POV: Cynthia / LOCATION: Veilstone Neo Galactic HQ
I had trouble locating Neo Galactic HQ.
Occupying the property where the old spiked fortress fell is a three-storey, slightly curved building that oozes the same soul-sucking anonymity as the government buildings found in downtown Hearthome. Even the entrance is depressing, as if made to make entry difficult… and escape impossible.
A young man is wiping down graffiti on the walls.
"Saturn?" I call.
Cyrus's self-declared prodigy jumps like a speared Magikarp upon sight of me.
"You can't be here!" he hisses. "Charon is—"
As if summoned by the mere power of thought, the creepy old man materializes before me.
"Champion Cynthia!" he says. "I knew you'd come by eventually."
Again, he offers his hand as if we are old friends. As usual, I stare him down until he retracts it, playing off the tension like an unwanted itch.
"HQ is a lot shorter now," I say as greeting.
"Twenty-eight storeys is ridiculous," Charon says. "Neo Galactic HQ is situated closer to the ground. Closer to reality."
"And the inside?"
"Of course, of course, it will be my pleasure to give you a company tour. Unlike a certain criminal, I don't keep secrets from the Champion of Sinnoh. Transparency is one of our core principles here at Neo Galactic!"
While I make to follow Charon into the building, Saturn dashes into my peripherals. He begins to say something until he stops in place, and with exaggerated slowness he jabs his gaze upwards, where a large, black sphere protrudes from under the eaves.
A security camera. Was that always there?
The interior of HQ is washed in a sterile, squalid white. No starry walls, no high metal beams to lend the appearance of the spacious hallways of a space station. Our footfalls reverberate on the granite tiles, their sheen exacerbated by the harsh fluorescent light.
It's too quiet without the usual jazz playing in the background.
"You don't put music on?" I say.
"Heavens, no. The most effective work environment is one where employees are most productive."
A wave of his hand presents of overview of adults pecking away at their keyboards. Without their silly bowl cuts and spacesuits, I almost fail to recognize them as former Galactic Grunts.
I point to a man hunched over his computer, his back resembling a shrimp's curvature. "Is that B-2?"
"They all have real names," Charon says dryly. "The number thing is incredibly childish. As expected from the mind of a child."
We continue deeper within HQ with Charon showing me room after room of employees glued to their computers. They work in unison, breathe in unison, every individual movement seemingly coordinated by the directions on their monitors. No one is running around nor exchanging money under the table nor flooding the men's restroom. Everyone is on task. Like robots.
"Where's the Nap Room?" I say.
Charon laughs for a good five minutes. "The office is not a child's playroom. Productivity has increased by eighty per cent after I've gotten rid of the unnecessary distractions."
Where the rocket beds once stood is a maze of cubicles. Though the ventilation is running smoothly, the air feels heavy. Suffocating. Imagine doing this for eight hours every day of your life!
"Welcome to the real world," Charon says. "That immature buffoon knew nothing about running a successful corporation. He merely preyed on their ignorance whereas I harness their true potential."
Sure, the former Grunts have become a real corporate workforce under Charon's leadership. But something feels missing… Incomplete.
In the corner of my eye, I notice that Saturn has been mopping the same area for a while now.
"Let's continue this discussion in my office," Charon says.
The path to his office winds around a colorless corridor. When making the turn, someone pulls me into a crevice squashed between two unused tables. The perpetrator is none other than Cyrus's former right hand: Jupiter.
"This is the only blind spot in the whole building," she says to my unspoken question. "The Grunts used to fuck in here when all the beds were occupied."
Before I can beg for further specification, I stop short at the strange glimmer in Jupiter's eyes. Her gaze is not one of malice—rather, it echoes a desire for closure.
"Did he get immediate medical attention?" she says softly.
"He just got out of the hospital," I grunt.
"Has he been eating?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
Jupiter looks at me as if I had proclaimed that water is wet. "Interpol has everyone from Galactic Energy under watch. Except that rat Charon, of course. As part of our 'deprogramming,' no one is allowed to visit—"
"Pluto!" someone whispers.
"Listen to me, Champion. Cyrus never hurt you. Without him, you would've died."
And with those cryptic remarks, Jupiter shoves me back outside, just in time for Charon to come down the hall.
"There you are!" he says. "When you didn't reply, I was worried I had lost you in our spectacular HQ."
"I was marveling at your surveillance system," I say as casually as possible.
"Beautiful, is it not? Accountability and responsibility are another two of our key values. Don't you agree, Jane?"
His question is directed to Jupiter, who returns a face as immobile and expressionless as a canvas of milk.
"Do we need to talk to human resources again?" Charon says sweetly. You can use his voice as a replacement for the most viscous of jams.
Her eyelid twitches.
"Without my intervention, you would all be labeled as criminals. If you had joined your beloved Cyrus in prison, then who would provide for them? They would be sent into the state's care, and, to my knowledge, the recidivism rate for young offenders is startlingly high… Do you really think they can lead the life of ordinary civilians?"
Jupiter opens her mouth so wide that it almost splits. At once, however, her expression regains its former blankness, and she storms away without another word, without acknowledging Saturn.
To me, Charon gives a tired smile.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, Champion Cynthia. Rest assured I will lead the old Galactic to a bright and prosperous future."
His tone indicates finality. Our little tour has concluded.
"Where is Mars?" I say.
What can only be described as raw hostility crosses his lips before it smothers into a thin, patient line.
"Of course, of course. I keep no secrets from our region's icon…"
The area he leads me to is not an office, but a room beyond an electronic lock. Bare of furniture, it contains a lone chair facing the wall and an equally solitary occupant with her hands folded neatly across her laps.
"She almost carved out my heart the other day. But with proper medication, even the most hopeless of souls can find a shred of salvation. Even your former boss. Right, Mars?"
Charon gently pats her cheek. As docile as a deer, Mars responds to his parental touch by wordlessly lifting her head.
Her pupils are so dilated that they seem to flood her eyes.
On my way out, I bump into Saturn. To be more precise, he crashes into me, but without sparing a half-hearted apology or an explanation as to why he was spying on me, he picks himself up and shuffles away.
It is then that I realize there is a scrap of paper in my hand. Scrawled within is a simple message:
HELP.