Disclaimer: This is the most politically-charged chapter thus far, so I think it's worth noting that the song contained within (which I wrote myself to remain in compliance with this site's rules) is not necessarily indicative of my personal views. It is purely for satirical purposes. Other than that, there isn't much to say, so please enjoy!

Current music: Marie's Wedding - The High Kings

FRIDAY, AUGUST 23, 2024

Some people might expect that getting to live in a top-secret apartment, let alone in as swanky a neighborhood as the Seaport District was, would be an enjoyable experience. And sure, I'll grant them one thing: It is. For a couple of hours.

But as soon as I tossed and turned in bed for some time, I understood that sleep would not come easily to me. It is a strange thing, but sometimes boredom makes it even harder to shut my mind off.

It didn't help that whenever I closed my eyes, I saw visions of those Pokémon sitting in the airport's makeshift migrant shelter. I couldn't help but picture that cute, famished Eevee whose mother was trying to comfort her. Some things stay with you no matter how much you might prefer to forget them.

The food Perry and Laura brought in from elsewhere remained scrumptious. It wasn't quite like the succulent pulled pork I'd eaten that first night, but it did the job. If every aspect of my stay was as pleasant as the food, I would have considered it a vacation.

And yet, there was still the knowledge that I was not here of my own accord. Yes, in the end, I'd agreed to be cooped up here for as long as it took. But that didn't mean I'd wanted it at this stage of my life (or any stage in life.)

My temper grew increasingly short, and it wasn't long before I found myself barking like Vinny whenever I spoke to my captors. (Yes, they might have been saviors in the long run, but I still considered them captors right now.)

"Blaine, please set the table," Laura instructed me once.

"Why don't you do it?" I snapped back. "I'm the one who's trapped here!"

In the end, Laura ended up setting the table for me, but she kept giving me that stink-eyed expression as though I were a pet who'd had an accident on the carpet.

Once a day, I was allowed to exercise outdoors in the form of a short walk along the harbor and near the cruise port. Crowded as it was with tourists, I could remain semi-anonymous even when flanked by armed security. For the first two days, I took full advantage of this arrangement, but after that the fresh air only made me miss Castle Island. Starting on Wednesday, the third day of my captivity, I declined the exercise altogether.

I was not called into work for the first four days. Many people look forward to their time off from their jobs, often saving up all their vacation days to cash in on a trip to the Caribbean or Europe at the end of the year. But those days are only fun when you take them off by choice. I wanted nothing more than to sit in front of a radar screen and direct the airport's traffic, but I couldn't have that.

On top of all this, there was nothing to do in the apartment. The phone I'd been given had no Internet browser, all its mobile games had been deleted, and I was strictly forbidden from purchasing anything from the app store. "That'd be like sending fireworks into the sky spelling out, HERE I AM! COME AND GET ME!", according to Perry.

Then Friday came along.

At 7 AM, I woke up. There was no need for an alarm clock here, of course - if I needed to be anywhere on a time-sensitive basis, Mr. Fly would simply call me on my new cell phone.

Even in the absence of natural light, my body clock worked well enough.

At least, I thought it had been my body clock until I noticed that I had a missed text from none other than Michael Fly!

My heart leaped, but I didn't let myself celebrate until I'd finished reading the text. Once I'd done that, I sprang off the bed as though it were a trampoline and ran into the kitchen.

Laura and Perry were already at the table, eating bowls of cereal, and I joined them. For a moment, it briefly reminded me of watching Saturday morning cartoons in the days before streaming became king. Under these circumstances, of course, Christmas morning might have been a more apt analogy.

"Well, someone looks happy, Ms. Brentwood" Perry muttered to Laura.

"Of course I'm happy!" I exclaimed. "I have to go to work today!"

Perry snorted. "Well, I'm glad you are pleased. But you're still required to be driven to work in a police vehicle. It simply isn't safe to get you there using any other available method."

"Right!" I said loudly, with a Cheshire grin for good measure.

"I can call your police escort to the apartment building - he'll be here in five minutes" Laura replied with a sigh. "

I snorted. "Police escort."

Hey, I couldn't help myself - now that I'd finally been delivered from the monotony of being in this windowless flat, everything seemed far funnier than usual. Unfortunately, Perry didn't seem to find it so.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Laura shepherded me down the stairs and toward a car that looked like just any other civilian vehicle.

I frowned. "That doesn't look like a police car" I muttered.

"We believe in the philosophy of hiding in plain sight," Laura replied. "Basically, if a police cruiser was driving to the airport, everyone would know it's carrying you."

Everyone? Okay, it probably would be everyone.

"But if it looks like a regular car on the outside…".

"Then they won't suspect a thing" Laura said, finishing my sentence for me. "Yes, that's how it works."

I climbed into the car. While it appeared to be nothing special from the outside, the interior was metallic, and the seats were rather uncomfortable. I guess that's the price you had to pay for security.

The driver, a burly dark-skinned man, did not speak a word during the whole drive to Logan. I didn't blame him - what was there to talk about?

The domestic departure halls were quite crowded at this time of day, but the armored vehicle drove me right to the control tower. Talk about door-to-door service!

I thanked the driver, but he didn't respond. Before I could say another thanks, I decided it wouldn't be worth it, instead electing to ride the elevator up to my "office."

Mr. Fly, to his credit, did not ask me any questions about where I'd been; after all, he didn't need to. He simply pointed me to my console and told me to get to work.

And for an hour or two, all was well. There's nothing people like me crave more fervently than having a routine to fall back on, and that was certainly the case today. After the last week of insanity, all I really wanted was some degree of normalcy.

After clearing a series of JetBlue flights for departure, all of which used the same runway in a "conga line" of sorts, I set to work on communicating with the Hawaiian Airlines A330. (Fun fact, this was the longest domestic flight in the United States, totaling about eleven hours from Boston to Honolulu - I sure felt for the passengers!)

It was only after the 10 AM series of JetBlue planes departed that Gavin cleared his throat.

"We need to talk, Blaine," he muttered.

I frowned. "What do you mean, we need to talk?"

My colleague rolled his eyes. "I don't think those four words are vague in the slightest. It means we're obligated to have a discussion about something important."

Mr. Fly raised an eyebrow at Gavin. "How confidential does it need to be?"

"Very" Gavin insisted.

"Well, it's a violation of FAA guidelines - and especially the rules of this airport - to have more than one controller absent from the tower at any given time" Mr. Fly asserted. "To allow you two to violate that rule would go against what I believe in."

My heart skipped a beat, but I didn't quite know why.

"Maybe Gavin could write me the notes and pass them over to me?" I suggested. "That way, neither of us has to leave this office."

"Sure, I'll allow that" Mr. Fly muttered. "What our FAA overlords don't know won't hurt them."

As Gavin got out a mechanical pencil and jotted something down on his notepad, I turned my attention back to the radar. A series of domestic flights arrived, followed by the Korean Air Dreamliner that had completed its very long journey from Seoul-Incheon. As always, I guided the latter to Terminal E, wondering whether the passengers from South Korea would notice the creatures sheltering just outside the baggage claim.

Who am I kidding? Of course they will. For better or worse, American news is global news.

Minutes after the passengers of Flight KE91 had deplaned, it happened.

I had to squint at the screen to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Even if I'd taken magic mushrooms, there's no way I could have dreamed up something so absurd.

And yet, there it was. Flight PKMN3.

I bit my lip in order to avoid an outburst. Squirming awkwardly in my seat, I barked out orders from the safety of the tower, but Mr. Fly probably wondered if I desperately needed a bathroom.

Just then, Gavin handed me a sheet of paper. I couldn't look at it just yet, of course, due to the need to direct the third PKMN flight to the proper terminal.

Come to think of it, why was it numbered as Flight 3? To be fair, flight numbers were assigned on a seemingly random basis, with no inherent meaning other than what airlines chose to give them. But…

There must have been a second PKMN flight - PKMN2 - on one of the days I was absent!

Before I could ask Gavin about that, of course, I remembered the paper I clutched in my hand. Due to the lull in international arrivals, I now had a chance to read the note.

I'll keep this brief. Right-wing media is after you, Blaine. While driving on Seaport Boulevard yesterday, I listened to the radio and heard this guy who calls himself Upchuck.

I watched him on TV the other day! Dude looks like a football coach!

Yeah, his nickname is funny, but his words were anything but. You see, Blaine, Upchuck wants his followers to believe that you've been hiding from the law. And he said "something must be done about it". There's a term for what he's trying to incite, and that term is STOCHASTIC TERRORISM.

That was a term I'd heard myself. Stochastic terrorism occurred when someone with a large enough audience - like an OAN host - drummed up vitriol against a high-profile target. Whether that target was an author of a controversial novel, a pizza parlor alleged to be involved in criminal activity, or even the nation's top infectious disease expert during a pandemic, it was extraordinarily difficult to predict who would strike, or when they would do so, but the words of that talk radio host would make violence more likely.

And all of that violence would be directed toward me.

I don't know what they're doing to keep you safe. I don't know if you're in some sort of protection or whatnot. But I urge you to approach anything with extreme caution, okay?

I reread that note twice to make sure that it might really say what my eyes were telling me. There was no mistaking what Gavin had written, nor what it could possibly mean for me.

"There's another flight coming in" I told Mr. Fly eventually, determined not to worry about the implications of my colleague's written words.

"Yes, there is always another plane," my boss snapped. "They arrive here every few minutes, which is part of working at a busy airport. If you don't want to be on your toes constantly, find another career."

Trying not to be miffed by that statement, I replied as follows: "But it's a different type of plane."

"What do you mean, a different type of plane? There are only two main manufacturers of commercial jetliners, Boeing and Airbus."

"It's Flight PKMN3" I mouthed, laying all my cards on the table.

The effect on my boss was instantaneous. He bounced upward, and despite probably being about sixty years old, looked as though he might rocket through the roof of the control tower, breaking a literal glass ceiling.

"This can't be happening!" Mr. Fly cried, clawing at his eyes as though trying to gouge them out of their sockets.

"Well, it is," I said blankly.

"That's the third one," Gavin pointed out unnecessarily. "The third migrant plane in a week. Could they be fleeing war or something?"

"Please, you two," Mr. Fly begged us, "stick to what we can confirm as facts. The last thing we need is to muddy the waters."

"As far as I'm concerned, the water is already filthy" I blurted out. When my boss gave me an odd look, I clarified: "To use your analogy, I don't think the powers that be in the news media care about facts."

"Well, I do," my boss said. Then, with a little more emotion: "But those poor Pokémon…maybe they have nowhere else to go."

NEUTRAL POV

Flight PKMN3 arrived at Logan International Airport without incident. Or rather, without any further incident than would be expected of an unscheduled flight carrying hundreds of Pokémon migrants.

The passengers on this flight consisted of more than a hundred Grass-types, including Bulbasaur, Meowscarada, and Leafeon. Other types were also represented, and the plurality of the passengers were from Kanto according to the passports that were presented at the customs line in Boston.

Once the migrants had gotten through a chaotic security line, those few who were fortunate enough to be permitted to join the airport police force (or any other police force in Greater Boston) were able to leave the terminal. The vast majority, however, were relegated to the ever-expanding migrant shelter contained within the international arrivals hall. Additionally, they were not greeted with the kindness that often accompanied human refugees to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Sarah Timecrawl of Fox Boston stood outside the terminal, clutching her microphone in both hands like a mama penguin would cuddle its offspring. She gazed into the camera, her red hair gleaming in the midday sun.

"Ladies and gentlemen - and yes, those are the only two options, ladies and gentlemen - I have for you today a story from Boston Logan. And no, it isn't a repeated story: It happened again.

"Stop me if you've heard this one before. A passenger jet arrives at BOS carrying a couple hundred mythical creatures called Pokémon. Most of them hole up in the terminal. Essentially, they become squatters, living off the public dime so that they can call Boston home without paying into our community."

Sarah cleared her throat, then spoke more forcefully: "You get what you pay for. If you are unwilling to pay for the public benefits of being a Bostonian, you shouldn't get them!"

Just behind the news anchor, a number of shouts could be heard. Sarah's concentration, however, did not wander from her diatribe even slightly.

"Sheltering these Pokémon from the world they deserted is a waste of our tax dollars, it is a national disgrace, and it needs to end now!"

As Sarah stomped both her high-heeled feet, the crowd behind her made their voices heard as well. In fact, they were protesting the same thing the news anchor was, only for a very different reason.

"Oh, look, it's the Hundred Percenters again!" Sarah exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "Would you look at that!"

Indeed, a crowd of several dozen activists blocked the entrance to the terminal. As they had the other day, most of them carried signs containing slogans that advocated a rapid transition to renewable energy and, in many cases, the airport's closure.

"I don't understand what there is to protest," Sarah muttered. "They claim to want a Green New Deal, but I just call it the Green Dream. We can either commit to fossil fuels or go back to the mid-1800s".

Just then, one of the protestors (a young brown-haired woman) ran up to Sarah and held a palm up to the anchor's face.

"Are you going to slap me?" the anchor asked testily. "Let me tell you: If it comes to a fight, I can pack quite a punch."

"It doesn't matter!" the protestor exclaimed. "Look, you are a journalist - shouldn't you refrain from promoting lies about our movement?"

" Lies?" Sarah replied. "You're one to talk! Listen, climate change is a hoax perpetrated by our enemies, foreign and domestic, to make American manufacturing non-competitive!"

"It's an inconvenient truth, you dolt!" the protestor bellowed, slapping Sarah across her face.

Sarah rubbed her cheek for a split second, then took a step back from the demonstrator. "I'm not afraid of you. Like I said, if we don't commit to American fossil-fuel energy…".

"It's not the nineteenth century anymore, dipshit!"

Sarah raised her microphone in the air like a wand used to cast a spell. "I'm going to call the cops. I know you youngsters are all hung-up on defunding the police, but you won't be so smug when you need the police to come."

"We're already here!" a uniformed male police officer exclaimed from about twenty yards away, brandishing a set of handcuffs. "And so is the tear gas if we need it!"

The threat of tear gas did not dissuade the crowd. Far from it. Several of the demonstrators held their signs like swords, like they were ready to go into battle.

And it wasn't long before the battle began.

One of the Pokémon from the terminal, a specimen that somewhat resembled an overgrown mouse with a tail shaped like a lightning bolt, bounded out of the terminal, sneezing out jolts of electricity.

"We have a Raichu attack!" the cop announced, holding up his walkie-talkie. "I'm calling for backup!"

"I should probably get out of here" Sarah mumbled.

"You're a coward, you little witch" the protestor who'd slapped Sarah snarled. "You need to stay here and look at what you've caused. Instead you're just going to run away in a huff with your tail tucked between your legs."

"There's a little something called safety. Next thing we know, you'll be arguing we should not be allowed to open carry at the airport!"

"Uh, that's pretty reasonable."

"Nonsense! We all need a heater to be safe. How does the song go? A pack full of heat means that you can't be beat…".

In less than a minute, several more police officers arrived on the scene, waving their batons. Sarah pulled out her phone and played her favorite song in support of the right to keep and bear arms.

We're in a city of anarchy,

Here we risk being slain.

We want to end the catastrophe,

And cause these hoodlums pain.

The Raichu sneezed out more electricity; this time it made direct contact with one cop's shield, which caused a mild electrocution. The officer dropped his shield to avoid taking on too much voltage.

"I don't know what's going on here, but it doesn't look pretty!" Sarah all but cried. "I'm getting out of here!"

"You coward!"

As Sarah got back in her Fox Boston van, she kept playing the song, nodding her head at those all-important, all-American lyrics:

A pack full of heat means that you can't be beat,

Whether you're fighting in summer or sleet.

The NRA is here,

A group that only looters should fear.

And crimes galore,

There's no room for more,

Your life's not a bore,

And it's all because of our gun laws.

A rifle for Billy to use at the zoo,

The lions and the tigers,

They just never knew.

The NRA is here,

A group that only looters should fear.

Now that Sarah Timecrawl was gone, time would crawl until the men and women in blue managed to disperse the protestors. It was anyone's guess as to what it would take; even the tear gas, when it was finally deployed, only managed to make a handful of them scurry away.

But there was one thing most of the demonstrators didn't notice. Neither did the cops, focused as they were in their battle to maintain order. In fact, there's an old saying: If a tree falls in a forest, and there's nobody to notice, did it even make a sound?

In this case, although most people present failed to notice an Oshawott shot by a tranquilizer dart and carried away into a nearby van, this would end up mattering a great deal for the future of Boston. Not just Boston, not only the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but the country and world at large.

There were decades in which nothing happened, and weeks in which decades happened. This was the latter.