12: INTERVIEW
On the way to Northcote Street, in the cab, Emilia runs over her material in her head, sifting through the documents in her lap while Nadia keys each one to a set of thoughts. It only takes a few minutes to clothe the bones with flesh, to build a story out of all these bits of paper, and after she's run over it twice there's nothing left to do but sit there in the traffic and worry.
What if the editor won't take this? It's not like it will cripple ROCKETS all by itself, but it's the only plan Emilia has, and it will at least force some kind of response from Giovanni. He can give the League investigators the slip all he wants, but it won't matter if the whole country's against him. Government lives and dies on the back of public opinion, and the League is no different; just because it's older than Parliament doesn't mean people trust it any further. If enough people believe that Giovanni's up to no good, then the League has to respond somehow, no matter what the internal review team found. Maybe it won't stop him, but it should, at least, annoy him.
There is of course the question of whether or not annoying him is a good idea. Emilia is acutely aware that she doesn't have much support left at this point. Refusing to return Lorelei's calls is petty and has probably alienated her from whatever remaining allies she might have had at the League; that leaves Mark and Artemis, and frankly neither of them are going to be able to shield her from whatever Giovanni decides to do when he sees her name attached to a damning exposé in this evening's Cataphract.
ARTEMIS, says Nadia, by which she means speaking of her …, and Emilia sighs. Yes. She needs to check in with her. There's probably time now, she reflects, and tries to call her up, but the line can't seem to connect. She hopes this is because she's out of signal range, and not because she's dead.
Christ. Why did she let her go like that? She knew what Artemis was planning. She should have … she couldn't have stopped her. Artemis knows the risks, and she knows the stakes, and she's old enough to make this decision for herself. And god knows that if there's anyone in the world who actually has a shot at winning the damn thing over, it's probably her.
Emilia clicks her phone screen on and off, on and off. It's not like she has the right to stop her, anyway. But there are a lot of dead trans women out there, a lot of dead women of colour, and Emilia is desperately afraid that Artemis might by this point number among them. And what about Cass? She'll follow Artemis anywhere; Emilia saw it in her eyes. Maybe it's guilt at having spied on her, maybe she just believes, but she'll follow her to Mew-2 and she'll die there, too. And with them will go Ringo and Brauron, two more lives that Emilia should have saved.
On and off, on and off. She fiddles with her phone and does not manage to dispel her thoughts.
A minute later, as the cab comes around the corner of Longbarrow Street towards the tawny buildings of Whitford, someone tries in turn to call her: Lorelei. Emilia looks at her ringing phone for a moment, knowing that this is about what she did in Lavender, and swipes to decline.
After all, Lorelei's going to want to call her again after this article goes out, and Emilia is nothing if not efficient. It only makes sense to consolidate.
She switches her phone to silent and jams it down at the bottom of her bag, then takes it out again and turns it off completely. Then she thinks that perhaps Mark will need to call or text her, so she turns it back on, puts the volume back up and returns it to its usual place, all her efforts undone.
SUNFLOWER, says Nadia, her mind coiling in dense, comforting bands through Emilia's own. OKAY.
Emilia forces a smile and reaches up, runs her fingertips through the soft fluff around Nadia's neck.
"Thank you," she says. "I love you too."
SUNFLOWER, repeats Nadia. ONWARDS.
"Yeah. Onwards."
Past the Gardner Building, past the spire of the Carlacke Media Tower. Late lunchers scurrying back to their offices, suit jackets flapping at the edges in the autumn breeze. Pigeons flapping away from crumbs as the pidgey swoop down, wings stirring the air in ways that suggest the beginnings of a gust or whirlwind. Saying: I'm a pokémon, sod off.
She should have picked the fruit, she thinks. The more promptly she does this, the more oddish will sprout. Does she want all Effie's work to be in vain? No. No, that would be the worst possible outcome; that would mean that there really was no reason for her to die. Effie has to live on. Emilia promises herself that she'll do it when she gets back, and knows in her heart that she probably won't.
They're at Rademaeker Circus now, swinging right around the statue of the great alakazam elder kzunic-utra; past the turning you'd take to head northeast towards Battleside Park, where the Gym and League offices and trainers' markets are; down Red Way Street and turning at last onto Northcote. Emilia clenches her fists to stop herself biting her nails and keeps her face as calm and blank as she can as the cab coasts to a halt outside number 132, beneath the electric sign spewing Cataphract headlines at anyone who cares to read them.
"Okay," says Emilia, handing a twenty-florin note to the driver. "Thanks very much."
"All right, love," he replies, which is annoying but what can you do, and then Emilia gets out and he drives away and she catches sight of Mark coming towards her from the entrance, clean-shaven now and hair slicked back into place.
"Hey," he says. "Ready?"
A breath. A heartbeat. A sense of history in the making.
"Yeah," says Emilia, switching her phone back to silent again. "I am."
Sovereign doesn't immediately attack: they just hang there, watching and waiting. Artemis doesn't stop to consider why; she calls out and Brauron spits an unstable, coruscating bolt of flame towards them that should, if she's got this right, explode on contact―
Sovereign's finger moves slightly, and the flame burst impacts harmlessly on air that has suddenly turned blue and crooked, distorting the pokémon behind it like a pane of warped glass.
Obvious, they say, as Brauron hisses and takes a step back, unnerved by her failure. Try again.
Artemis swallows. She hadn't even thought of that – had been too worried about Sovereign's incredible offensive power to consider their equally impressive defences. How do you get past something that can raise a barrier that strong so quickly, and with so little effort? And they're still levitating, too, like that's nothing; they want to show her she can't win, that they're so much stronger that this is totally hopeless―
"Follow!" cries Cass, and Ringo springs forward into a shadowy blur; Sovereign twitches again and the air thickens, but Ringo flies straight through, shielded by the dark-type move – only for Sovereign to reach up and swat him away lazily with the back of one hand. The darkness evaporates from his feathers, he squawks loudly in surprise, and a moment later Ringo is struggling back up onto his feet, fluffing his feathers and trying hard to look like he meant for that to happen.
Better, says Sovereign, as he and Brauron back off towards their trainers, wanting further instructions. Not good enough.
"Crap," says Cass. "I kinda thought …"
"It was a good thought." Think, Artie. You beat Blaine, right? Even when it seemed impossible. And Sovereign knows you can't beat them; that's not what they're looking for. Difficult to say what they are looking for, but it isn't that. They're not attacking, anyway. This isn't that kind of fight. So take your time, think things through, and just try to land a hit.
"Together," says Artemis, mind alive with anxious, predictive energy. "Either side, ready to mirror."
"Okay," replies Cass, either getting it or just rolling with it, hard to say. "Ringo! Ten o'clock, buster! And flect!"
"Brauron, three, turn, splode!"
Ringo breaks left, Brauron right; his feathers begin to gleam with an odd, flat light, and when Brauron's flame burst explodes harmlessly on Sovereign's barrier, he catches one of the stray sparks on his glowing chest – a spark that, a split second later, blooms into a second fireball that screams up at Sovereign from the other side―
―and flies harmlessly over their shoulder as they float sedately backwards, reality rippling with their passage.
Good, says Sovereign, drifting back into position. But insufficient.
"What are you even trying to prove?" cries Cass. "Like you can't seriously expect―"
They raise their hand and something barely visible snakes through the air towards them, making for one terrible moment a ghost person appear in Sovereign's throne, before Brauron croaks fiercely and belches a dark smog up into the psywave's path. Elements clash, something cracks sharply, and drops of water spray out in all directions as the psychic move burns the poison straight out of the gas.
Good block. Sovereign flares their nostrils. I don't know if you can take credit for it.
"I," mumbles Artemis, trying to get over the ghost person. "I, um …"
"Did you just try to psywave us?" asks Cass, wiping water from her face. "What the hell? That's not okay! Artemis has – I dunno what, exactly, but―"
You said you'd fight me, says Sovereign coolly. So fight me.
"That's not what―"
Fight me, they repeat, and Artemis touches Cass' arm, still not able to talk properly but able at least to do that.
"Cass," she whispers. "Cass, no."
"Being strong doesn't give you licence to be an asshole," says Cass, ignoring her. "You have to―"
Strength is, begins Sovereign, and then suddenly swings around as Cass makes a movement with her hand and Ringo launches himself at them from the side; this time he almost gets them, shrouded blackly in his pursuit, but at the last moment Sovereign manages to get their axe up and smacks him away with the flat of the blade.
I like that, they announce, as Ringo flaps furiously and just about manages to right himself. Give no quarter. If words are all you have, then use them.
Ringo shrieks and dives at them again; Artemis stammers something and Brauron spits a rolling cloud of sparking blue-purple dragonfire that sticks to Sovereign's barrier like napalm. With a grunt of annoyance, they cancel the shield, letting the fire drop harmlessly to the floor, and in the same movement swing their arm around to catch Ringo as he approaches, knocking him back towards Cass.
You begin to show your worth, they say. But I am not yet impressed.
And why would they be? All they're doing – even the two of them together – is keeping them busy, and barely even that. Artemis has to come up with something else, something better, and she doesn't have something better, has only got one badge and even then Blaine basically gifted it to her, she's just a crazy kid with a headful of ghosts and―
No. Calm. Breathe, and think. Sovereign's too strong for any attacks to really hurt them, but there has to be a way. There has to be.
Artemis watches them for a moment, watches Brauron and Ringo circling warily on the damp stone floor, and then it comes to her.
"Okay," she says suddenly, keeping her voice low. "Okay, Cass, pursuit on my word."
"You got something?"
"Dunno. Brauron! Back over here, now. Two o'clock."
Sovereign hangs there, waiting. Their face is unreadable; Artemis can't tell if they overheard her or not. She tries not to let it get to her, focuses on keeping track of where everything is: Brauron, moving into position, Ringo, just a little off to one side. Almost. Almost. And―
"Now," she hisses, and just like that Cass snaps follow!, and Ringo goes dark again, hurling himself at Sovereign's barrier―
"Cloud on Ringo!" cries Artemis. "Everything you've got!"
And Brauron's mouth fills with poison – and Ringo's beak shears through the barrier – and Sovereign moves to swat him away – and there it is, all the timings working out, the poison cloud gusting straight through the hole in the barrier that Ringo has made, spilling out around him over Sovereign's face―
―and fizzling out harmlessly in a wash of pale light.
Safeguard. Artemis recognises it from TV. Sovereign can use safeguard, and they're a psychic-type, and they were never in any bloody danger of being poisoned from the start.
They swat Ringo away, and this time he doesn't hop back up immediately; he staggers, looking groggy, and stays where he is, swaying. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut. Look what you did, Artemis tells herself, staring. Look what you did, you tried to be smart and all you managed to do was get Ringo hurt. This is the problem with people like you. You try to be clever and you forget to be kind―
We are nearly done here, I think, says Sovereign, looking at Ringo without interest. Your move again.
Brauron hisses and slithers forward to place herself between them and Ringo, fins flared in a tiny pointless display of bravado. Her mouth looks dry, and when she croaks without spitting so much as a spark Artemis knows it's over. She put everything she had into that poison gas, just like Artemis said. And now what? Now she's out of fuel, now Ringo's poisoned. Now they're going to fail and Sovereign will abandon them to the tender mercies of Giovanni and his schemes. All because of her. Because she isn't even worthy of the badge she claims to have earned.
"I," she says, struggling to find her voice. "I – I'm sorry, Cass, I …"
Cass doesn't say anything. She's staring, Artemis thinks, although she isn't sure if it's at Sovereign or at Ringo; she can't make herself look to make sure.
"Claw," mutters Artemis. "I … claw, Brauron."
Loyal to the end, Brauron pounces and rakes her stubby nails across Sovereign's barrier, with absolutely no result. Sovereign shakes their head and raises their free hand.
So it ends, they say, blue light gathering around their fingers. How unfortunate. I thought you were strong.
They pull their hand back―
Artemis is a lot of things, is a coward and a failure and a fraud; she's defective, she's just functional, she's a bad son and a worse daughter. But she's loyal, to the bloody end, and before she even knows what she's doing she's grabbed something from the junk pile and she's moving and it's a weak attack, just a psywave, meant to incapacitate Brauron and not to kill, but it's like the bones of her skull have fractured and there are stars and the world is strange colours and somewhere inside her bad things rise up from the cracks and Artemis disintegrates and instead the ghost people rush forwards with their bleeding fingers raised high―
A sound. Loud. Voices. Sovereign pulls back sharply, staring at their barrier, cracked where Artemis smashed the oar from the old boat across it with all the massive strength she has spent the last four years denying that she has.
It fades.
Yes, says Sovereign, indicating the crack in their barrier. Trust no strength but that of your arm.
"Oh fuck you," says Artemis, in a thin, mean voice that doesn't seem like hers, and she picks up Brauron and holds her close as Cass puts her arm around her.
Sovereign tilts their head slightly to one side, confused.
I do not, they begin, but Cass interrupts.
"Save it," she says, sounding tired. "You win, okay? You're strong and we're not. Are you happy?"
Sovereign looks at her, then back at Artemis. Through the remnants of the psychic link, Artemis can sense their bewilderment – and their guilt. She holds Brauron close, feels her all scratchy and warm against her chest, and says nothing.
I don't understand, they say.
"Of course you don't," mutters Cass. "Look, this was a mistake, I guess. For some reason we sort of thought you might have an interest in stopping Giovanni Dioli acquiring superhuman powers for evil purposes? But whatever, you don't, so we'll just go. You can stay here in your hole and hide out till the end of time, whatever."
Sovereign's pale eyes flash with anger.
How dare you, they begin, but Cass won't let them finish, keeps talking in a hard kind of way that seems to cut straight through the voice rippling in their heads.
"How dare you," she retorts. "You're a runaway kid holed up in a cave. You think that making a shitty crown out of tinfoil gives you the right to treat people like this? Get over yourself, asshole. In the meantime, Artie and I are gonna go save Kanto. Because apparently you just don't give a shit."
It's like she's forgotten what Sovereign is, what they can do. Artemis is spent now, frozen in the aftermath of her actions and the certain knowledge that if pushed too far Sovereign will not hesitate to kill, but Cass seems unstoppable. Her arm where it touches Artemis is hot, as if her anger is a real physical thing, boiling over inside her; wedged between the two heats, between Cass and Brauron, Artemis feels herself slowly thawing, the ice on her mind melting bit by bit.
You have proven yourself, says Sovereign. You are strong, both of you, in arms and spirit. And I will come with you.
"Too little too late," snaps Cass. "Ringo. Ball."
He disappears without complaint, eager to rest off the poison, and Cass is about to steer Artemis away when she pulls back and shakes her head.
"No," she says. "Cass – wait. I – I know you're angry, but we came here to get help, and …"
"They're being a hell of a lot less than helpful―"
"They've been through a lot―"
"Okay, right, but that's not an excuse. Right?"
Artemis sighs.
"Right," she says. "Right."
Sovereign watches the two of them argue without comprehension, their eyes flicking back and forth between their faces.
"Just … chill for a second," says Artemis. "Okay? I'm – I'm okay."
Cass hesitates, and in that moment Artemis knows she's won. Cass isn't unreasonable, after all. She'll come around, if she gives herself a moment to think. Besides, she isn't really angry at Sovereign, is she? She's angry at her parents. No one gets that upset just over Artemis.
"Well, you coulda fooled me," she says, and then winces as she hears what she's saying. "Ouch. Okay, I'm sorry. I just – I dunno what happened, but that looked like it did bad things to you."
Or maybe she is angry at Sovereign after all. Fine, whatever; Artemis has been wrong before and she'll probably keep being wrong till the day she dies.
"It … it did." Artemis has to pause then, has to swallow the fear as it surges back up like bile in her throat. "It did real bad things, but … I'm okay. And we need Sovereign's help."
She and Cass both turn to look at them, standing there before the throne. They aren't floating any more; the axe dangles loosely, unready. There's still something dangerous about them – probably there always is, just by virtue of them being what they are – but it's muted now, veiled by their unease.
Yes? they ask. Artemis has a feeling they aren't anywhere near as certain as they sound.
"We're cool," she says. "I wish you hadn't psywaved me but we're cool, I think."
I wasn't aiming for you.
"I know. But I wasn't going to let you hit Brauron."
Yes. I see that now. You are … honestly, I don't know what to call you. A good person, perhaps.
Artemis can't help but laugh a little at that. It comes out a bit wonky, a bit hysterical, but it is at least laughter.
"Okay," she says. "If you say so." Inward breath. Clear head. Brauron nosing at her elbow; Cass right there next to her. "So," she says. "You'll help us, then?"
Yes. Sovereign's eyes are like old-fashioned silver florins, bright and lifeless. I will.
It's anticlimactic, in a way. Emilia was expecting resistance – and sure, there is some; the editor of The Cataphract reacts to Mark's initial claim that Giovanni Dioli is heading a rogue black ops project to create fractures in the fabric of reality with polite disbelief. But then he shows her the photograph – and it's a good one, with the bright quivering mass of the breach entity front and centre – and Emilia gives her a Leaguely look and a frank confession that she's abandoning the League to expose this, and she starts to waver pretty quickly. She tosses in Cass and Artemis' testimony (names removed) and the medical reports, Mark piles on his own account – with the bright, terrified eyes of someone who has seen something terrible in the very recent past – and the battle is pretty much won. Emilia can see it in her eyes.
Scenting blood, she leans across the editor's desk with a grave expression and one hand planted firmly on the sheaf of papers.
"I have a duty to the Kantan people," she says. "I can't let that slide just because Giovanni has convinced the League otherwise."
The editor is a veteran of the industry. She has crossed swords with politicians and tycoons, broken down doors to cast daylight into the shady back rooms where deals are made; she's older than Emilia, and probably, in some ways, sharper. But she's not Emilia, not frozen forever in the moment of conjuring herself out of nothing, not steeped in over a decade of the weirdest of weird shit, and when it's her mind against Emilia's, hers is the one to yield.
She nods slowly, not really noticing what she's doing, and she agrees, and Emilia leaves the room knowing that she's just bullied her way into making this work.
"Well, that went pretty well," says Mark quietly, walking her back out through the office to the elevator. "I'd almost forgotten how scary you are."
Emilia smiles, as if this is a compliment. After all this is over, if she hasn't been arrested – after all that, she's going to have to find a new line of work. At least she's being vicious for the sake of the moral good, she thinks, and then immediately wishes she hadn't thought it. That's probably exactly how Giovanni justifies all of this to himself.
"Well," she says. "I think the facts spoke for themselves."
"I'm not so sure," says Mark, as they approach the lift. "The photo was good, but that line about your duty to the Kantan people was better. Can I quote that for the article?"
Emilia laughs dutifully.
"Sure," she says. "Knock yourself out."
"Right." They stop; Mark presses the button. "Anyway, thanks," he goes on. "I don't know if I'd have got her on side working by myself."
She shrugs.
"Don't sell yourself short, Mark," she says. "Can you handle it from here?"
"The office is about thirty seconds away from exploding with the biggest news since the war," he replies. "Yeah, I think I can handle that."
"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"
He grins. It's refreshing, after the way he was this morning; this is the Mark Emilia knows.
"I've been chasing this for ten years," he tells her. "Ever since Cinnabar. I knew there was something you were hiding. And now …"
"Now you know."
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
"Yes," he says. "Now I know."
A short pause, full of unspoken words. Emilia vaguely considers asking how this works, how the office turns a report into the front page of the evening edition and a notification on a million and one smartphones; she suspects Mark is considering asking things too, although she does not intend to answer him if he does.
"Well," she says. "The lift's here."
"Yeah," he says. "It is."
Another short pause, and then the doors begin to close so Emilia steps in and waves goodbye.
"See you around, Mark," she says. "You get an exclusive interview when I get arrested."
"Uh, maybe don't joke about that," he says, and she thinks for a moment about telling him that she's serious before deciding that perhaps it's best if he doesn't know that.
"All right, then," she says. "I look forward to the headlines later tonight."
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asks, stepping forward suddenly to block the doors. "The League―"
"Forget the League," says Emilia. "Let me handle this, Mark. Like we agreed."
She pushes the button to close the doors and lets the lift take her away from his response, keeping her eyes closed all the way down, and then on the ground floor she takes out her phone again and sees the eight missed calls. Lorelei, Yasmin, a private number. Multiple private numbers.
In her mind's eye Emilia sees the lines converging, like murkrow descending towards a carcass, and she sighs.
"Right," she says, and walks out into the street to find a cab.
Emilia is lucky: she lives in an old building, in a once-shabby part of town gentrified way back during the Clairmont administration. And like so many Saffron apartment buildings of its era, it has a fire escape at the back. She has the driver drop her off on the street the other side of the block, slips down the passage and unlocks the rusty gate into what the landlord optimistically calls the courtyard, where she nods at Nadia and watches her make her way up the fire escape in a series of long, fluttering hops. A minute or so later, she sees the fifth-floor window unlatch itself and a speck of green pass through. Emilia waits a little longer, and a few minutes after catches sight of Nadia again, coming into view a few flights above her.
"Well?" she asks.
MIND WOMAN, says Nadia, and Emilia swears softly under her breath. It's like she thought, then.
"Anyone else?" she asks.
ONE. MIND MAN.
Probably Sabrina and her second, Jared. Two psychics, with psychic-types to back them up. Not that they'll be violent, but they will want Emilia to come with them, and they're going to be firm about it.
Manageable. That's the thing about psychics, in Emilia's experience: their powers make them lazy. They'll expect to be able to sense Emilia coming from two floors away – and like everyone else, they're going to forget about her natu. They're psychic, sure. But they're trainers, not cops or League agents, and that means Emilia's got the advantage.
"All right," she says. "Can you hide me?"
Nadia puffs out her chest feathers proudly.
WE DISAPPEAR, she answers, taking up her usual position on Emilia's shoulder. ONWARDS.
"Onwards," she agrees, and, kicking off her heels to tread softer, starts to climb.
Up and up, the metal sun-warm against the soles of her feet. She's reminded of the last time she did this, on a different fire escape in a different city, too drunk to remember where her keys were and determined to get back into her apartment regardless. Someone called the cops on her then, after her alcohol-induced conviction that the window could be forced led her to accidentally smash it, and then they didn't believe she lived there and took her away in the back of the car.
This time, she tells herself, don't get caught. Or the results will be a hell of a lot worse than a night spent at the police station.
CRIMES, says Nadia, and Emilia almost laughs.
"Yeah," she says, the old anger seething beneath the surface. "Crimes."
She keeps climbing, ignoring the occasional look from the windows she passes, and around the second floor feels a pressure behind her eyes, like the first sign of a headache: Nadia's gone to work. Emilia isn't sure how completely she can mask the traces of their minds, or indeed how long she can keep it up, but then, there isn't anything she can do about it. She'll just have to keep going, and hope.
There is of course the option of just climbing back down and clearing out of here. She's got her purse, her phone, her bank card. Buy a different outfit, change up her hair, and Emilia could pretty easily evade the League, for a while at least. And she will, as best she can; she needs to speak to Artemis again, for one thing, to fight Giovanni for as long as she can before they come for her.
But she didn't pick the fruit. And so now, at last, in the worst circumstances possible, she finally has to do it.
Your own damn fault, Em, Sam would say. And honestly, she'd be right. She could fix this, even now – could send Nadia up there to get Effie's fruit herself; her telekinesis isn't that strong, but Emilia has always insisted she practise, and she could do it – but she won't. Effie deserves her personal attention. If she couldn't get it right earlier, she has to get it right now.
Fourth floor. Fifth. Moving very slowly now, head aching, eyeballs dry. Careful. Quiet. She hasn't done this since she was a kid, sneaking up and down the stairs when her parents were watching TV, but her body remembers, shifts its weight in all the old familiar ways. Up, and up, and here's the apartment, the open window.
Lightly, easily, as if she were fifteen, Emilia climbs through and drops down onto the floor of her kitchen.
Listen: anything? No. No, she doesn't think so. Nobody knows she's here.
She breathes out, and pads noiselessly past the counter and along into the living-room, where Effie stands in the corner. She kneels, reaches out―
―I love you, sweetie, and I'll love all your babies, and I'm sorry that this has all turned out so weird―
―and picks the fruit.
It comes away very easily in her hand – too easily, almost obscenely easily, like a scab falling away at a touch. Emilia breathes in sharply to suppress a little cry, and as she lifts the fruit away with shaky fingers she sees Effie's stem slump with the unmistakeable listlessness of something dead.
Silent tears. Nadia breathing hard with the effort of containing all this emotion, of keeping it undetected by the psychics outside. She can't keep this up much longer, Emilia knows, but it's so hard to move, so hard to do anything but stare and weep for her beautiful dead friend. Still. She is a professional, even if she is mourning, and she has a duty to the Kantan people, and there is an unimaginably brave and desperate young woman out there who needs her help, and also, hell, she might as well admit that she really doesn't want to be arrested; she is all of these things, all of these obligations and all of these fears, and though even combining the lot together doesn't match even half of what she had with Effie, she cannot deny the claims they have on her, and so she kisses the dead thing that is no longer her partner and turns and makes her way back out through the kitchen and back down the fire escape.
The headache fades. Her eyes stop hurting. She sits down on the last step of the fire escape, head in one hand and Effie's fruit in the other, and Nadia presses up against her cheek, cheeping and broadcasting her concern in deep, wordless waves of affection.
"I love you too," says Emilia, wiping her eyes, crushing her mascara into her face. "I … I miss Effie."
EFFIE, says Nadia, a hundred hundred memories dancing just beneath the surface of the word, and Emilia sniffs and wipes away fresh tears.
"Yeah," she says, staring at the vivid fruit in her hand. "Yeah, me too."
It takes a while for everyone to get over their awkwardness, but it has to happen sooner or later. Eventually, Sovereign puts down their axe and sits down in their throne, and the three of them start to talk through what to do next.
"Okay," says Artemis. "So I don't know how much of our plan you saw in my head, but um, we'll need to call up Emilia and ask her about what we should do. You know? From my memory?"
Yes. The League woman. Sovereign does not sound pleased. I have seen her before, after my escape.
"Yeah, she said." Artemis hesitates. "Is this going to be a problem?"
You tell me, says Sovereign. Your thoughts were unclear. Is she still affiliated with the League?
"No. No, she's sort of … well, she's taking the story about Giovanni to the press," says Artemis, guilt rising within her. "I think probably the League will want her arrested after that."
Sovereign's nostrils flare with some inscrutable emotion.
"Hmph," they grunt. So she grew a conscience. How convenient.
"I trust her," says Artemis, although she isn't sure that she does, and knows that Sovereign can probably tell.
Do you? they ask. Do you really?
"I … think so?"
A long pause. Sovereign's eyes bore into hers, unblinking.
All right, they say. But you are responsible for her conduct. If she betrays me …
"Could you just quit threatening us?" asks Cass, sounding tired. "Seriously. We know you're dangerous, okay?"
I am being careful, says Sovereign curtly. If you were being hunted, you would understand.
"Okay," says Cass. "Okay. But we're not going to betray you. And we'll take responsibility for Emilia, too. Is that enough?"
Sovereign sniffs and looks away.
I suppose.
"Great," says Artemis. "Great, so that's … that."
Yes. Sovereign hesitates. One moment. They step behind their throne and bend to pick something up – and then, strangely, hold back; Artemis can see the indecision in the slope of their shoulders, the twitching of their muscular tail. This, they begin, turning towards her again, and then break off to fiddle with the thing in their hand. This is …
They stop again, pick up and put down the axe, run their fingers across their bloody brow.
If you abuse the trust I am about to place in you, they say, and then shake their head. No. No, I think … I mean, I will kill you, but – but I do not think you will. A sigh – voiced, like their earlier harrumph; it seems a strangely human sound to issue from those leonine jaws. Just take it, they say, thrusting the object at Artemis. Before I have a chance to change my mind.
She takes it quickly, afraid to disobey, and only once she has it in her hands does she see what it is: a poké ball of some kind, deep purple with raised pink panels that have the telltale chill of dark-type material, and a little M engraved in the front.
"I've never seen one like that before," says Cass, staring.
They are not common. Sovereign's eyes are locked on the ball, as if they don't trust it not to suddenly devour them now that it is out of their possession. It is what they call a master ball. Catches any pokémon, without fail.
Cass looks up sharply.
"You mean―?"
Yes. I cannot break loose from it. Sovereign's voice is so low as to almost be a growl, making Artemis' mind tremble and Brauron burrow deeper into her arms. I cannot destroy it, either. And believe me, I have tried.
"This – I was gonna say that isn't ethical at all, but like, I guess none of this stuff is." Cass sighs. "I guess they're made for―"
Monsters, says Sovereign curtly. Rampaging gyarados. Stray tyranitar. And―
"Breach pokémon," says Artemis softly. "Why are you giving this to me?"
Because although I am strong, I cannot take the combined power of the League, replies Sovereign. Something that will be proven to you soon enough if I am spotted walking the streets of Kanto. So if I need to enter a town, I must go … incognito.
Artemis hesitates. This is a big thing; Sovereign doesn't have to say it for her to know. The master ball is a chain binding them to Cinnabar House, to human mastery, to the whims of those who would use them like they tried to back in 2007. To go back inside it after ten years, voluntarily … well, that's a kind of bravery that frankly staggers her.
"Are you sure?" she asks, and Sovereign flares their nostrils.
"Hmph," they say aloud, a harsh noise like a tauros snorting. Then: No, of course not. But I don't see any alternative. Giovanni must be stopped. I do not think I could do it alone; I do not think you could, either. And if I am to travel with you, I must go unseen.
"Wait," says Cass. "So you agree he has to be stopped?"
Yes.
"Then what the hell was that fight all about?"
Sovereign fixes her with a stare. To her credit – and Artemis' frank amazement – she doesn't back down.
I am a pokémon, they say simply. You are trainers. There is a shape to these things. And … I was not sure, until then. You are the first to find me, and that was … startling.
An uncomfortable pause. Sovereign's face is impossible to read, but by the way their tail is lashing, Artemis can't imagine they feel very much at their ease. It's hard to believe, in a way – how can someone as powerful as Sovereign fear anything? – but she understands. She's strong too, in one way. And that kind of strength has been less than no help at all when it comes to the biggest challenges of her life. Some things will always be frightening.
"Yeah," she says slowly. "Yeah, I guess I can understand that."
Sovereign gives her a long, unsettling look.
You really do, don't you? they say, in the end. How infinitely depressing.
"Yeah," says Artemis again. "I guess it really kinda is."
Emilia has daydreamed about this sometimes, in particularly tedious meetings. She supposes everyone must do, or at least everyone who has a difficult relationship with their job. In her imagination, she walks out of whatever office she's in, buys a set of clothes she'd never normally consider wearing, something so not Emilia that nobody would ever recognise her in it, then throws her phone into the river and catches the express train out to the airport, where she takes the first seat on any international flight available and disappears into the sky.
It's comforting to think about this now, to relate what she's doing to that dream. It makes her awareness that the state of Kanto is currently after her slightly less terrifying.
In Galkirk Village, in Saffron's east end, she buys herself some nondescript clothing and a pair of aviator shades that her younger self would have thought were the coolest thing. She changes, takes the tie out of her hair, and feels it begin to spring back again into the coiled mass she has spent her professional life trying to suppress. A little further along, on Montgomery Street, she buys a cheap phone and a SIM card, copies across the few numbers she needs to keep, and drops the old one over the railing on the Castle Bridge. It falls a long, long way, and disappears with a satisfying splash.
Emilia breathes out. Okay, she thinks: what now? She's going through the motions, but she's not going to pretend that she's any good at this kind of thing; she's seen enough of the League and the police to know that a good psy officer will have found her in a day or two. How can she make best use of that time?
Artemis, she replies. She needs to get hold of Artemis. Either she's dead or she has a legendary pokémon with her. Whichever it is, Emilia has to know.
North of Galkirk, in Sere Fields, Emilia stops to buy a latte in a faux-French café on the Old East Road. She has no appetite for it, not with the day she's having, but she can't face making this call standing up, she just can't, and this is the easiest way to get herself somewhere to sit. Ignoring her cooling coffee, she brings up Artemis' number, and listens to the phone ringing in her ear.
"Pick up," she mutters, crossing her fingers. "Come on. Pick up. Pick up and don't be dead …"
"Um, hello?" asks Artemis, confused by the unfamiliar number, and every knotted muscle in Emilia's body unclenches at once.
"Hi," she replies. "It's Emilia. I'm – I'm on a different … Artemis, where are you?"
"Cerulean." Pause. "On the bus back into town. I was gonna call you when I was back at the Centre."
"Back into …? So you went …?"
No answer, for what feels like an age. Nadia tenses, locks eyes nervously with Emilia as she listens in through her ears.
"Their name is Sovereign," says Artemis, in the end. "And … and they're gonna help us."
Emilia exhales.
"Jesus Christ," she says, unable for once to control herself. "Sorry. I – I've been thinking all day that I might have sent you to your deaths."
"You didn't send us …"
"I didn't stop you."
"You couldn't have stopped us," says Artemis. "I was gonna go anyway."
"Well, I guess that's probably true." Emilia could argue, but doesn't; she's too relieved to spoil things now. "We should talk about what to do next," she says instead. "I'll come up to Cerulean."
"Are you sure? What about your appointment with the editor?"
"Over and done with," she says. "Check the website. If the story isn't up, it will be soon enough. And now that that's done, I should probably leave Saffron for a while anyway."
"Oh. Yeah. Um … well, we'll be in the Centre."
"I'll be there soon. The maglev doesn't take long."
"Right," says Artemis. "Um, Emilia?"
"Yes?"
"Good luck."
She sounds like she means it. Nadia twitters, touched; Emilia smiles sadly and scratches her feathery head.
"Thank you, Artemis," she says. "Take care. I'll be there soon, and we can talk about this properly."
"Okay. Okay, bye."
"Bye."
She hangs up, and lifts Nadia back up onto her shoulder.
"I guess it's time to go," she says, putting her phone back into her bag and briefly touching Effie's fruit, safely wrapped in tissues down at the bottom. She stares hard at the table for a moment, concentrating on holding back tears, and then takes her hand away and straightens up.
There will be time to mourn later, she thinks. Artemis has come back alive, miraculously, and more than that she's just given them a fighting chance. And Emilia definitely cannot afford to waste it.