POV: Cynthia / LOCATION: Sinnoh League


On the day of the raid, a Team Galactic Grunt boldly strides into our strategy meeting. He rips off his face when I reach for my Poke ball.

"It is me!" Looker yelps.

Good thing he took off that horrendously realistic disguise, otherwise Interpol will have to send forensics to Sinnoh.

"I plan to infiltrate the Team Galactic hideout to administer our secret weapon," Looker explains.

The "secret" weapon is a harmless white bottle filled with harmless white pills that can pass for breath mints.

"Our informant suggested it would be easier to debilitate Cyrus before apprehending him. He is a very unpredictable enemy. My superiors have given this plan an 'okay.'"

"You're going to drug him?" I say, impressed.

"You're going to drug him?" Lucian says incredulously.

Ignoring Lucian's deepening disbelief, I volunteer to sneak into Galactic HQ in Looker's stead. I know its layout firsthand. Our bumbling detective might attract unneeded attention.

"Will they recognize you in this disguise?" Looker says.

"No way."

Not even if the sky falls down. The Grunts are stupid. That's why Cyrus surrounds himself with mediocracy. Because it'll be easier for him to operate in the shadows.

"It's too dangerous," Lucian insists.

"I've done more dangerous things," I say.

"And where have that landed you? In the heart of enemy territory. Now you're going back in that ludicrous outfit to plant drugs—"

"Sleeping pills," Looker says. A look from Lucian makes him retreat into the background.

"A raid is one thing. Poisoning someone is another—"

"We're not poisoning him," I huff. Lucian has the annoying talent to make things sound much harsher than they really are. "We're just knocking him out. A few of these bad boys, and he'll wake up behind bars. Easy."

"Are these even sleeping pills? Have you tested—"

"Whose side are you on?" I say sharply. He's giving off the impression that he isn't on the side of justice.

Lucian pinches his nose bridge. "I don't want any involvement in this."

After he leaves, I take the disguise and secret weapon from Looker.

"I believe in you, Champion of Sinnoh!" he says.


Tacky as this wig and spacesuit are, I have no trouble breezing into HQ. The Grunts are too busy exchanging money under the table for magazines of a questionable nature.

"The new issue of Traps Illustrated!" someone whispers.

No signs of Cyrus or his Commanders. Not until I create a distraction, anyway.

And the perfect diversion is within arm's reach. One well-meaning pull, and hell will be unleashed.

"That's the fire alarm."

B-2 is peering at me with his hands on his ample hips.

I muster a weak smile. B-2 of all people, displaying the keen vigilance expected of any corporate employee? If the Champion of SInnoh gets exposed by a butt-monkey… The shame!

"You're not going to pull that, are you?" he says. The crooked grin on his lips betrays his true intentions.

"Definitely not," I say with exaggerated slowness.

Saturn walks past us without looking up from his DS.

"If you don't pull it," B-2 continues, "the fire alarm won't go off for the third time this month. And we won't have to evacuate again."

I pull the fire alarm.

The resulting screech renders me unable to hear anything for a good few seconds. Fire alarms haven't gone off in the League in years. Hearing one for the first time in forever is a bit frightening.

B-2 cackles. "Run before Cyrus catches you!"

Grunts are streaming down all directions like Feebas caught in a net. Lights are flashing. Sprinklers are gushing. A disorientating chaos.

Gunshots ring out but are swallowed by the blaring alarms. Frustrated that no one heard, Mars tosses aside her pistol for a grenade launcher. Saturn puts up an impressive but ultimately futile attempt to wrestle it away. Jupiter snatches the weapon and tries to restore some semblance of order, unsuccessfully.

Finally, the boss appears. He looks like he will rather be anywhere but here.

"Follow the Commanders!" Cyrus barks. Without needing to be raised, his voice pierces through the pandemonium.

Moving against the current, I slip into the emergency staircase. I've scaled Mt Coronet with but a Fresh Water in my backpack. I've trudged through torso-deep snow in the backdrop of a blizzard.

Sprinting up twenty-eight flights of stairs is a different monster.

At last, I make it to the top floor. The office is flooded. I wade to his desk.

The cup of coffee is overflowing with dark water. Knowing Cyrus, he will still drink that slop. This is the same weirdo whom the five-second rule of food had forsaken when it was first devised, after all.

I crush a few pills into the murky coffee. Is that enough? If he can digest food that's been living on the floor, his immune system must be monstrous. I add in a handful for good measure.

But what if he doesn't touch the coffee?

So I replace the white bottle Looker gave me with an opened one in the desk drawer. If Cyrus forgoes his spoiled coffee, he'll no doubt reach for his stash of painkillers. Once he puts two in his mouth, he'll be sleeping like a log.

What can possibly go wrong?