CHAPTER 4 – BIG BROTHER
On the top floor of a multi-storeyed building overlooking a sweeping ocean, an elderly man in his mid-seventies peered out of a ceiling high window, enjoying the magnificent view. From his vantage point, he could see the northern edge of the island the building sat upon, the jagged cliffs at the edge abruptly giving way to a roiling blue tide that surged against the rocky walls. Night had long fallen over the island, and as such the only hint of the ocean's existence was the noise echoing up to him from the cliff edge.
The man closed his small eyes and focused on the sounds of the lapping water. The last few weeks had taken a toll on him, both physically and mentally, and the faint echoing of the surging tides was instilling a growing sensation of fatigue in his weathered limbs. Knowing that there were still things to finalise, Charles Goodshow turned away from the window, ignoring the lavishly decorated office he was standing in and focusing on the two men in front of him.
"Have we received word from all the participants?" he asked tiredly, his light voice muffled slightly from behind his thick white beard.
The shorter of his two colleagues spoke up, motioning a hand towards a huge television screen set against the far wall. "Indeed we have, sir," he answered. Goodshow glanced over at the screen, seeing a collage of photographs on display, people of varying size, age and ethnicity in them. His eyes lingering briefly over a few trainers he recognised from a previous Conference, Goodshow turned back to the man.
"Thank you, Jeremy," he said gratefully. Jeremy Michaels' head twitched in a tiny nod, his face rather devoid of any recognisable expression at the kind words. He had a rather sallow face with a firmly set jaw, his somewhat large ears poking out from beneath his thinning, black hair, which wound its way around his high forehead. Unusually for a man indoors, Michaels' eyes were well hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses.
Goodshow—and indeed most of the other members of the PLC—had always found Michaels' sunglasses a point of amusement. He was almost always seen wearing them, even when he was indoors or when it was pitch-black outside. At the present time, he was wearing them in both. Switching the television screen off with a press of a button, Michaels straightened the expensive suit he was also never seen without.
Admittedly, Goodshow had been a tad apprehensive about hiring Michaels a few years ago; he rarely showed any unprovoked emotion, and had an uncanny knack of being able to predict how people would react to just about anything. Michaels was also a high ranking agent of the International Police, something that made a few other PLC members slightly nervous. In hindsight, though, the PLC president didn't regret the decision in the slightest; if it wasn't for Michaels' insight, the Summit Conference wouldn't even be off the ground yet.
"We've also received correspondence from the Unova region, confirming their participation in the tournament," said the man on Michaels' left. He was quite tall, and had a remarkably handsome face with a pair of striking blue eyes. Short, well-combed, brown hair lined the edges of his visage, just above the upturned collar of the deep blue jacket he wore. The golden shoulders of the jacket glimmered commandingly from next to Michaels' head, the latter being a good six inches shorter than his colleague. A set of navy blue bracers covered the man's forearms, ending in a pair of traditional white gloves. He looked more like royalty than a consultant.
"Letters from the Committee's Unova branch," he added, holding one of his gloved hands out, a stack of sealed envelopes in its grasp. His voice was smooth, dignified and collected, but not snobbish as one would usually expect from someone dressed in his manner.
"Thank you, too, Samsara," Goodshow said, taking the letters and tucking them into a pocket of his red blazer. He really meant his words, too; Samsara had worked harder than anyone else at the Committee to organise the tournament, trawling through ten years of Conference coverage to select only the best competitors to extend invitations to.
"Much appreciated," Samsara said politely, giving Goodshow a curt bow, a wisp of hair bobbing down from his fringe before being tucked back. Samsara was one of Goodshow's personal favourites as far as PLC consultants went. Although Samsara wasn't his first name, he never took offence when anyone—even Goodshow himself—referred to him by his surname. He was polite, refined, always well dressed and although he spoke in a quiet voice, he exuded authority as though it was his birth right. Plus, he added a certain PR value to the Committee, his youthful face a stark reminder that the Committee wasn't full of "old geezers" like Goodshow.
"How are preparations for the opening ceremony coming along?" Goodshow asked his two aides, relieved over the information just relayed to him.
"Everything is already in place," Michaels said, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. "We're just waiting for the pyrotechnics to set up the fireworks display."
"Wonderful news," Goodshow smiled. "I must say, Jeremy, you've really outdone yourself in preparing this event," he praised. Michaels smiled tiredly at the sentiments, Goodshow guessing that he, too, was severely exhausted from the effort of coordinating the tournament's eventual proceedings.
Samsara glanced at Michaels for the tiniest fraction of a second before his eyes darted back to Goodshow. "Well—" he said softly, his tone betraying a hint of fatigue, "as it seems that the preliminary preparations are all in order, I must be on my way," he continued with a gracious nod at Goodshow and Michaels.
"Take care, Samsara," Goodshow nodded, shaking the tall man's gloved hand before Samsara turned and strode to the double oak doors that marked the office's entrance, pulling them open and disappearing behind them. Before too long, the soft thudding of his black winged boots were swallowed up by the sounds of the roiling ocean.
A half-silence followed Samsara's departure, neither of the two men in the office making a noise. Goodshow's eyes were firmly fixed on the oak doors, a frown creasing his wrinkled brow. Michaels stood as still as a statue, intently watching Goodshow from behind his shades. The silent stalemate continued for a long minute, the only hint of life in the room being the rhythmic blinking of a VCR.
"Sir, is there something bothering you?" Michaels asked slowly, breaking the odd silence. Goodshow shook his head after a moment of contemplation, during which Michaels took a step closer to his boss. He opened his mouth to say something, but upon reconsidering promptly shut it, opting instead to wait for Goodshow to speak.
"I'm worried about Samsara," Goodshow sighed eventually, turning back to the window and tucking his hands behind his back, concern dominating his face.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Michaels replied, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. "He knows how to handle all this," he continued. "It's not his first time organising a tournament of this size."
"I know that," Goodshow muttered, a little harshly. Michaels noted the change in tone but his face refused to show it. "He just seems a bit… off… lately, if you know what I mean."
"Quite understandable," he said. "Perhaps it's because he's been stuck observing all that Conference footage."
"Perhaps…" Goodshow concurred. Michaels nodded at Goodshow's turned back and headed for the door.
"I believe this is where I take my leave tonight," he stated, one hand already on the door's bronze handle.
"Goodnight, Jeremy," Goodshow called after him as his secretary pulled the door open and disappeared behind the frame. "Wait!" he said suddenly, just as the door swung to within a sliver of being shut.
"Yes?" Michaels inquired, pushing the door ajar and sticking his head back through the opening.
Goodshow stood with his back to Michaels for almost a full minute, carefully weighing his words. "Can I trust you to keep an eye on Samsara?" he asked.
"Only if I can ask why," Michaels countered.
"He's been put under a lot of stress lately, what with organising the Conference and everything," he explained, Michaels detecting a wisp of regret in the old man's tone. "It would be a terrible shame if all the extra stress made him crack, so I'd like for you to just keep a watch on him. Make sure he's handling the tournament properly," he added concisely.
"Will do," Michaels nodded. He closed the door behind him, leaving a slightly less-burdened Charles Goodshow alone in the magnificent office. Ignoring the bright chandelier halfway down the hallway, Michaels pulled a Pokéball off his belt and opened it in a flash of light.
The burst lit up everything in the corridor barring Michaels' sunglasses, their owner staring back emotionlessly as a huge, cobalt-blue shape emerged from the sphere. A vast, roughly cylindrical drum composed most of the Pokémon's bulk, where two red, crescent moons were splashed onto its front, looking like the eyes of a demon. Sitting above a ring of silver mounted on the drum's top was what could roughly be called an elongated arch. Two strips of blue metal continued down past the rim of the Pokémon's body, curving slightly at the end as though they were streaks of hair.
The Pokémon let out a deep gong from the depths of its body, the noise rattling the crystals of the hall's chandelier. "Brohhhnnnn…" boomed the Bronze Bell Pokémon.
"Bronzong, stay here and guard Charles," he told his Pokémon. It was more out of habit than anything else that he was telling his Pokémon to protect someone else. Although there was minimal risk of anything happening to Charles until the tournament started, Michaels knew that it was unwise to take chances.
Especially with that notification we all received on Thursday, he thought, as Bronzong nodded its sightless head and floated over to take guard in front of the office's door. Wordlessly, Michaels turned on his heels and strode off, the sound of his black shoes on the polished floor echoing off his Bronzong's large body.
Samsara strode through the building's immaculate lobby, passing right underneath a second grand chandelier which hung from the high ceiling. A sheet of sky-blue tiles covered the lobby's floor, the rigid ceramic echoing the sounds of Samsara's winged boots as he made his way for the exit; a pair of heavily tinted, sliding glass doors. The doors slid apart without so much as a whisper, a gust of cold wind rushing inside to greet Samsara as he strode outside.
Habitually, his eyes darted upwards towards the sky, smiling as the random assortment of stars twinkled back at him. Casting his gaze back to ground level, he let them wander over the expansive island before him, and his smile widened at how quickly everything had been built. Less than two years ago, the island had been almost featureless, home to a scarce few packs of Pokémon and a rather monotonous plain of sweeping green grass. Since then, the Committee had moved in, and had constructed the entire Battleground within eighteen months, the monolithic buildings bearing testament to the millions of hours of labour that had gone into the effort.
A sprawling set of marble stairs led down the slope from the Committee's resident building to the pavement lining the brightly lit street below. Stretching out to both sides before curving around in the distance, the street eventually wound its way around the entire island, serving as a continual loop to ensure that one could always follow it to find the correct destination. Off past the collection of stores, cafés and merchandise shops, Samsara could see the faint outline of the Battleground's pride and joy; a gigantic stadium surrounded by a moat of dark-blue water, situated dead centre in the middle of the Battleground.
Glancing left from outside the Committee building, or "Mission Control", as the techies had dubbed it, he spied the island's state of the art training facilities; over three dozen practice stadiums, each one fully equipped with its own interchangeable field system. Although they were by no means eye candy on the outside, the Committee had been unanimously impressed with both the visual and practical aspects of the system.
It's very fortunate that the technicians were able to install the tag battle fields, Samsara told himself, remembering the last-minute change the Committee had been forced to make. Shrugging nonchalantly, he strode down the wide stairs and tucked his hands into his pockets to keep the salty breeze from ripping his jacket from his shoulders. Halfway down, an odd buzzing noise erupted from inside his jacket pocket.
Sighing, Samsara extracted his cellphone and flipped it open. His face creased into a frown as he saw the caller ID, but it twitched back into a smile as a realisation occurred. Twice in one day? he chuckled to himself, holding the phone to his ear. "My sincerest apologies, but I'm quite busy at this point in t—"
"—busy my ass," snapped a woman's voice, as cold as ice.
Samsara smirked inwardly and cast his eyes westward again, his gaze sweeping across the stadiums. "I take it your other business went as planned, considering you've already returned here?" he asked politely.
"Take a wild guess," she muttered sarcastically. "I'm only calling for an update."
"There has been little change in our present situation," Samsara responded, now moving down the stairs. "Things are proceeding without a hitch, and so far there hasn't been cause to expect a significant delay to the commencement of the tournament."
"I'm referring to—"
"I'm aware of what you're referring to," he interrupted curtly.
"Then try showing it next time," she seethed. Samsara waited for the impending question. "Has the PLC made any progress tracking down the source of the tip-off?" she asked, confirming Samsara's premonition.
"Everyone here has their suspicions as to where, or who, it originated from," he replied, the frown returning to his face as he crossed under a streetlight and turned onto the pavement, heading in the opposite direction to the practice stadiums.
"No doubt they haven't got a clue as to who it really was," the woman muttered poisonously.
"Yes, that seems to be the case."
"Does anyone suspect it was us?" she asked.
"No," he said after a long pause. "And they have no reason to, either," he added, his eyes flashing right briefly and wandering over a thick group of trees. "Everyone is presently of the opinion that Team Rocket is behind it."
"Of course they are," she hissed in bitterness. "Why would they ever suspect—?"
"Quiet!" Samsara growled warningly, all traces of charm dispelled with the utterance. "Although it's highly doubtful that this call has been intercepted, I would be extremely surprised if there wasn't someone eavesdropping on our methods of communication," he continued calmly.
"And they're gonna come up with squat, because they're not intelligent enough to know what's really going on," retorted his contact. Samsara sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"Regardless of outside circumstances, patience is going to become necessary in the near future," he said wisely. "People will be here, and they will be watching. They may not be watching for the correct thing—" he added quickly, a short breath from the other line informing him that she was about to say something, "but they will be there nonetheless."
"I know that," she said stubbornly, and Samsara could imagine her crossing her arms on the other end of the line.
"We are simply going to have to act, and think, smarter than the other party," he concluded.
"You don't have to worry about that," she growled menacingly.
"Obviously. Now, is there anything else you need information pertaining to?" he asked, ignoring, or perhaps just oblivious to, the pair of dull yellow eyes studying him from within the lush grove on his right.
"When are the boats due in?"
"Around noon tomorrow, assuming the oceans provide no difficulties," he told her, knowing that the conversation would soon be over; matters that didn't concern her were usually left until the very end of their calls. Admittedly, Samsara had initially found that particular habit of hers quite frustrating, but after being filled in on the specifics of her plan, he'd been, after the initial shock, impressed by what she was organising, and had decided that one annoying idiosyncrasy was insignificant compared to playing a part.
"Then everything's proceeding without a hitch, just like you said," she conceded. After a brief, and oddly stony, silence, she spoke again. "Make sure to keep an eye on what's going on behind the scenes, and I'll contact you again tomorrow," she instructed.
"Goodnight, Remille," he said succinctly, ending the phone call and dropping his cellphone back into his jacket pocket.
Standing on the uppermost rim of Stadium 30, the woman known as Remille lowered her Zoom Lens and stowed it in her cloak alongside her cellphone. Although what she'd just heard from Samsara wasn't exactly news to her, it was still nagging at the back of her mind.
It's good that they're not accusing us of planning it, she thought, tapping her fingers against the guard rail lining the edge of the roof.
A glint in the distance jolted Remille out of her thoughts, her ice-blue eyes snapping downwards to the entrance of the Committee's main building. Even in the half-light being cast over the steps by the streetlights, she could make out a shape moving down the white stairs, but even her eyesight lacked the acuity to distinguish the shape. Whipping the Zoom Lens out of her coat and throwing it back over her eyes, she was able to get an in-focus view of the figure; a high forehead, thinning black hair and a pair of dark sunglasses.
Michaels… Remille identified with a frown.
Her free hand flying to her belt, she ripped a moss-green Pokéball from her waist and opened it behind her. Unlike most conventional Pokéballs, this one opened without a flash, instead a swirling vortex of darkness bursting forth as a dark shape materialised. She'd specially caught the Pokémon in a Dusk Ball because the flash caused by opening a normal Pokéball wasn't suited to stealth operations.
Remille was still focused on the moving secretary as she addressed her Pokémon. "I want you to tail Michaels. You're to follow him and make sure he doesn't snoop around Samsara too much," she informed the Pokémon. Its pitiless eyes narrowed as it disappeared into the ground, opting to move through shadows to accomplish its task. Within seconds, Remille could see the flitting shape of her Pokémon's shadow as it wove across the pavement towards Michaels.
And now we wait… she told herself, swapping her Zoom Lens for her sunglasses and snapping her fingers. A Pokémon materialised out of thin air next to her, accompanied by a swirl of cold wind which whipped at Remille's cloak. Let's go. The Pokémon rested a hand on Remille's back, before they vanished in another cold swirl.
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