CHAPTER 5 – UMBRA I
It was times like this that made Charles Goodshow wish he could be president of the PLC forever. Standing in his vast office in one of the skyscrapers at the island's back, with the tournament staff all gathered before him, he felt a swelling sense of pride in the team he'd assembled for the arduous task of organising the Summit Conference. The sun had sunk below the horizon long before he'd called for the meeting, the cavernous room lit by the grand chandelier dangling from the ceiling. As usual, a velvet carpet stretched across the floor from end to end underfoot his guests, reinforcing Goodshow's specific decorative taste.
"But the hardest part begins tomorrow!" Goodshow chuckled spritely, in high spirits after the day's schedule's seamless completion. His associates exchanged numerous glances between themselves, some apprehensive, some excited, but most importantly, none were nervous about the rest of the tournament. And that gave Goodshow an enormous amount of confidence.
He spent the next five minutes asking for last-minute updates from select staff members, pointing and addressing each one in turn like an orchestra conductor, and he was practically bouncing on his heels when he heard that the ranking software for the fourth round had been completed ahead of time.
"Really, I cannot thank you all enough for all the hard work you've put in," he beamed, drawing a series of embarrassed blushes from most of them, "but hopefully this'll make you forget about that," he winked, clapping his hands twice as a confused whisper ran through the crowd.
As though the room was hardwired like a clap-lamp, the overhead chandelier dimmed, throwing the room into a half-light. The office's double doors swung gracefully open, and four impeccably dressed waiters entered the room, each one pushing a metal trolley loaded with gift baskets, wine, champagne and drinking glasses. Upon a second signal from Goodshow, the waiters bowed to their host and his guests and exited the room, politely closing the doors behind them to a smattering of modest applause.
"I guess you're not so old-fashioned after all," toasted Samsara, having just plucked a glass from one of the trolleys. His fellows joined him in the formality, snatching glasses off the polished metal as Samsara continued. "To Charles Goodshow, for being the brains, backbone, and brawn—" a chorus of hearty laughter rang out across the room, "of the Pokémon League Committee for more than thirty years, and for giving us all the chance to share in his dream," he said, raising his glass.
"Hear hear!" responded the crowd, clinking glasses amongst each other.
"Thank you very much, but you deserve a toast more than I do, Samsara," Goodshow conceded, taking a glass of his own.
"To Sammy!" declared an exuberant voice, triggering another outbreak of laughter and clinking.
"You flatter me," Samsara said, holding a gloved hand up. But he was smiling as broadly as the people around him as the celebrations began. "Just no one get too drunk," he cautioned, taking the responsibility of passing out the drinks. The crowd surged inwards, each one eager to locate their gift basket and claim it, and also to fill their glasses with some of the most expensive wine the PLC had to offer.
"I'll pass," muttered Michaels as Samsara offered him a tall glass of champagne, forcing a smile and heading to the back of the room. Concerned, Goodshow followed him, absent-mindedly shaking hands with those who offered theirs on his way.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked the sunglasses-clad man.
"I'm fine, thanks, Charles. I just don't drink anymore," Michaels responded thickly.
Goodshow nodded in understanding. Michaels had lost his wife three years ago in a hit-and-run car accident in which the driver's blood-alcohol reading had been more than six times the legal limit. The horrific accident had been heavily televised, and Michaels, for the only time Goodshow, or anyone, could recall, looked to be on the horizon of complete, life-consuming despair. His passion for both life and work evaporated instantly; he didn't even have the heart to turn up for duty, and was promptly dismissed with paid leave, his position vacated in case of a return to duty.
His misery was only compounded by the news that the drunken driver had escaped capture by the local police enforcement groups. When Goodshow heard that the driver, not even two weeks after killing Michaels' wife, had mowed down another innocent civilian, he thought it would be the final nail in Michaels' coffin. He sought to keep the information from him at all costs. However, Michaels had learnt of the second accident. Not by the media, but by the family of the second victim.
Everyone was surprised by what the meeting had produced. Instead of pushing Michaels beyond the edge of psychological help with their grief, the family had shown him the light. They were incredibly upset with the loss of their loved one, just like Michaels, but they refused to let the loss consume them. They told Michaels what it meant to push beyond the pain and live again. They showed him that life could go on. And eventually, almost painstakingly, Michaels began to agree with them. With help from Goodshow, the PLC, his cohorts and the other family, Michaels finally recovered, a long sixteen months after his wife's death.
And he had been transformed. Not only physically – he'd lost a substantial amount of weight and hair during his depression – but mentally as well. He'd gone from the PLC's happy-go-lucky amateur International Police liaison, to a withered shell on the brink of destruction, to a man who saw beyond the complexities of life, and instead focused on the one thing that drove him; his job. He became devoted to his work, solving criminal cases with what his colleagues later called white logic, a system Michaels seemed to hold as his number one rule. His motto became "use whatever means necessary to accomplish the task at hand, but under no circumstances take the life of another human being."
Goodshow was astounded at how spiritually stable the man was. He was eternally calm, never flustered when things got out of hand. And yet he'd absorbed the Police's code of being strict on mistakes by his subordinates. Nowadays, Michaels was a man who accepted no failures. He was a rock amongst Police ranks, and had accordingly been promoted several times over the last year, breaking records left, right and centre in the process.
He was also a rock for the PLC, and that was why Goodshow, and indeed, everyone who knew him, respected the man so much. Months ago, Michaels' utter dedication to putting the Summit Conference together was the only thing keeping it going. Even its supporters were voicing significant doubts about how to organise it. It had been inspiring to see him marshal the few supporters left in the PLC and come up with the presentation that had ultimately sold the idea.
Snapping out of his train of thought with another handshake with a staff member, Goodshow turned back to Michaels, suddenly feeling the late hour upon him. He double-checked his watch to make sure his body clock wasn't acting up again, relieved to see the hands indicating a sliver past ten p.m.
"Try to get a good night's sleep, sir." Goodshow's head shot up in surprise at Michaels' words. "You only glance at your watch if you're busy or if you're tired," Michaels' explained knowingly, a small smile playing on his lips. Goodshow could swear Michaels was winking at him from behind his shades, too, and he let out a low chuckle, the sound muffled by his flowing white beard.
"Always the keen observer, you were…" he commented.
"I still am, so it seems," Michaels said. Goodshow smiled warmly at his secretary. "Before you go, sir, there's something I need to discuss with you," he added.
"Go on, then," replied Goodshow, taking a sip of champagne.
Michaels shifted uncomfortably and straightened his tie. "In private," he clarified, nodding his head at the crowded room and staring Goodshow dead in the eye.
"Oh…" Goodshow muttered, understanding exactly why Michaels wanted privacy. It had something to do with a recent assignment of Michaels' from the International Police concerning the Conference. Reluctantly setting his champagne glass down on a mahogany table near the double doors, he called for attention. "I'm terribly sorry to have to leave you all unsupervised," he said, hiding a grin beneath his beard, "but I must be on my way. Try not to stay up too late in my absence."
"No need for concern," Samsara said, graciously opening a door for the PLC president. "We've all got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, too." He motioned a hand under the door's archway, out into the high-ceiling hallway beyond.
Goodshow thanked Samsara for his hospitality, even though he himself had organised the small show, and shuffled into the hallway. Michaels followed close behind, but paused at the frame, his brown eyes flicking upwards over the rim of his sunglasses and locking onto Samsara's. There was something in the taller man's eyes that made Michaels uncomfortable. He couldn't quite put his finger on what, though. It was as if Samsara was hiding something from him. The man was almost leering, mistrust seeming to emanate from him like energy…
"Jeremy?" said Goodshow's voice, almost distant from behind the oak doors. Michaels broke the stare-down, quickly exiting the room. He could feel Samsara's eyes on the back of his neck as he left, the sensation disappearing alongside the chattering voices inside as Samsara close the door behind him. From the corners of his eyes, Michaels could see two of his International Police agents standing guard outside the doors, each one dressed in a formal tuxedo. Unlike Michaels, neither had opted for sunglasses.
Michaels turned to his PLC superior. "Sir, as you're no doubt aware—" he began in a serious tone, but Goodshow held up a hand to silence him.
"—Jeremy, we've been over this," he groaned, obviously uncomfortable with the topic and keen to resolve it as quickly as possible. "You've arranged for the extra security, yes?" he asked, almost as if the idea were an afterthought.
"Yes, sir, but—"
"—then stop worrying," Goodshow advised sternly. Michaels took the hint and promptly shut his mouth. "I trust you to handle this," he said, putting a wrinkled hand on Michaels' shoulder and staring him in the eyes. The gaze was locked firm for several seconds, until Michaels broke the deadlock.
"I understand," were his words.
"Good," said Goodshow, effectively ending the conversation. "Go back to the celebrations," he dismissed, already heading off down the ornately furnished hallway. The moment Goodshow disappeared around the corner, Michaels turned to one of his agents; a heavyset man with a black buzz-cut and a square jaw.
Employing the sign language taught to every officer upon acceptance into the organisation, Michaels waved a hand down his own face, then pointed a thumb over his shoulder, down the vacant hall Goodshow had just departed down. The agent nodded and jerked his wrist, dropping a PokéBall out of his sleeve and into his open palm before stalking off after Goodshow.
As the highest ranked agent of the International Police currently stationed at the Battleground, Michaels was essentially top dog when it came to law enforcement, and as such had control over their presence. Normally he never needed to flex his power in public, but when an anonymous tip-off had alerted the International Police to a potential security threat, Michaels had broken silence. He'd requested a crack team of elite forces to be sent to the Battleground to help him protect the PLC and the competing trainers. His superiors hadn't disappointed.
Feeling a soft vibration on his upper chest, Michaels signalled to the remaining agent to return to his duties. As the guard snapped back to attention and resumed his task as sentry, Michaels strode off, heading in the opposite direction to Goodshow and his new escort as he withdrew a cellphone from his jacket. After confirming the decrypted caller ID, he waited for the phone to buzz six times before raising it to his ear.
"Yes?"
"Yes?" said Jeremy Michaels, his voice crackly due to the phone's encryption software. The man who'd placed the phone call waited in silence for a moment, feeling the late night wind rush around. He didn't mind the chilly draft one bit though, having spent much of the previous two years in at-times snowy weather. Not that he'd dressed lightly, either. Although an ocean-blue shirt was stretched across his muscular chest, he'd compensated for the cold wind with a knee-length greatcoat which was presently half-buttoned over his faded, denim jeans.
"Russ here," the man said. His full name was Russell Carter, but he much preferred the moniker of Russ amongst his friends. To his colleagues, on the other hand, he was known as Agent Carter, Captain of the International Police's Special Operations Taskforce. He was a man twenty-six years of age, and the youngest SOT captain in history. Depending on whom one asked, he was also the most brilliant. Described by his contractors as an eternal cynic with an eye for detail and danger, Russ had excelled in his duties ever since joining the Police a week after his twentieth birthday. His tactical expertise had been the main factor behind his rapid promotion, something he'd apparently developed en route to two Pokémon League championships in his youth.
"I was expecting an update sooner or later," Michaels drawled, Russ' trademark smirk bursting onto his face as his midnight-blue bangs waved about in the breeze. The rest of his neck-length hair was spared the treatment, being tied back into a spiked ponytail behind his head.
"This'd be sooner, now wouldn't it?" he asked in jest, watching from his vantage point atop a restaurant roof as the island's main recreational street closed down for the night. As his yellow eyes took in the sight of the lights around him dying one by one, he decided to cut to the chase. "Just as we suspected, someone unwelcome's been keeping a very close eye on proceedings here," he told his immediate superior.
"So you have definite confirmation?" asked Michaels. Russ could tell he was curious as to how he'd ascertained this.
"We ran a few experiments," he said, teasing Michaels with the sound-bite. "I won't bore you with the exact details, but we were able to locate background static noises which are typical of radio-wave interceptors," he explained. "Judging by the times the listening devices are active, they're listening to us, rather than the trainers or PLC members."
Russ didn't hear anything on the other line for several long seconds. Michaels was obviously taking his time considering the scenario. The tip-off had become rather personal for him a couple of days ago after someone had tried to hack into his computer. It made sense that the unknown party had attempted to access his computer, though. As head of the enforcement team stationed at the Battleground, anyone with access to his computer would know almost everything that was happening on the island. The hypothetical was only compounded by Michaels' office within the PLC.
"Any idea what they're listening for?" he asked.
"Haven't got a clue as of yet," Russ replied. "The background static hasn't stopped since we arrived."
"They must still be trying to crack our encryption."
"Actually, I have reason to believe they've cracked our encryption software," Russ said, evidently hesitant to share this information with his boss.
His reasons for hesitating instantly became obvious. "And when were you planning on telling me of this?" Michaels asked, a trace amount of venom in his words.
"I was informed of this a few minutes ago," Russ countered. In truth, the revelation was the reason Russ had called Michaels in the first place. He'd just been waiting for the right time to bring it up. "I asked them to run a search on recent attempts to access our satellites. Turns out a there's a perfect three-minute hole in the satellite's server records."
Michaels went silent again, no doubt mulling over this newest piece of information. Russ had barely had time to think about it himself, let alone contemplate the potential ramifications. What he could easily deduce was that a Police agent had accessed the satellite's channels, since the only way to access it was via a cipher-code; those codes were only given to high-ranking agents. Even hacking was powerless to break in.
"Well it can't be the corruption watch squad. They'd have no need to cover it up," he commented offhandedly.
"Not to mention I would've been notified if there was an inquiry of any kind," Michaels added, still deep in thought. "Why would an agent need to cover their tracks?" he asked Russ suddenly, trying to put the pieces together.
"To keep anyone else from finding out they'd accessed information," he replied simply.
"But which one of our agents would need to hide themselves?" pondered Michaels aloud. "All the agents who were given cipher-codes are allowed round-the-clock access to even our most restricted files. It would be pointless to erase three minutes of records. Not to mention a new code hasn't been given out for at least two months."
"If memory serves me correctly, sir, I was the last one to receive a code, back when I was promoted to captain of the SOT," Russ interjected jokingly. It had been in unfortunate circumstances that he'd received it, too. The previous captain had been accused and found guilty of conspiracy to commit treason, stripped of her rank, and thrown into a maximum security prison. Barely a day later, however, she escaped, burning the prison to the ground in the process.
Russ' very first assignment as captain of the Special Operations Taskforce had been to track down and capture her, but as a former captain herself, she knew every trick in the book, and had eluded him. Ever since that day, he'd been heading the investigation to bring her back in. His entire stint thus far as Taskforce captain had been devoted to the chase in eastern Sinnoh.
But with the tip-off last week, his superiors had pulled the plug on his activities there, reassigning him to security detail at the Battleground. It made little difference to his progress; the trail had gone cold weeks earlier. To date, her escape was the only blemish on Russ' otherwise spotless record with the International Police.
"What did you say?" Michaels asked. His voice was very quiet.
"I said I was the last one to receive a code, after our last captain was arrested," he repeated as an odd ringing permeated his hearing. "But I doubt—"
An explosion of static cut him off and pounded against his eardrum, forcing him to yank the phone to arm's reach. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled, wincing as a second ringing burst into his ear. That noise! He recognised the first ringing he'd heard as the precursor to what the International Police called a "static bomb". It was a device which, when detonated, flooded an area with random noises across a range of frequencies, effectively destroying conversations.
"Sir!" he bellowed into the phone, not daring to bring it closer. All he received in response to his cry was another screaming torrent of static. Knowing whoever set off the static bomb had to be nearby, Russ whirled around, his free hand already flying towards the PokéBalls at his waist.
BANG!
He'd barely moved an inch before a silver blur raced past his face at sonic speed, followed swiftly by a crash of wind that tore at his face. The blur was a bullet that grazed his cheek before it continued straight on, smashing through his phone and hand and burying itself into the café sign across the street. Russ roared in pain as he felt the bullet rip a chunk out of his palm, ignoring the shattered remains of his phone as it fell to the ground amidst a haze of blood.
As his body pumped adrenaline through his body to stifle the sensation, Russ rammed his injured hand into his armpit. Fighting the pain to a standstill as he squeezed down with his arm, he brushed his free hand past his belt and dislodged a PokéBall from the fabric. He blocked out the white-hot flash of pain that mirrored the one his PokéBall let out, and ran forwards as his faithful Garchomp materialised in front of him.
Giving in to the fight or flight reaction that governed everyone in these moments, Russ opted for flight, his eyes screwed shut against the searing pain in what remained of his hand.
He dived forwards as a second shot rang out across the night sky, dodging it by mere inches. He landed heavily on the stone roof, barely feeling his shoulder jar on impact or the flare that ran through his torn hand. "Garchomp, cover me!" he screamed, knowing he couldn't get back on his feet in time. As heartless as it seemed at first, using Garchomp as a shield was his best chance of survival. Both trainer and Pokémon knew that it would take a lot more than a bullet to pierce Garchomp's steel-hard exterior.
Above him, his Garchomp gave an outraged bellow and dived over him, taking its trainer's order literally. It flattened itself over Russ, quickly arranging its body to protect his vital organs. Russ' mind was working furiously on his plan, having already calculated the time delay between each shot. Even as a rough estimate, five seconds wasn't enough time. Gotta survive this next shot, he grimaced as he figured out his escape plan.
BANG!
A third bullet snuck through the gap between Garchomp's wing and side, burying itself in Russ' unprotected left arm. Russ didn't even pay heed to the new injury as his blood seeped out onto the roof; it meant the shooter had to reload. He had a chance to escape. He couldn't escape earlier, but now he was in direct contact with his Garchomp. And Garchomp were renowned for flying at the speed of sound.
Waiting no longer to act, Russ slapped a hand against his Pokémon's flank. It would be suicide to try and take on the sniper, and there was no shame in fleeing from a foe you couldn't even see. Raising a shaking, blood-soaked hand and pointing into the café across the street, he called up to Garchomp. "In there!" he ordered, knowing time was short.
In the spare second they had, Garchomp scooped its battered trainer into its clawed wings as its legs tensed for the escape. As if the Mach Pokémon could smell the igniting black powder, it leapt off the roof right as the sniper's fourth shot was fired. The bullet ricocheted off the roof this time, slamming into Garchomp's leg and bouncing harmlessly off the steel-hard scales as the Dragon-type banked tightly, aiming for the café's windows.
With Russ held tight against its front, Garchomp rocketed through the glass as if it weren't even there. They ploughed into the rear wall amidst a storm of furniture and broken china before the glass fragments had even begun to give into gravity's merciless embrace. The fragments shattering against the hard concrete outside didn't register to Russ or his Garchomp amidst the settling chaos around them.
"Is it… over…?" he breathed, only now beginning to feel the pain. Through the haze of debris clouding his narrowed vision, Russ could just make out the shape of a spent bullet tumbling to the ground outside. His vision began to fade to black, but he fought against the creeping darkness, vowing to himself to retain consciousness.
He needed to alert Michaels, and he'd be of no use to anyone unconscious. He took a long, deep breath, inching a bloody hand towards his belt as slowly as he dared. Through the narrowest gap between his eyelids, he kept watch on the pavement outside. His Garchomp's torpedo-framed head was denying him a line of sight to anywhere else, but most importantly it was keeping the sniper from lining up his head in the crosshairs. He calmly reminded himself to reward Garchomp for its large ears once they were safe.
The pain continued to ascend, beginning to reach almost intolerable levels. But he drove it back with all of his remaining willpower as his fingers closed around a second PokéBall. It was warm, and he thanked his lucky stars he'd found the right one first. Especially since a red dot was slithering up towards the two of them.
"Garchomp…" he murmured through gritted teeth, the Mach Pokémon's yellow eyes swivelling down to meet his. He stared deep into his Pokémon's eyes, willing it to understand what was required. His Garchomp had been through a lot with him, though, and twitched its nose affirmatively. "Good boy." He carefully unhooked the PokéBall from his belt, ignoring the fresh layer of blood coating the metallic surface. He had a reputation for never panicking under pressure, and he'd be damned if he stopped now on account of a few ounces of lost blood.
"Smokescreen," Russ smirked, dropping the orb onto the ground where it split open in a brilliant flash of white. Even before the flash was gone, the stout shape of his Torkoal stomped onto the wreckage, spewing a thick cloud of smoke from its nostrils, mouth and shell. An explosion sounded overhead as Garchomp used its Dragon Rage to rend a hole in the back wall, the subsiding heat followed swiftly by the clanging sound of metal-on-metal raging against his ears. Russ clamped his hand over Torkoal's PokéBall, recalling the Coal Pokémon just as Garchomp redoubled its grip on him and rocketed through the still-smoking hole.
Russ could feel his body leaning this way and that as Garchomp wove between the deserted streets at top speed, intent on getting as far away from the café as possible. He inhaled deeply, feeling the clean night air as it rushed into his lungs and displaced Torkoal's Smokescreen, revitalising his battered body.
"Take me to the hospital, Garchomp," he said weakly, but the smirk never left his face as his Mach Pokémon changed course. Even the sight of his mangled left arm couldn't remove it.
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