Intermission 1: The Pariah

"Oh yeah, to all my little anarchists out there? I hear you loud and clear, been readin' the comments, and to answer the question everyone and their mum is askin', yeah, 'course that ol' radio rental, Rose, is trying to keep us all hush-hush. Spikemuth doesn't play the dynamax song and dance, now we got no electricity. You don't follow the rules, you get left to rot, yeah? Dimwitted bellend could make a blackout look like a disco, he could. Doesn't he know punk has never been about followin' the rules? No gods, no masters, all that shit. It's all love though, cause my sis'll get up in front of all those cameras and show the world Spikemuth doesn't just want a piece of the pie. We want the whole fuckin' bakery. Keep fightin' the good fight, listeners."

~ Piers Boucher, Vlogs with Piers ~

The lights and sirens that had gathered around the empty lot weren't unfamiliar to him, but at one point they had been. Once upon a time, they were the things that only showed up in books or the stories that some of the security personnel would talk about on their breaks, and he would be privy to it only in passing as little ears lingered around corners. Here on the sidewalk outside of some rink-a-dink motel on Melemele Island, he found himself very fortunate that was still the case. Nobody paid him any mind, he was just being a kid and listening in on things that didn't concern him.

That's what they all thought, until he showed them he hadn't had the option of "being" a kid for a very long time.

A girl glanced at him, big blue eyes that were wide with uncertainty. Fresh and new, it was clear they would adapt to the indifference of the world sooner rather than later, much like his had. Perhaps they already were. He hefted the bag of groceries over his shoulder and kept walking, his other hand comfortably in the pocket of his hoodie as he trudged across the parking lot with his head down low. He acted as though he didn't care about the crime scene that was taking place not even a hundred feet away from him, drawing in a crowd of rubberneckers and nosy passersby.

Tourists loved a spectacle, after all.

Perhaps it would have been less suspicious to stay and watch, but he had things to do, people to inform, a giant pokemon to feed. Just like everyone else. He held the electric card up to the scanner on the door, pushing it open with his free hand and kicking it closed behind him as the smell of cheap air freshener washed over him. The room itself was small with just a single queen-sized bed placed smack in the middle, a desk, a few chairs, the television of course, and a tiny refrigerator below a microwave.

The grungy brown pattern that decorated the bedspread, the pillows, the curtains, even the trim on the damned walls, was absolutely putrid. It lacked any sense of regality, influence, or anything close to interior decorating sense. That was probably part of why he liked it; it was just so goddamn ugly. It didn't pretend to be anything more than what it was, and that was a cheap roadside motel for truckers and tourists who didn't want to pay Hau'oli's hotel rates.

He lowered his hood and passed the enormous pokemon that had been asleep moments ago on the bed, as it lifted its glowing gray eyes to meet his own while he opened the fridge. All that was inside was a microwavable dinner and a root-beer, which he cracked open and took a long sip from before tossing the dinner in the microwave where it belonged. Two minutes; to think, some people were so lucky to have food available at the snap of their fingers, that two minutes was an ungodly amount of time for them.

Must've been nice.

When he glanced back at the pokemon, he was met with the same expectant stare that always fell on him when they didn't go out together. "Yeah yeah, I got your food. Picky bastard." He reached into the bag and pulled out a pack of wishiwashi strips covered in plastic, pushing open the top with his fingernail. He set the open packaging onto the bed and gave the beast a pointed look, brushing a strand of choppy blonde hair out from his eyes.. "If it smells like fish in here because of you, you're sleeping in the tub. Got it?"

The beast gave him an unimpressed look, as though daring him to try and move it into the cramped bath of their motel room, before staring down at the meal with a sense of longing that he hated to see. He didn't like the fact that he understood not being able to eat; the shame of having food so mockingly close to you, so seemingly available, only to have to rely on someone else just to eat it. It was pitiful, but he understood that. He took a sip of his drink and picked up a piece of the slimy raw meat, dangling it in the eye-holes of the bronze mask that separated him from his pokemon.

There was a disgusting schlurrk sound as his pokemon half slurped, half ripped the raw meat apart inside of his mask. The sound had scared him the first time he had heard it, but now it was a sound of satisfaction. Eating was a blessing for both of them. It was almost enough to distract him from the call he knew he needed to make, the one he had resigned himself to the moment he saw that idiot getting arrested just outside. There was a part of him that considered just putting it off, waiting until tomorrow, but he knew if he didn't do it now he'd be hearing it for the next week.

Besides, he told himself as he laid on the bed and flipped the television on, chances are he'll hear about it sooner than later anyway. The image of a woman in a pristine red suit at a news desk stared back at him as a digital screen flashed behind her.

"In recent news, scientists and researchers across the world mourn the loss of one of Paldea's leading scientists in pokemon genetics and terrastalization-"

Click.

"Hoo-wee! Come on down to Brudda Billy's Barberque, where our happy hour is EVERY hour! Drink like a kahuna with our new special, 'The Mango Martini', filled with the tastes of Alola you've come to love-"

Click.

"- professor says he'll be taking a small break from poke-physiology to focus on the continued construction of the Alolan League, and will be on site for at least a week and a half. Many are saying that it's placement atop Mt. Lanakila is disrespectful to the land and pokemon residing there, while Professor Kukui insists its placement is, 'anything but'-"

Click.

Maybe it was a side-effect of not growing up with any sort of television or access to the wider world, but he couldn't quite fathom how people could sit around and watch something so boring. Sixty channels, endless programs, and it was all just slop. He flipped the channel to some cartoons to keep his pokemon entertained, and pulled a little black phone from his pocket. He moved to the only contact available in the phone, studying it for a second before clicking the 'Call" button. Here went nothing.

He put it up to his ear, letting it ring that ear-killing bit-crushed dialing noise that every old phone seemed to have. It rang once, then twice, and on the third a familiar voice that was grated like sandpaper and thick with a Unovan accent broke through the cheap speaker.

"Gladion, thought I told ya not to use these freakin' things unless it's important, huh? Fuck ya doin'?"

Gladion jerked back as the grainy voice unintentionally screamed at him, and quickly turned the volume to a near mute. He rolled his eyes, knowing full well it would go unnoticed. "Wouldn't need to cash out twenty bucks each time we use them if you knew anything about basic encryption." He muttered. He could already hear the reply brewing on the other end and decided to cut to the chase. "Bailey's been caught. Idiot ran straight to the meet-up spot and almost got me caught too, and last I saw he was getting shoved into the back of a squad car."

"Wha- the fuck you mean he got caught?! Why didn't you stop him?"

"From what? Getting cornered by four cops and a couple of trainers?" Gladion had enough sense not to let his volume rise with his boss'; privacy wasn't a luxury afforded to a thinly-walled motel like this. "I didn't tag along to babysit a thirty-five year old man, Guzma. If you had wanted me to teach him how to not get beat by a couple of trainers and their barebones lineup, you should've specified that." He didn't bother keeping the venom out of his voice. Bailey had been a prick.

Everyone's going to think I did it on purpose, let him get caught because he wanted to crack jokes about my clothes at breakfast. If that was the case, so be it. He didn't have time for grown men acting like children, he didn't have time for this ridiculous job he had been sent on, but he was stuck dealing with both. Why? Because he could handle it, and everyone in Team Skull knew that. Even if they didn't like it.

There was the sound of low grumbling and something breaking on the other end of the line, and Gladion tossed the phone to the side. His pokemon stared at him through the bronze control mask it bore just as the microwave beeped, and he slipped another sliver of raw fish meat to keep it from giving him that look. He gave it a few seconds of course, he grabbed his meal and sat against the bed, all the while patiently waiting for the cursing and smashing to stop from his phone. When it did, he picked it back up.

"Are you done having a temper tantrum? Because I have other news besides your little espionage aficionado sneaking his way into a sixteen month sentence." Gladion murmured. The voice on the other end of the line took in a deep breath, mumbled, and then sighed.

"Watch it, punk. I respect your moxie, but tone down the sass before I smack the piss outta ya." The phone's speaker crackled as the sound of a cabinet closing burst through. "So Bailey's gonna need bail. God damn, third one this week. He's the only guy we got above the age of twenty-five, idiot oughta know better. Oh, and those two chucklefucks in Hau'oli tried to steal a fuckin' tauros for some reason – I told them to catch some strong pokemon we could get money for, and they go and- I just- who the fuck are these trainers that clotheslined Bailey anyway-"

Gladion rolled his eyes and flipped through the channels, not because he cared what was on, but it gave his fingers something to do. As soon as he did, his pokemon slowly turned to look at him through the slits in its mask, a string of fishy meat hanging from one. It slurped the meat. Gladion swapped the channel back to the cartoons. Truly, the pinnacle of pokemon and human relations. Instead, he let his fingers twirl the fork between his digits absently. "Idle hands are Giratina's playthings." as his mother used to say.

The metal fork bent slight in his hands as he squeezed it; how dare her sayings worm their way into his head? How dare he let her?

"- ain't got money for three separate bail cases. That's what the Pinyap financial records were for, so we could sell 'em to that pokeblock dealer Plumeria met, and now we're shit outta luck there." There was the sound of something being uncorked. Probably a bottle. Gladion took a sip of his root beer; some pleasures were simple, and sugar was simply one of them. It also had less chance of ruining his life than his boss' beverage of choice.

"You could leave them in there, might teach them to get their act together next time." He added, blowing on the mash potatoes. Definitely needed salt, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Hey, nah. We don't do that shit here, alright?" Guzma shot back. "We ain't no 'tough-luck' street-gang, we're TEAM Skull, alright? I don't give a damn how cheesy that sounds, I don't play that way." There was the sound of loud, almost comedic, glugging on the other side, and the sound of a bottle hitting a table. "I just- Gladion, swear to Mew, please tell me you got your part of the job done. Give me a reason not to bust open this bottle of Undella Reserve."

Sounds like you already have, you dipsomaniac.

He was momentarily distracted watching the television screen alongside his pokemon for a moment. A talking starmie and a shiny pyukumuku were looking at one another conspiratorially, when the pyukumuku turned into a mismatched shape for the starmie. "Hey Starmie, what am I?"

"... Stupid?"

"Nah, I'm Orre!"

"WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?"

Gladion shook his head, though his pokemon looked rather intrigued. There really was no accounting for taste.

He shouldered the phone against his ear, reaching into the grocery bag and pulling out a handful of lime colored gems that reflected off the lamplight beside him. Each one was roughly the size of his pinky, and in the center was a symbol depicting a dark insectoid that was perfectly replicated in every shard. He let them fall audibly into the bag, making sure the phone could pick up the sound of clinking glass.

"About fifty Z-Crystals." Gladion said, and as the last one dropped into the back he heard a sigh of relief from the other end of the line. "They were exactly where you said they were, in a 'random' house off the highway, stuffed inconspicuously behind two dusty sports trophies from a decade ago." He didn't need to ask how his boss knew the precise location; he wasn't an idiot. But there were ways to ask questions without asking, and it had become a way of him finding out what he could get away with, and what he couldn't.

"Yeah, I'm one of those frickin' psychics who can read minds and levitate pokeballs, and I can bust 'em as easy as I can lift 'em." Which was code for, 'Drop it or else.', but Gladion had his answer. Guzma's voice on the other end grew unnaturally soft when he spoke next. "You run into any trouble? Guy who lives there ain't exactly the welcoming sort. Just- you know, from what other people have said."

"House was clear, car was gone like you said it would be." Gladion replied simply as he tested the cheap meatloaf – bland, but edible. Also needed salt. He'd have to start keeping spices with him – assuming he got paid. "They had one of those doorbell cameras set up; had to have my sneasel freeze it over. No traces were left aside from their frozen camera and the bag, just like you wanted." Gladion heard Guzma let out a sigh of relief, and he glanced over at his pokemon.

Also took a thing of frozen wishiwashi strips for my trouble, but that's not relevant.

"At least someone around here can get shit done. Good work, kid. Keep one of those crystals for yourself as a bonus, eh? Don't say I never gave ya nothing." Gladion stared at the crystal for a moment, before dropping it into the bag with the rest of them.

Thanks, I'll put this in my non-existent Z-Ring. Ass.

"So are these shards as valuable as a berry plantation's financial records? Can't imagine they're good for much else, since, you know, none of us have Z-Rings." Gladion scoffed. There was a small gagging sound on the other end, ending with a sputtering cough.

"Fuckin' uh, nah. I mean – just let me worry about that. I got something planned. For now, keep your head low and get back to Ula'Ula." Guzma ordered. Gladion rolled his eyes and tapped at his soggy mashed potatoes; he hated phone calls. Couldn't they just be done and he could eat his artificial food in peace? He glanced up at the screen and saw the pyukumuku and starmie were being chased by a skwovet with a lasso. His pokemon let out a raspy, wheezing noise that Gladion might've been able to classify as a laugh.

At least one of us is having fun.

"If you see those trainers who clotheslined Bailey, pounce on those little shits for me. Hell, when you get back we'll put 'em on the shitlist so everyone will know about 'em-"

"Broke or not, I still need you to pay me my commission." Gladion muttered.

He could imagine Guzma throwing his arms up, spitting piss and vinegar from the disgusting old car seat he used as a throne. "For Mew's sake, I get it you god damn little hustler. You'll get your money – I've got a meeting with some rich lady from off-island this afternoon, looking to be business partners or something, so your scrawny ass better hope she's buying whatever I'm selling." There was an edge of desperation Gladion didn't hear often in his boss; not around the fodder at least. Things must've been worse than Guzma was letting on, and that told Gladion that perhaps it was time for him to go.

Just as Team Skull had served its purpose for him, so too had he for them. They had given him cover after his initial escape, and after the heat had simmered down he had found a steady form of employment in strong arming tourists for them when the usual reject and hooligan Team Skull sent out wasn't up to snuff. It had helped build his battling capabilities, working as an enforcer against other thugs and trainers who went against the team.. But that time had passed now; a knife could only be sharpened so well with such shoddy equipment. If he wanted to get stronger, it probably wouldn't be under Team Skull's eye.

"Copy that. Gladion out." Beep. Gladion hung up the phone, flipped it around, and removed the battery. After using the back of his fork to remove both it and the SIM card, he threw it in the trash and went back to eating his soggy mashed potatoes. Perhaps he'd wait and see how things went with this proposed "business partner", since mainlanders always seemed to have more money to throw around then they needed, but it never hurt to keep his options open. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the knuckle duster he carried, sliding it over his fingers reflexively.

The handle was a set of plastic knuckles with a small brace and a thicker portion near the top, dulled from years of use, but as his thumb swipedover a latch beneath the thicker part of the knuckles, a small blade flicked out almost instantly from the hidden slot. Rather than long and straight, the blade was tiny and curved like the talon of a pokemon. He frowned as he noticed there were still a few specks of blood on the tip, and wiped them off with a napkin that he discarded alongside the phone.

So maybe he had lied. So what? Adults lied all the time, even though they were supposed to be 'mature' and 'responsible'. Gladion was just ahead of the curve; he grew up fast, that was all. Guzma had been right about one thing: Gladion got results, and what his boss didn't know wouldn't kill him. He had gotten the bag as asked, after all, and he had frozen the doorbell camera just like he said. It wasn't his fault that he had been given bad info, since the house was supposed to have been empty.

One good swing with that golf club could've killed him, and he had come too far for some washed up old tourist to waste him. His hand felt strangely tight as he stabbed the meatloaf. It was a necessary evil, a morally gray area really. He didn't need to explain himself or justify his actions to the leader of a gang, for god's sake. It wasn't like he had killed the pudgy bastard; just a long kiss goodbye he'd be nursing for the next few weeks with stitches and whisky. He could have done worse, but he hadn't, and that had to count for something. It was just him getting even.

He almost considered doing as Guzma had instructed and going out to track those trainers, and the prospect of using it as a way of dealing with whatever was bubbling inside of him was tempting, but decided against it. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be getting a bonus for it, especially when there was the possibility he wouldn't be getting any pay unless Guzma's new high-end benefactor liked what they were about. No, violence for the sake of violence was what separated him from them. He would never let himself be like them; if he was going to wail someone, it would be justified.

Besides, It really just wasn't his problem.

A low-rumbling growl reverberated from within the bronze mask, and Gladion looked up at his partner for a moment before realizing his mistake.

"Sorry, boy. Got distracted." Gladion went to fish another wishiwashi into the eyehole, but the corner of the mask nudged his hand instead. He glanced down and saw that his hand was still clenching the fork with a grip so tight his knuckles had begun to whiten, and for one split, horrifying second, he could not release his fingers. Slowly he allowed the blood to flow through them once more, and let the fork fall into the plastic tray. His entire hand was sore now, the indent of the fork red against his skin.

Gladion let out a breath and shook his hand as a wave of discomfort and pain returned to his palm, and he rubbed the creature's leathery back contentedly as his way of thanks. He hadn't broken anything or bloodied his hand; a good sign, but little bursts of emotion like that were becoming more and more frequent.

"Thanks, boy. Sorry. Just… worked up." He murmured, and his horrifying abomination of a partner wheezed in acceptance from within the mask. "Let's watch these stupid cartoons and get some rest, huh? Gotta get a move on tomorrow." He was relying on his pokemon's strength, and his pokemon was relying on him to keep his cool; it was the only partnership he'd tolerate. There was probably some kind of medication for the bursts of unnatural emotion he faced, but he wasn't exactly rolling in dough.

Unless this rich lady was interested in fifty Buganium-Z's, or a lot of young punk outcasts with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove, he didn't figure Team Skull would have much of a future left. That meant he'd have to go somewhere else, tag along with some other misfits for money. After all, what upstanding member of high society would want anything to do with the rejects and hoodlums of Alola?

No, Gladion was certain as he cozied up into the ugly blankets and watched the ridiculous cartoon with his pokemon, who slurped another wishiwashi with whatever passed for enthusiasm, that nobody in their right mind would ever come knocking on Team Skull's door. They would dissipate, break up into little groups before getting caught for stealing a twelve-pack or hotwiring a car, and then Team Skull would be gone. The trainers outside the motel would screw off and be a memory. But him? Gladion would remain. He would still be out there training. Improving. Readying himself for each new obstacle as he hurdled it.

The world was clearly a place where the strongest took what they wanted, and everyone else had to deal with it. He couldn't change the world, but he could change himself. Once he became strong enough to take what he wanted, only then would he be free. Escaping paradise hadn't given him freedom; he was still just a puppet, only now with a bigger stage. As he gripped the plastic knuckle knife in his pocket, he imagined the day where its blade would be coated with the blood of the one who shared his own.

Then, he could cut the strings.