "I, Cecille Freys, Senior Executive Taxation Officer, Trained and Registered Financial Field Agent, Dr of Economics, do hereby enlist you, Taylor Tales, under the Federal Reclamation Act, to assist me in the reclamation of the private enterprise The Gnarl Corn Company, including all lands, holdings, property and contracts legally held under its name, until such a time as I deem your assistance no longer necessary. Refusal to assist is a federal crime. What say you, Taylor Tales?"

"I say - you're so hot when you talk like a bureaucrat."

"A yes or no, Mr Tales."

"Fuck yes."

"Shut up and get moving, you idiot."

Cecille hung up and lay down. The sun was beginning to set, streaking the sky with amber, pink and red - almost fuchsia. If they got this right they weren't just looking at promotions; the High Chancellor would personally thank them, bring them into their inner circle, carve their names into stone and make them legends.

Cecille Freys didn't exactly have an ear against the High Chancellor's wall, but he heard enough. The High Chancellor had been convinced there was one last Alakazam hiding out there, somewhere, for decades. People tried not to talk about it; it made the High Chancellor look paranoid, and it risked upsetting certain powerful people who either disagreed or whose job was to find them. And no one had ever found them. Until now.

Captain Haze, that beautiful dead wreck had done it. More than that she had managed to drag herself to the Gnarl Estate and tell Cecille. Then she died.

It was perfect. Right now, for the next few hours, the only person in the world who knew that one last Alakazam really did live, was Cecille Freys. And to top it off, he was pretty sure that Alakazam was in Kanto, somewhere close to the Gnarl Estate.

I'll find you, you bastard, he thought. And when I do, I'm going to take those spoons and lay them at the High Chancellor's feet. And everyone will say 'Oh Cecille Freys, so humble, didn't even keep the spoons.' And finally I won't have to work this nightmare job anymore. Cecille Freys wont be analysing data sheets, auditing businesses, restructuring organisational systems, shooting fucking Murkrow out of the sky, or hiding in corn fields. Cecille Freys will be living in a penthouse suite, signing the occasional document, giving speeches, going to fancy parties, and making monumental decisions he is unfit to make, but completely unaffected by.

Cecille Freys, Minister of Finance.

Cecille Freys, First Aid to The High Chancellor.

Cecille Freys, High Chancellor Of New Sinoh, its territories, protectorates, and contested dominions.

Cecille shook his head and shuddered. In truth that sounded terrible. That was far too much responsibility. Cecille just wanted a big house, a fat paycheque, and some respect. He wanted to sit in a cushioned chair, drink a cream and vodka cocktail, and be told he was important.

But dreams would have to wait, Cecille had work to do. He also had to wait.

He told Herk to patrol the human residential area, and locked up the factory, hoping Noxos wouldn't find a way out of the basement. Scaring off any wanderers, on foot or in flight, by pointing his gun at them and firing the occasional warning shot, Cecille managed to empty the area. So he sat, leaning against the factory doors, chain smoking and trying not to panic.

Eventually, under a black sky peppered with stars, Cecille saw the car approaching. It wasn't government issue, it was Taylor' personal vehicle. An obnoxiously bright yellow sports car, with black trim and huge red wheels, roared up the main road and into the courtyard. He wasn't even trying to be subtle.

If none of the Murkrow have snuck up for a look, some are definitely sneaking now, he thought.

The car pulled up, humming proudly. With two loud clicks, the engine shut off and the driver side door swung open. Taylor Tales stepped out.

Taylor Tales was four feet of sheer charisma, deadly cute, enviable swagger and electricity. His fur was sunshine yellow, obsidian black and rose petal red. His eyes were inescapable wells of disarming comfort. His ears and tail never failed to be excitedly perked, his smile never failed to be convincingly genuine, and his voice just never failed,

Cecille had met a few Pikachu in his life, but Taylor Tales… Taylor Tales was the Pikachu all other Pikachu wanted to be. Or at least the Pikachu all other Pikachu were told they should want to be. He was a federally sanctioned example. A profitable model. An ad. And he was an ad-man. Yes, Taylor Tales worked for the Federal Advertising Commission. And he was egregiously good at his job.

Cecille stood up, flicked his current cigarette into the darkness and embraced Taylor.

"Those things will kill you, you know?"

Cecille sighed, "No, Taylor, you will be the death of me."

The Pikachu winked, "And the eulogy I have planned will make the mountains weep."

Cecille chuckled, "You've planned my eulogy?"

Taylor nodded, placing a hand on Cecille's cheek. "But someone else will have to deliver it. Because wherever you go babe, I go."

Cecille batted Taylor's hand away and tried not to blush. "Stop selling."

A second door opened and a second Pokemon stepped out.

Standing proud on four strong legs - red, white and orange fur flowing like fire - Cleo was what people meant when they used the word dignity. Muscular, lean, clean, sharp eyed and purposeful, she moved with total certainty and zero fear. Her paws made no sound as she stepped; her breathing slunk past the air; her eyes took in everything, and gave nothing away.

It was not uncommon for a Growlithe to enlist in the military; it was unique for one to wear a Fire Stone around their neck.

Surveying the area with the slightest of glances, her black nose taking in more than her eyes, Cleo seemed to own the courtyard. Stopping, nodding and letting out a small puff of approving flame, the growlithe deemed the area safe.

"Cleo," began Cecille, "It's been a while."

"I've been busy," she replied. "The High Chancellor has more than enough money; they'll never have enough land, or enough victories."

"Or enough monuments depicting those victories," added Taylor. "Or enough unveilings of the monuments depicting those victories." The Pikachu raised a hand and smiled; "Or enough-"

"Enough." snapped Cleo.

Cecille lit another cigarette. "Did you manage to bring Lamia?"

A voice that put itself together one spore at a time peeled through the air - a chorus of discordant dust. "We are here. Lamia was persuaded by her friends to attend. We are here."

From behind the car a titian carapace of chittering limbs supporting a burnished shell emerged. From out of the shadows a monstrous infection revealed itself just a moment later. For atop and around and within their russet exoskeleton grew something that did not belong. Lamia seemed to be a large orange insect, but in truth, Lamia was the even larger fungal corruption that had long ago killed whatever insect once breathed life. Lamia was just a pilot - an intelligent disease with nothing left to do except pretend to be a person.

As a child Cecille had never imagined he'd one day be friends with a Parasect. But here he was, glad to see Lamia, not even a little bit disturbed.

Well, in truth he was a little bit disturbed. But not by Lamia's appearance. What disturbed him was the fact she worked for MOSO - The Ministry of Social Order. Lamia was not just a physical example of how silent, easily missed entities can come to control everything.

"How's life treating you, Lamia?" asked Cecille.

"We live." Lamia crawled with clockwork menace towards the trio. "We are glad to be amongst you. Lamia has missed her friends. We feel you." A thin cloud of spores drifted out from Lamia's body and settled on the others. "We are with you. Lamia is ready for whatever labour is required. We desire to know why we are here. Lamia hopes Cecille did not exaggerate the urgency. We expect much."

"Seconded on that point," added Cleo, glaring. "This better be good, Cecille."

"If it's disappointing, I'll still be glad I came to see you," said Taylor, smirking. "But I won't stop Cleo from burning off your whiskers."

Cecille didn't respond. He waited, letting each of them slowly appreciate the seriousness of his expression. Lamia noticed first; the spores on Cecille's fur clung tighter, reading him. Next Cleo cocked her head, finally relinquishing her stern scepticism. Lastly, Taylor sincerely discarded his smile.

Cecille pulled a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Taylor. Taylor opened it and read. Tyalor showed it to Cleo. Cleo nodded. Talor waved the paper in front of Lamia. As the note became covered in spores, Lamia twitched.

They stood in silence for a moment, folding in on themselves as Cecille folded the paper.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Cleo.

Cecille stepped towards her. "Do you remember that night in the safari bar, two years ago?"

"It was three years ago," replied Cleo.

"What did you say to me after that Spearow-"

"It was a Pidgeotto."

"What did you say to me?"

"I know what it is about you Cecille that puts you above the rest of your kind-"

"Ilk," interrupted Taylor. "You used the word ilk."

Cecille leaned down, his face inches from Cleo's. "What puts me above the rest?"

"You can always tell when someone's lying. Even if they don't realise it themselves. It's like you can feel the truth."

Cecille didn't pull away. "They found him. He's alive. He's here. And no one knows except us."

"For now," spoke Lamia in a thousand vocal fragments - some in the air, some on the ground, some covering their fur. "With every second we risk him being found. We risk him fleeing too far. Lamia cannot abide us failing in this. We, Lamia, We have chanced upon something monumental."

"Fuck monuments," blurted Taylor. "If we pull this off they will give us a fucking national holiday. There will be a parade. They'll pay some hack to write a play about us. They'll name fucking museums, hospitals, roads- roads Lemia, they will name roads after us."

"Roads are atop hospitals?" asked Cleo, condescendingly.

"How are you going to get to the hospital if there are no fucking roads, Cleo?"

"Walk?"

"If you are walking cross country to the hospital, you probably don't need to go to the hospital."

A silent explosion rippled all around them; the spores demanded order. "We must plan how to do this. Lamia cannot defeat an Alakazam, neither can Lamia's friends. We do not wish to die. Lamia wishes her friends to live. We also wish to kill this Alakazam."

"I'm sure Cecille's got it all figured out," said Taylor with misplaced confidence.

Cecille felt the expectation beating down on him, hot, oppressive and unrelenting.

After nearly half a minute of silence Cecille had to say something.

"There's a Muk in the basement," he said.

"What?"

"Yeah Freys, what?"

"There's a Muk… in the basement," he repeated. "It says it's the best tracker in Kanto."

"Fuck me, Cecille does not have this figured out."

Cleo stepped forward. "Noxos is still here?"

Cecille froze in shock and bewilderment. "You know about Noxos?"

"Morganna Gnarl bought that Muk from the military. Noxos probably is the best tracker in Kanto."

Cecille struggled to believe what Cleo was saying. "Noxos was a solider?"

Cleo shook her head in frustration. "No. It's a Muk. It doesn't have the mental stability or intellectual capacity to be a soldier. Still, Noxos was pretty famous; General Braze used to send it after people. At least that's what I heard. Then the military banned the use of toxics, so Braze sold it to Gnarl. But he made her send him a report whenever Noxos was put in the field." Cleo was becoming visibly annoyed with Cecille's disbelief. "You can read those reports. They are public files. The Noxos Reports. They were trying to work out why the damn thing always knew how to find people. You haven't read any of The Muk Files, have you?"

"Please, please, in the name of everything that is good, tell me The Muk Files is a real thing?" Taylor fell to his knees in front of Cleo.

"Get up. Yes they are a real thing. Every Muk is chemically unique, and they all have different qualities. The military tried to reverse engineer the perfect Muk for years. It's not a secret."

"The military were breeding toxics?"

Now it was Cleo looking on with disbelief. "How do you not- Why do you think they banned them?"

"I don't-"

"They kept breeding them and they kept killing our own. They couldn't be controlled, so eventually the army just decided they weren't worth it."

Cecille rubbed his brow. "So the military made Noxos?"

"No, I'm pretty sure Noxos is industrial waste. I think it's prewar actually."

Cecille began to pace. "Let me get this straight. So the military adopted Noxos, experimented on it to try and work out why the certain mix of sludge that its made of makes it a great tracker - and this was all part of an officially sanctioned research project with the goal of breeding the perfect sludge soldier - failed to learn anything useful, sold it to Morganna Gnarl, kept tabs on it for years just in case, eventually lost interest, and made no effort to destroy, contain or even sign post its existence. And all of this. All of this insanity is in publicly available records called 'The Muk Files'?"

Cleo gave one small nod.

Taylor laughed. "This is why we need to hang out more. Military people have all the best stories. The weirdest thing that's happened at the FAC in the last ten years is when we convinced everyone that Togepi was just from kid's stories."

Cecille snapped out of defeat and into distraught. "Togepi were real?"

"Oh yeah dude."

"What happened to them?"

"We ate them all."

"What?"

"During the war." Taylor kicked the dirt awkwardly. "Army ate them all."

Cleo scoffed, "Come on Cecille, you've told us your fair share of horror stories from the MoF. Remember when the Kanto City Development Plan got pushed forward, and the government needed money, and so the MoF forced all Hoenn debtors to immediately pay back all their debts in full, or go to jail. A lot of people starved that year, or couldn't afford to go to the doctor, or ended up in jail."

"They didn't end up in jail," sighed Cecille. "They were forced to work on the Kanto City Development Plan."

"In the Ministry of Social Order we routinely arrest or kill people who have not broken any laws, but are merely suspected of holding seditious views." Lamia, it seemed, had felt left out, and now the spores were murmuring. "We also spy on other government agencies and frame employees we fear will back reform for crimes they did not commit. Lamia recently had a judge convicted of his own wife's murder; Lamia killed her; We had to do this because he would not support The Federal Reclamation Act."

Taylor let out a large, loaded exhale. "You know what? Whatever I've been part of, at least I don't work for fucking MOSO." Taylor pointed at Lamia, "You people are fucking terrifying."

"And still We are afraid this Alakazam will kill us if we do not prepare carefully."

Cleo nodded. "So… there's a Muk in the basement?"

"There's also four crates of dynamite they been left behind," added Cecille, only just remembering,

"You really should have opened with the dynamite."

"First rule of persuasion, Cleo…" chimed Taylor. "If you can blow them away, don't do it 'til the end."