Chapter Eleven
Seven's chest froze as she thought of Seamus, lying slumped back with a hole in his head, his blood pooling on the plastic-covered carpet beneath the chair she sat upon. Giovanni, wore the same suit from last night, had the same haircut, watched her with the same cold eyes, and yet, with arms loose on the sides of his desk and a delicate smile curling up the points of his thin, pale lips, he exuded a comforting presence. Seven felt herself relax into the luxurious cushions.
"There have been many Rockets whose Pokémon theft sprees far surpassed yours," he said, taking a sip from a glass of red wine. A tiny rivulet slipped down his mouth and onto his chin. Seven flinched at the suggestion of blood. He took out a white handkerchief, thoroughly wiped the smear away, and then applied some sanitizer to his face.
"However, the best amateur stole twenty-four during their week." Giovanni drummed his fingers on the desk. "They became an Admin, briefly."
Seven's hands twitched at that thought. "What are you trying to say?"
"What I'm saying is that you have potential." He pushed a ceramic bowl, half-full of candied pineapple, towards her. "Care for some?"
Seven gingerly picked up a single sugar-coated piece and placed it in her mouth. She had to conceal her surprise as the sweet, fruity flavor tickled her tongue.
"Thank you," Seven said.
Giovanni didn't answer her. Instead, he reached into his desk and pulled something out. It remained in his right hand as he returned his attention to her.
"Tell me, what's the best way to kill someone?"
Seven was taken aback by this question. She puzzled it over for a few minutes before admitting, "I don't know. I haven't killed anyone before."
Giovanni's eyes narrowed. Wrinkles as hard as jagged stone cliffs furrowed his brow, and his cheekbones jutted from his jawline like mountaintops. "If you want to be a Grunt, you better get used to it."
Seven gave a wordless, frantic nod, and the hard lines on his face vanished. Then he held up his right hand, revealing a knife tucked in his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, the switch-blade flipped out of the hilt, glittering in the soft green light filtered through fern leaves.
"I always keep a knife on me," Giovanni said. He picked up a whole tangerine, sliced it in half, cleaned the knife, and peeled the fruit apart with a handkerchief-covered hand. "A gun is noisy, obvious, and serves only to kill. Knives, however, are silent, easy to hide, and have many other uses."
He placed a tangerine wedge in his mouth and chewed it slowly, and again, juices started trickling out of his mouth. Seven peered closer and saw that the corner of his lip was marred by a thin, white scar that left a hole in his mouth, so small it could only be seen while he was eating.
Giovanni noticed her stare and covered the scar with the handkerchief, plugging the leaking hole. "That was from when I was a kid," he said. "I learned that day the value of a knife."
Once he cleaned his face again, he pressed the blade into the hilt, set the knife down, and slid it across the table. Seven picked it up and gave it an experimental wave. The blade lazily flopped out, half in, half-out. She pushed it the rest of the way and examined her hazy reflection in the flat of the blade.
"Thank you," she said, pushing on the blunt side of the blade. She nearly sliced her fingers when the blade snapped back into the hilt.
"Oh, and take these too." Giovanni took a pokéball out of his desk and tossed it at Seven. She fumbled at its slippery surface and caught it with the tips of her fingers. The word "Magneton" was etched in black on the pokéball's red half.
"I give those to you because they may be useful on your first official mission." Giovanni leaned forward, clasped his hands together, set his arms on the desk, and slid aside a small pile of papers with his elbow. "Fisher's going to attack a White Knight facility. I want you on that assault team. It'll be a good place to prove your worth."
Giovanni fell silent and stared at her, as if waiting for an answer. Seven swallowed and nervously said, "O-okay."
"Good." Giovanni leaned back and ate another tangerine slice. "Dekkard will show you to the preparation room. Follow all of Fisher's orders, and don't get yourself killed."
At the mention of his name, Dekkard knocked on the door. It opened, and Dekkard waved Seven over. Seven glanced back and forth between the two, said a quick and courteous goodbye to Giovanni, and followed Dekkard down the hall of Admins.
"Damn Steve, you're one lucky bastard," he said as they walked down halls Seven didn't recognize. Grunts strode through the halls. Some glanced at her as they passed, and others paid her no mind, but none spoke. "Keep this up, and you'll be an Officer like me in no time."
The moment they turned one corner, Seven felt a sudden silence hit her like a feather pillow. Room after room was completely vacant, and a thin layer of dust, like drifting ash from a volcano, settled over the beds, tables, and computers. After a quarter mile of the eerie emptiness, Seven heard a high-pitched whine echoing inside the walls. The further they walked, the louder it became, until Seven had to grit her teeth to keep herself from shouting.
"So, you can hear it?" Dekkard asked, who saw Seven's discomfort. "You've got good ears. Don't worry, we won't have to get too close to the generators."
True to his word, they took the next left, away from the whine of unseen machinery. Instead, she heard the sounds of ruffling clothes, the clack of safety harnesses being buckled together, the harsh ripping of Velcro, and mechanical clicking and thumping noises as guns were checked and assembled.
Dekkard knocked twice on the door from which the sounds came. The door swung open, revealing a bare, clean locker room with gleaming steel lockers and security cameras perched over the lockers. Ten men and two women strapped bulletproof vests and padded leggings over their uniforms, fitted helmets snugly over their heads, and strapped pokéballs and guns to holsters on their bodysuits.
One man, bigger and beefier than all the others, sauntered over to Seven and Dekkard. Even through the pads and helmet, she recognized Admin Fisher.
"So, we meet again rookie," Fisher said. "I can't believe I'm stuck babysitting you on this mission."
Seven had no idea how to respond, so she bowed her head and said, "Yes sir."
Despite the shining black face shield, Seven could tell he scowled at her answer. "Just stay close to Dekkard and don't get shot. Think you can manage that?"
"Yes sir."
Fisher sighed, which was magnified by the radio in his helmet and carried to all the other helmets in the room. He pointed at an unopened locker. "Shut up and suit up. I don't have all day."
Seven opened the locker. Inside was a vest, of sturdy Kevlar and blazoned with the red R, a pair of padded pants, rugged boots that reached halfway to her knees, a helmet, and an assault rifle, pre-assembled and a click of the safety away from pumping fifty rounds into anything within a quarter mile of the barrel's sight.
Expecting ill-fitting gear, Sam slipped the pants on and found them snugly fitting at her waist. The vest clamped on like a second skin, and even the boots matched her feet. The helmet afforded just enough room for her long, lupine face. At first, the suit felt hot and stuffy, but with a gentle whir, the machine's air filtering system activated, pumping fresh, cold air around her face. The screen lit up, revealing everything around her in resolution better than even her own eyes. She strapped the gun to her back, slipped the knife into a small loop at her waist, and clacked the Magneton's pokeball onto her belt.
"Too slow!" Fisher barked over the radio. "Now follow the map to the van. I even left a nice big green marker for you, like a frickin' videogame. You can't miss it!"
A grid-like diagram popped up on the screen of her helmet, in the upper right corner. After a few twists and turns, she figured out that the yellow lines represented walls, the blue arrow indicated her position and the direction she faced, and a blinking green light pointed the way down a long hall.
After a minute, she arrived at the entrance to a small, damp garage. It had a cave-like appearance to it, with stalagmites hanging from the ceiling and silt-laden drops falling to the ground. A few tiny spikes rose from the concrete floor in between the vehicles, and some abandoned vehicles with smashed headlights and dented bumpers had hats of stone.
Using the blinking green light, she found a thick black van waiting at the far end of the garage. Fisher leaned against the back, tapping his foot on the ground and staring at her.
"Come on, chop chop! Daylight's burning!"
Seven sprinted over and got whacked on the back as she passed him. She clambered into the trunk and took a seat next to Dekkard.
"Wow, seems like only yesterday we brought you here in this van," he said through the radio. "Then again, I suppose it was only a few weeks."
Fisher leapt into the back, slammed the doors behind him, and sat at the farthest end, towards the driver's seat. He gave two banging knocks on the wall, and the engine roared. Tires screeching, they sped off. Seven barely got the belt buckled before they careened through the first curve. Through the pads, the belt bit into her upper shoulder as her body leaned forward from its inertia.
After a frantic minute, the van settled into a leisurely pace and merged with traffic. Seven heard the sounds of other vehicles surrounding them for a while, but then, they veered off an exit, and the sounds died away.
A few minutes later, the van stopped. Two Grunts threw the doors open and leapt out, guns raised. After thirty seconds, they motioned with one hand for the others to get out. Dekkard leapt to his feet, gun in hand, and followed the crowd out. Seven fumbled with the seat belt, then clumsily grabbed the gun from her back and followed.
They were in the middle of a cracked, crumbling parking lot, surrounded by low, squat metal warehouses. Amidst the sea of rusted corrugated steel, one building looked sleek as polished silver, with a white WK painted over the door.
"Idiots," Fisher said over the radio. "It's like they're sending us an invitation." He broke his gun apart, checked each piece and meticulously slid them back together. Then he fingered each of the six pokéballs at his waist. Seven looked around, saw that everyone did the same, and copied them.
Fisher gestured towards the door. Two Grunts brought bulky, flat, black boxes and pressed them against the door. They stuck to the steel. The Grunts gave the Admin a thumb up and backed away from the door.
Everyone else raised their weapons. Seven clumsily followed suit.
"Alright everyone," Fisher shouted so loudly that Seven almost dropped her gun. He raised a hand in the air. "It's party time!"
Changelog: 8/19/18 - a few aesthetic edits