Alola was an okay place, really. Sunny. Friendly. Beautiful. All that good stuff.
That's what Sweet told herself, anyway.
The sun beat down on freshly mowed paths. Great, sloping walls cupped Malie Gardens inside their brick expanse. Sparkling dewdrops burned off emerald green blades, the last drip-dropping droplets.
(Speaking. Of. Which.)
Blade absolutely sucked. Sucked as in it was living metal origami, paper thin and colorful, like the world's worst kitchen knives taped together and granted sentience as a cruel joke.
Yep. Just seamlessly weld together a bunch of sentient knives and chuck them into Malie Garden. A normal occurrence. Nothing awful or life-threatening right there.
Blade hovered, jittering in place. It screamed like a car crash, metal crunching.
It flitted. Behind Sweet. In a tree. Over the wall, slicing through air, slicing through thick, gray brick, through mortar sun-bleached white. Chunks tumbled down.
Power lines swayed. Snapped in half, sparks racing, falling, dancing on the slowly charring ground. Orange paper lanterns rocked violently. Disintegrated.
Confetti ribbons rained down.
Blade looked pretty proud of itself for something that didn't even have a face.
"If you could please be doing something!" Looker shouted, his back up against a tree, reloading his gun.
(You try hitting a piece of note card sized paper that can break Mach 1, and then we'll see who's judging who.)
"Hypervoice, Sugar!"
Sugar peeled her lips back, pretty blue eyes narrowed to slits, and she screamed. She screamed a scream that sounded like a howl gone wrong, like bones stuck in the back of her throat.
For something that still didn't have a face, but apparently had ears, Blade looked pretty deafened, or at least hurt, razor-sharp edges drooping.
That was the last face it made before taking Sugar straight to the...entire body. They slammed down together. Broken power lines crackle-hissed and writhed.
Sugar sank her fangs in.
Blade stopped moving.
She trotted back, head held high and ribbons waving, and sat proudly.
Looker shot the beast. Dead on. With a bang and a column of flame, its body went up in smoke.
The wind cleared the smoke, carried gray-black tendrils away. A bald spot and liquid silver sat in its place like a puddle of mercury.
"Look at us go!" Sweet said, holding up a hand. "We're awful!"
Looker stared.
"Oh my...ugh." She shoved her hand closer. "High five me, stupid."
They high fived. Sloppily.
They did not spare Agent 000 a second thought.
000 backed up. The beast was in his sight, and he - he of all people - was backing up at a more than leisurely pace. More like a jog in reverse.
It hovered there, right in its little patch of air.
Hover was the right word for it. No flap of its paperish limbs. Not even the tell-tale glow of psychic energy.
It just hovered. It picked a patch of air as humid and clear as any other, and it stayed there. It hovered, and it stayed, and it studied him.
It titled ever so slightly, a sugar rush twitch.
Air whistled - snapped like a whip cracking.
It was behind him now, wasn't it?
He scrambled. His feet slipped and slid on dew slick grass, and his stomach lurched, and he nearly hit tree roots but didn't.
"Pierce, please get up!"
Pierce did not get up, or well, he was certainly trying, but his legs were shaking. He fell. Mud oozed beneath splayed limbs.
(But he was still breathing. That was what mattered. Still. Breathing.)
A single click, and Pierce disappeared in a blinding flash, safely clipped to 000's belt and -
Wood groaned. Every muscle in 000's body screamed, "MOVE," and he was not about to ignore that desperate of an order.
A tree branch crashed.
Blade jangled. It hovered, and it jangled.
(The damn thing was laughing.)
Another flash of light dazzled the battlefield, a pokeball snapping open. Except it wasn't a battlefield. It was Malie Gardens, and it had been evacuated. Lanterns waved above empty benches, shiny strings tied from tree-to-tree. Snow cones melted, abandoned, sticky rainbow puddles on picnic tables.
No one stood around to applaud the Sableye. She applauded herself.
"Hey, Twitch."
Twitch did not turn, but she did grin.
"Trap it with Will-o-Wisp."
Twitch opened her mouth wide. Wider. Her teeth glinted like cut jewels. Glinted in the glow of sunlight. In the glow of blue-white fire slithering out her mouth.
Nothing could outrun - or out hover/flit - fire. Definitely not the spiritual kind.
(That stuff would haunt your soul.)
The wisps pulsed and twirled, a ring twirling around, around, around, pressing closer, closer, closer. Hotter. Brighter. Flames licked and sizzled.
Blade went up. So did the flames, swallowing it whole, its body absolutely alight.
Sunshine glittered. Limbs flailed. Metal glowed red hot, sparkled and shone.
It came back down, fire-a-dancing.
"Now finish it."
Twitch lit her first on fire, mouth opened wide, blue flames spilling, and she cupped the fire in her little, sharp clawed hand. Grass smoldered and stank.
The beast did not scream. It had no mouth. It could not scream. It could only lay there, silver glinting a ghostly blue - melting, body dripping.
Metal rang. Crunched. Like a tin roof hit with a flaming rock.
(Or like Blade crumpling inwards on impact.)
It folded like a napkin. A shiny, used napkin laying on the ash blackened ground.
Like most used napkins, it did not get back up.
"Good girl." He said, Twitch rubbing herself up against his leg like a very sharp, gremlin shaped cat.
They left. Twitch spun and danced circles around 000's feet, gnawing on a particularly melted corpse, but they left all the same.
The gun was on fire. Literal, burning hot, gray-white smoking, fire.
The grass around the gun was also on fire, burning to little charred nubs that twinkled with embers and spread. Wind stirred the ashes up and away, on clothes and hair and everything.
Flecks littered the fish pond, speckling smooth rocks like snow, disintegrating in water with the tiniest ripples, sinking down where the Magikarp and Goldeen watched with lazy, slow-blinking eyes.
"I'm going to kick it." Said Sweet.
Looker nodded, stroking his chin in the way people did when they were contemplating pure genius plans. "Please do."
Sweet kicked it like tennis shoes were made for kicking guns of the flaming variety.
Someone approached, footsteps crunching brittle grass.
The gun spun. Plopped. Crystal blue water steamed and hissed evaporating-ly. The fish Pokémon did not lift a single fin in alarm, just bobbled in place, looking fat and happy.
Sweet hopped about like someone who had just kicked a flaming gun.
The footsteps stopped, 000 sighing at the sky as if asking for divine intervention that would never come, and said:
"The hell are you two doing!?"
"Our bests." Said Looker. "This mission is complete, yes?"
Sweet hopped a little less frantically.
"Technically."
"Technically?"
"You blew up your gun."
"His gun blew up itself." Sweet said.
"They'll take it outta your paycheck, KR."
Looker crouched by the pond, shoes sinking in wet sand. "Oh."
A particularly chunky Goldeen, all white except for its fins, wriggled in underwater delight. Its horn peeked out of the water. Ripples spun outwards, breaking Looker's reflection on the surface, the face of someone who'd just been told his pay was being docked because he's stupid.
Bubbles bubbled up, clusters like translucent grapes fit to burst, Goldeen open-closing its round little mouth.
Looker took a slice of bread from his pocket. (Every normal person carried slices of bread in their pockets. Rye bread. Not wheat. Carrying around slices of wheat bread was ridiculous. And disgusting.) He tore off a chunk and squished it into a little, lumpy bread ball.
Goldeen open-closed its mouth faster. It vibrated.
Matilda leaned forward, her face hovering over the water, and said. Something.
Lumps of bread splashed and bobbled. Goldeen ate them like a Roomba eating dust bunnies before (still not unlike a Roomba), it disappeared underwater.
The gun burst onto dry land.
"The hell!" Said 000, jumping back as droplets splattered his shoes.
Looker waved at the pond with a big smile and a, "Thank you," and turned that same big smile at 000, holding onto a more than lukewarm, water dripping gun.
"I'm done with life."
"Does it work?" Sweet asked, as that was definitely the largest concern here, and Sugar wasn't lounged across her shoulders and growling the same sound as loose gravel.
"I do not think the gunpowder is wet, no."
"What's that mean?"
"It is fine."
She nodded slowly. Deliberately. "Right."
"I fail to see the problem here."
That was when she laughed.
The sun peeked from behind its cloud curtains, and the ground smoldered, ashes flitting about on a humid breeze that smelled like smoke.
And she laughed.
"Let's just...go." 000 said.
She kept laughing, out the stone arches and lanterns swaying, the police tape screaming warnings. Her face went red. She wheezed some.
(As good laughs tended to go.)
They crossed over the police tape, into the city abuzz with life and sounds.
Cars drove by, dry grit crunching beneath wheels. Traffic cones stood orange and bright. Bird Pokémon trilled atop telephone poles where flyers were stapled by the dozens.
"Swirl-Licks Malasada!" Read one, a puffy Swirlix grinning on shiny smooth paper, food in its nubby paws. "Try our new Mago Berry filling: It's Mago-nificent!"
Another advertised a boat ride. The next, half-off sandals. A lost, one-eyed Meowth, the color of charcoal and cream, by the name of Lucky, papers overlapping on and on.
Looker put the Malasada flyer in his pocket - the pocket with sandwich baggies of bread.
000 looked at him funny. A Growlithe politely doing its business on a fire hydrant looked at him funny too.
"What?" Said Looker, voice pitching in the range of "awkward offense." "It has a coupon!"
Sweet still wheeze-laughed, stopping long enough to breathe before another fit hit and the nearest object became a place to lean. The Growlithe growled. She still leaned.
"Gettin' donuts 'cause we're cops?"
"They're malasadas, and we are agents of the International Police."
"Get cream filled while you're at it. Sweet 'n' I'll go check into the motel."
Looker beamed. You know, like a sunbeam, wobbly and bright with excitement.
Sweet leaned back, laughing.
"Come on, rookie."
She kept laughing.
"Sweet!" 000 snapped.
She straightened up fast, a lightning bolt gone stiff. Laughter crackled to nothing.
"I...uh…" She clapped her hands, as one does, no eye contact about it. "Is now a good time to tell you guys I have amnesia?"
The motel was not glamorous. No motel ever was, as was the literal definition of the word motel.
The only thing even remotely nice about it was the oceanside view. Any place in Alola that didn't have one was just short of blasphemy - torches, pitchforks, and angry chanting included. Other things the motel included were: a single bed in each room, an armchair, a coffee maker, and a TV with five channels and no remote.
Sweet got a room to herself. (Again.) She was not putting it to good use because she was much more occupied by eating malasadas in 000 and Looker's room to avoid answering any questions whatsoever.
Sitting on the bed, legs swinging, she looked pretty happy. Sugar looked pretty annoyed, pawing fallen crumbs off her fur.
"So, are you gonna explain, or what?" 000 asked, standing next to the armchair the way that people who didn't want to sit down often did - arms crossed and chin raised.
"Mmm." Said Sweet, taking it upon herself to chew LOUDLY.
"I do not believe she wants to talk."
"Yeah, KR. Great observation there."
Sweet tore off a piece of the bread - cinnamon sugar coated and all - and held it out to Sugar, who nibbled on it politely.
Looker leaned back in the armchair, very much like any bored student with terrible posture, considering the window.
The window didn't consider him back. It simply considered the sunlight and flowering bushes, thick with petals curled at the edges that fell and spun, dancing down to the sun-bleached mulch.
He perked up a little. Very minimally. More a 'chills down your spine shudder' than a 'sudden realization' type of thing. "Do - do you believe it to be attributed to Symbiont?"
"Mmm."
"Zeroes," he lowered his voice and turned to -
Be interrupted.
"Why Symbiont?"
"She encountered one, yes? If the data we have previously collected proves true, then...is it so much of a stretch to say it had prepped her to be a host?"
"MMM."
"Or, ya know, amnesia is literally caused by head trauma?"
"Or, you know, to be possessed by Symbiont would cause great mental strain on the host -"
"Mmmaybe." Said Sweet, not looking at anyone - just the ceiling. "It would make sense, seeing as some cases of retrograde amnesia are a direct result of prolonged, stressful situations."
"So I am right!
"I wasn't finished!"
Looker pulled his head down and his collar up. (Like any Turtwig ever.)
"While it's highly possible I was possessed, the thought of that makes me incredibly uncomfortable and sick, so if you boys would be so kind, I'm taking my malasadas and leaving."
She stood up, Sugar already at her feet, and grabbed the box of malasadas off the bed. The whole box. Took the whole entire, Swirlix-logo-stamped, orangey-pink colored cardboard box, balanced it across her arms and left.
Marched right out the door and left it standing wide open. (Sugar more of trotted. Daintily. Light pawsteps that practically floated off the dingy carpet.)
Looker stared, wide eyed - offended. "...Those are my malasadas. I PAID for them!"
000 just shook his head.
"I don't think that's the take-away here, KR."
"But I did not eat even a single one…"
"Looker!"
"I…" He took a deep breath - did not roll his eyes because that was a 000 thing to do - and sighed. "Fine."
"Thank you."
Cruelly, an ad for Swirl-Licks Malasadas began to play.
The phone rang. Not the motel phone. It sat in its cradle, plugged into the wall, looking for all the world more dusty than it had any right to be.
Specifically, 000's flip phone vibrated on the nightstand, shimmying itself right off the edge.
It hit the carpet - some atrocious shade of green that was more...stains...than not - and continued vibrating. Like an angry Beedrill, or a cup of pudding being shaken vigorously by an angry Beedrill.
"It's for you," Looker said.
The tiny, blue-tinged screen said, "Supernatural Chief," which was far more than enough.
000 didn't look up. He just layed on the bed, face down, unmoving.
(Not dead. Half-asleep, maybe.)
"Zeroes."
Nothing. Or, well, there was a game show on the TV, all bright colors and buzzers, and the armchair was overstuffed and doing a very good job at trying to eat Looker alive. (And the flip-phone wouldn't stop trying to vibrate itself into an electronic coma.) But there was a relative nothing. In the terms of 000 not giving two shits about anything.
"Triples."
Half-made covers shifted, turned down like a dog-eared library book.
"Nanu!"
Looker threw the phone at 000. (He missed.)
000 threw the phone back. It sailed through the air in a glorious arc, more captivating than any scuffed paint or water stain than the room had to offer. Sailed right into the sink.
With a splash.
It stopped vibrating.
Looker craned his neck, turned around backwards so as to. You know. Not stand up. "It is murdered."
"Third degree." Said 000.
"It is almost undeniably first."
"This place is Unovan. I plead the fifth."
Looker's phone rang, stuffed deep inside his trench coat, which was very nicely crumpled on the floor. An actual ringing. (Or beeping.) Because he owned an actual, normal smartphone like an actual, normal person.
"Three guesses on who that is."
"Your parents."
No one got up. Looker stared from the armchair, legs crossed and mostly pins and needle numb, and 000 stared elsewhere, still captivated by the motel pillows. Their pillow shams were beige with white stripes and violated at least seven laws. (Somewhere. Surely.)
Matilda, nestled happily on her trainer's lap, made an unhappy noise. He made an unhappier noise. She got the phone anyways with the clicking of a button and pressing it hard into Looker's hand.
He glared - at the 000 shaped lump under the blankets and pillows. "I'm an orphan."
"So?"
"Hello and why are you calling me?!"
"Glad at least one of you answered." Said the Supernatural Chief - an agent by the unofficial codename of "Trenchcoat" because he had more of a penchant for them than Looker.
(Which was ridiculous. Looker's wardrobe was solely trench coats, suits, and sweater vests. He owned nothing under the ranking of "business casual.")
(Just ask Matilda.)
"Oh, yes. I am very glad. Enthralled. Excited. Exhilarated."
"Fucking thesaurus," said 000, encouragingly. As one does.
Trenchcoat laughed. (He didn't hear Zeroes.) "Did the fossil phone finally give out or does Zeroes just hate me?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't a yes or no -"
"Yes!"
"Have you ever heard of a living brick wall?"
"No."
"How about Tapu Village?"
"Are they things I want to hear of?"
"If you don't want your ass handed to you, yeah. Kind of."
Looker nodded at nothing. "What are the details, Chief?"
"I'll send you the files later."
"What?"
"What?!" Repeated Zeroes. "Why's he wasting our time?!"
"I'm lonely." Said Trenchcoat.
"Hang up."
Looker hung up.
"The hell is a Tapu?"
(It sounded like freaky island shit. Something 000 was used to, being from Hoenn and all. Because the region literally had an island dedicated to keeping the freaky shit asleep at the bottom of the ocean or whatever.)
(Beware old wives' tales lest they came back to bite you in the ass. Literally.)
Looker flopped backwards, practically slamming his head into the back of the chair. To no real damage except sinking farther in. "I have no idea!"
"Deities."
"Why are you more concerned about that than living bricks?"
"Cause they have villages dedicated to them?"
"Fair." Because 000 just made sense like that and didn't give Looker headaches. (Like the headache giving wasn't mutual.) "As long as I don't have to kill it, it is fine by me."
There was a pause. A pause in breath, in thoughts, in sounds. Everything stilled.
(Hold still, still, still. Don't think about it. Let the sunlight stream in through the parted curtain, dusky glow assaulting where 000 lay. Let the orange puddles spill across the floor and lap at Looker's shoes, neat and empty right in the middle of the floor.)
"What? You do not feel bad about killing them?"
"I don't make a habit of killing deities."
"Not them!"
"The conscienceless, bloodthirsty aliens, then?"
"They aren't…"
"You pity them."
"I -"
"You're gonna get someone killed like that, KR"
The silence said it all.