"I'm just saying you might be getting in over your head."

Decarli's old beater car vibrated maybe a little too much as they flew down the highway. It had been making a funny rattling noise somewhere up in the engine for a few months now. Different little orange symbols were lit along his dashboard. Some were always there. Some came in and out as they pleased. Decarli didn't know much about cars pretty much besides how to drive one. His passenger knew even less.

Briefly, he glanced to the worn cloth seat next to him where his best friend sat. Neither of them were in their Rocket uniforms; it was early morning and they had a while to go to get to the city. His friend wore his one patched hoodie over a yellowing tank top and shredded jeans, his black newsboy cap jammed snug over his fluffy, untameable green hair. Poor bastard had a resting bitch face that made him unapproachable to the grunts, no matter how pretty everyone seemed to agree he was, like something ethereal that had crawled out from an abandoned deep-woods shrine and dressed itself in the first rags it saw in the city dumpster. Usually it meant he was just bored out of his mind. Sometimes he was just feeling mellow. At the moment, he was calm—but he had a few tells, like the way his mouth twitched, the way he avoided Decarli's gaze by staring hard out the window instead.

Right now he was annoyed, because they'd had this conversation before. He just never seemed to care. It bothered Decarli a lot. He was only trying to look out for him.

"Trust me," he said stiffly, "I'm not. No one notices me. It's like I'm not even there."

"You know that's not true. I had someone asking about you the other day."

"Who, that fucking no-name grunt?" His friend snorted. "I asked around about him, too. Ain't nobody recognizes him. He looks at me funny one more time he ain't gonna be missed. Y'know?"

"I don't think it's that simple."

"Ain't it?"

"It's Rocket. It's never that simple."

"There you go, barkin' up this tree again. Settle down, man. I ain't done anything wrong. I've just been checking cameras."

"Every fucking Wednesday?"

"They been acting funny."

"We both know they haven't."

His friend snorted and gave a dramatic roll of his eyes, but at that he didn't argue further, because it was true. They both knew—they all knew—that the cameras on the infirm floor were fine. Or at least, if they had ever been on the fritz, it had ended months ago. And yet he still went up there every Wednesday under the guise of a smoke break and always came back looking like he'd seen a ghost. Something strange was going on. Unfortunately, strange seemed to be the norm in Rocket. Everyone had their quirks, and neither Carillo nor his friend were different in that regard. He could hear the music of life in Rocket and adjusted his work to the melody of whispers in the halls. His friend obsessed over things and people he couldn't remember or place.

They were all a bunch of idiot weirdos, and at the end of the day Decarli supposed he didn't have much room to judge others. But he was worried. He was always going to be worried. This was the closest thing to family that he had left.

"Exit for Blackthorn's coming up," his passenger suddenly announced, and frowning Decarli squinted off down the highway. His car lurched uncomfortably as he crossed into the exit lane.

"Not to mention," Decarli continued, "some days you just don't turn up at all. We've been missing you, man. Where do you go?"

"Around," came the blunt reply. "Sorry. Ain't anything I can talk 'bout, yet. That's way above your pay-grade." Finally, Lance looked away from the window. The frustration had melted from his features, softened by a teasing grin and a sudden light that had sparked in his eyes.

"Oh, yeah?" Decarli laughed back. "Sounds like something the boss's personal escort would say."

"Hey, I bet he'd make a killer sugar daddy!"

"Honestly, I'd do it. Man's loaded, you'd be living comfy."

"Well, I'll put in a good word for you. You never know, maybe he's got a vacancy."


Even now the memory of that conversation couldn't help but make the corners of Decarli's mouth twitch into an amused smile. It was amazing how much things could change without really, really changing. Because here he was, a year some months later, driving down a rapidly brightening Kanto highway, his rickety old jalopy filled with secrets and intrigue just as it always had been. He was still in the driver's seat. His best friend was still riding shotgun. And he had his answers, as far as he knew. All the secrecy, all the subterfuge—it had led to Lance's promotion. Now it was Proton riding next to him.

Proton was different than Lance.

He reclined the same way, kept his hat jammed on just like Lance had. But something as small as the sudden shift in their power dynamic had changed the way Decarli viewed him. It had changed even more after Petrel had caught Rocket's newest executive under his thumb. Well, maybe 'caught' was a strong word. Some days it felt like Proton had laid himself out on the foot of Petrel's bed on purpose. The meowth distribution system was working as intended, he supposed.

But even now their conversations never changed.

"I'm just saying," Decarli found himself just saying for the thousandth time since they'd first met, "you might have gotten in over your head."

"Yeah, maybe," Proton snorted, watching the outskirts of Lavender Town fly by them. "Big risk, big reward, right? I'm here for results. That's all."

"I'm still not sure what you really mean by that. Where were you? What happened? Last I heard, you left for the Cinnabar lab, but—"

"I told you, I got sick. That's all there is to it."

"See, I don't buy that. Even Executive Archer couldn't find you."

"Fuckin' hell, this ain't some big conspiracy. What are you, Peng? Gonna whip out the venomothman mating chart?"

"Please don't make me relive that conversation. For the love of Arceus, please don't make me relive it."

Proton's face split into a wider, toothier grin. He let out a short burst of devious laughter, then leaned further back to stack his boot-free feet up on the dash. Decarli didn't care to stop him; he'd do the same if he wasn't the one driving.

"Look, you go AWOL too, sometimes," Proton pointed out. "You been skipping off work more and more for Ai, and I've been the one having to cover your ass. I think it's great you found her, man. I think she's great."

"You only met her once."

"So? She was sweet. Y'all looked happy. But it's the same damn thing. You disappear for a while. I disappear for a while. Why does it have to be something too deep? Maybe we've both just found something worthwhile."

And it was a lie. Of course it was a lie. A logical one—he was getting better at it. Could put up some good deflections. But he still sucked ass at lying. The same tells. The same twitches. The melody of his voice was all wrong. Something had happened. Something big. Something terrifying.

And the reason Decarli knew, the reason he was certain, was because since Petrel and Proton had started hooking up, Decarli stopped being Proton's ride. He couldn't blame him. Petrel had a really nice car. So why him? Why now?

And why, for the love of everything good in the world, did the hairs on his neck raise when Proton stood near him these days?

The silence settled around them for a moment, prolonged, awkward. Proton was waiting for his answer, but Decarli didn't have one. He'd never have one. He was certain they'd both found something, alright. But worthwhile? The jury was still out on that. They would be for a time yet.

"Oh, yeah, now you don't wanna talk." Proton snorted again. "Fine. Let's shelve this, or whatever. We can talk about it before you leave for Ai's."

"It's not a big deal," Decarli tried to deflect. "I mean, if you've found something and you're happy, more power to you. I just want to be sure you're safe."

Proton hesitated. One rest. Two rests.

"I will be," he finally buckled. "Don't worry. I will be. Once we get these ghosts. Once this whole thing with the Cinnabar project bottoms out. I'll be fine. Everyone will be fine."

And Decarli hoped—Decarli prayed—that this time, it was the truth.

But even now the melody was all wrong.


They arrived to Lavender Town just early enough that the streets were quiet and the sun hadn't quite yet caught the entire city in its burning grasp. Not that it could—a perpetual haze hung over the place, the early morning fog turning distant buildings into watchful monuments guarding the funeral procession of the daily commute. Delightful shivers slipped down Proton's spine as he watched the scenery out the passenger side window, a hundred and one ghosts and ghoulies conjuring in his imagination. The city was loaded. Had to be. A lot of ley lines in Kanto converged here.

The wild pokemon striving to reclaim the city seemed aware of this fact, and nowhere else in the region did they act so odd. In the trees and vast tracks of land preceding the city proper, the pidgey and spearow flew low; the sandshrew and rattata belly-crawled instead of ran. The instant they'd crossed into paved streets and concrete sidewalks, stray growlithe clung nervously to alley walls and feral meowth slinked from shadow to shadow, eyes wide and alert with the knowledge of otherworldly portals to ferry them across town. They cried only when they saw apparitions approach and hushed when they feared a spying entity.

But not all of the pokemon had yet learned that lesson.

Proton heard the crying even before Decarli had parked in the sad little lot behind the run-down apartment building that would serve as their base while they worked. It was mournful; eerie. The cry of a lost, scared child desperate for its mother.

"Did you hear that?" Proton asked as his friend threw the break and turned the keys. Decarli gave him a nervous look.

"Oh, don't you start with me," he said. "It's ghost-types we're here for, you are not dragging me into your Exorcist taurosshit." Proton strained his ears. Silence for a moment. Nothing for a moment more. And then suddenly it came again. Terrified. Woeful. Decarli flinched and swore under his breath. Proton shoved the car door open, leaving his boots forgotten on the floorboard as he leaped to his feet and strained his ears.

"You heard it!" he pressed. "You did, right?" He rested his hand on his belt, fingers tapping deliberately against his zubat's pokeball. The cry came a third time. He whipped around the other direction, eyes sharp on the prowl. That was when he finally spotted it, huddled in the corner between a wall and the external fan of an AC unit. It sat defensively, curled up with its head down and its limbs tucked in close. The white of its face—no, of the skull it wore blended in with the building exterior, obfuscating the earthen, reddish clay color of its saurian body. He only caught it when it lifted its head to wail into the hazy air, the flash of color sparking his notice.

"Whoa, check it out!" he laughed. "Decarli, look! It's an actual cubone!"

Still nervous, but beginning to look more calm, Decarli climbed out of the car and sidled up behind Proton, his attention following as the latter pointed one finger towards the wayward little beast. His lips curled back uneasily.

"I hate those things," he admitted, "they creep me out."

"Don't be such a pussy. Everything creeps you out." Proton started forward; the pokemon cried again.

"Don't!" Decarli warned. "They're territorial, and its mother is probably nearby. Between Twitch and Alto, I don't think we could take a fully-grown marowak."

"Might not be, actually," Proton pointed out. "You've heard the stories, right? About the skulls?"

"You really believe that shit?"

"Dunno. But I'd love to find out."

He didn't seem to notice the troubled expression that flashed across Decarli's face, and instead he took another tentative, slow step forward. He really would love to find out. They said cubone wore the skulls of their mothers. That meant a marowak would die when it laid an egg, and that lucky little sucker got to keep a memento—got to just wear her face like that. It was some real Silence of the Lambs kind of shit. Took time for a body to rot, for the flesh to be picked clean by maggots and devoured by fungal spores. For a cubone to take its mother's skull meant baby must have been hungry. Enough to want a taste. Enough to pick the bones clean by themselves.

Something hot and violent flashed in the back of Proton's brain. He should have taken a bone was the thought splashed across rapid-fired, blurry stills projected in his mind's eye. Splattered on the ground. Rushing white rapids. Red on the cheap rags they called their rug. Knife in his hand. Should have taken a bone. Started a collection. The pokemon cried again. Something cracked in the distance.

"Proton," Decarli warned him. He looked around. He saw the same bone, more yellowed than the cubone's. Saw the same clay-colored body. Mama Marowak was home. He pursed his lips. Then he stepped away.

Decarli was right; neither of their pokemon were fit for battling a ground-type. Hell, neither of their pokemon were fit for battling period, and while Proton held no qualms about going hand-to-hand with a pokemon, usually when he did he broke at least one bone. He'd just gotten better from whatever the hell happened in Cinnabar. He wasn't about to end up in the infirm again until well after they caught the mewtwo. So he stepped back futher and further, and Mama Marowak, her eyes just as sharp as his, moved steadily forward, no growl loosing from her throat but her steady gaze promising that her bones would not be the ones to splinter that day. She knew the game, here. One day she would teach her little beast how to play it, too.

"Come on," Proton decided, "let's go inside." He turned on his heel to retrieve his boots, then led the way to Rocket's shitty little field apartment.

The stairs took them up two levels from the ground floor, nice and high so no one could see in very easily. You had to work if you wanted to snoop, here. They'd have an easy time laying low until everything was over with, which would be one… two nights tops. Maybe three. Depended on how long Mama Marowak and her beastie stuck around. Proton punched a code into the electronic door lock and let the both of them in.

The lights were off and the AC hummed distant, dulcet tones. The air smelled fresh. Someone had been here recently. Grunts, probably; everything looked to be in some kind of order, and with no police tape on the door it was a pretty good sign that their little bunker was nice and secure. Proton dropped his boots by the front door and stalked his way further in, passing the low table in the living space to the little kitchen just beyond, where he immediately went to open the fridge and stick his head inside.

"Anything good?" Decarli asked him. He was kicking his own shoes off as he locked the door behind them, and as he left their bags by the table he went on to scope out the sleeping situation. Proton picked through half-full take-out boxes, frowning hard as he tried to decide what sort of person these grunts must be. Lot of foreign food. Some kind of vinegary-smelling purple cabbage and big old egg noodles in one box. Cold Unova-dogs in another. Brand new jug of milk. Ooh, curry. Couldn't go wrong with curry.

He shut the fridge and pried the top off the curry container, digging through drawers until he found a spoon to chow down with.

"Yo, this stuff's recent," he said around mouthfuls. "Like from yesterday at most."

"Well, you're the expert on other people's food, I guess."

"Fuck does that mean?"

He took the leftovers with him and he went to see where Decarli had ended up, following him into one of the two bedrooms where his friend was busy poking through what certainly must have been the grunts' belongings.

"Two of them," Decarli announced. "Guy and a girl. Well, probably. One could be a twink. Or a butch. Or maybe they just like these uniforms."

Just like the dorms Proton used to stay in, the room was crammed with two tall bunk beds. Unlike his old bunk, these were only two high, and the space between them was significant enough that he could stretch a little between them. The desk along the far wall was full-sized, and there was a decently spacious closet to boot. He expected the other room would look much the same. No bags and no IDs, so whoever was laying up here truly must have been out, but the uniforms left haphazardly across the bunks looked worn enough that whoever they were, they'd been around a while.

"Admins," Proton recognized as he caught sight of the orange stripes on their gloves. "Wonder if they're some of Archer's. Figures he'd have someone out here already."

"I wonder if they're here for the ghosts, too."

"Maybe. Would make our work a hell of a lot easier."

He finished scraping the cold, leftover curry into his mouth, and still chewing went to go drop the container and spoon in the sink. Decarli followed him and together they peered into the other bedroom. Just as he'd expected, it looked almost exactly the same. Maybe a different finish on the furniture, but nothing wild and crazy. One toilet and one bathroom with a built-in heater-dryer. One of the admins had even left some laundry up on the line to dry inside.

"Well," Proton finally said when he was satisfied with the state of their temporary dorm, "let's get settled in and make some plans. Whoever it is, maybe they'll be back in time to help us with the Pokemon Tower."

Decarli groaned at the thought of the place, and an honest grin split Proton's face. Same ol' Decarli. Things never really changed, did they?


Archer was pacing in their shared makeshift office, and it was about to drive Ariana up the walls. He wouldn't sit still—couldn't sit still, as far back as she could remember. Even as children, he always had be up and doing something, and it wore her out just watching him. It was a waste of energy that he could have been putting to better use on actual problems instead of his childish vendetta against Petrel.

Ariana did her best to ignore him as he oscillated back and forth, back and forth, flipping through the pages of a two-month-old issue of Kanto Challengers Monthly, her immaculate red nails tapping on the particleboard desk in front of her as she skimmed articles about the competitive benefits of Poison-types.

"They've been in there for hours," Archer was muttering, and Ariana rolled her eyes.

"Just leave it," she warned him. "Right now it's none of our business."

Truth be told, she was curious too. Any other day that curiosity may have gotten the better of her. Just like the rest of them, she wasn't above eavesdropping on her fellow Executives when the need arose. More than that, she certainly wasn't above eavesdropping on her husband, especially when the stakes felt so high. Usually it was easy. He was overconfident to a fault, because even if someone overheard him, he controlled everything in the organization, straight down to the minutia. He was always three steps ahead of grunts or admins who thought they could pull a fast one over on him.

And unfortunately Ariana was certain this was because of Petrel. Even worse, her certainty came down to a gut feeling only. Giovanni was brazen in his dealings with anyone else. But those moments he and Petrel met alone to discuss whatever things they discussed? It was like a blackout curtain drawn over a window in the dead of a starless night. No matter how hard she tried, she could never catch them in the middle of it. She could never hear the whispers secreted away between them.

"Whatever they're talking about, it should involve us," Archer disagreed. Ariana was pretty sure it already did.

"Just leave it," she groused. "We'll know when it's time to know." Her brother didn't like that answer, and never had. He preferred action, the more immediate the better. In fact, of the two of them he'd been the one to run away from home to start a trainer's journey, stubborn and hot-headed. He didn't like no. He didn't like wait. The fury of a man scorned burned in his eyes as he turned his round to pace back the other direction, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"It's time to know now. The gala isn't far off. It's one thing to compartmentalize the grunts; it's another thing entirely to keep us in the dark." He suddenly stopped in his tracks, his hands raising to claw back desperately through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. "This is insane. What could they possibly be talking about?! He isn't useful in a situation that requires tact. Master Giovanni ought to know this. It's bad enough we're going to stuff Proton into a suit. A wildcard like Petrel is the last thing we're going to need."

"He can be useful in his own way."

"He's useful when you want to blow something up, or when you're expecting grunts to hurt themselves. He's not useful when you want people to like you."

"You should have more faith."

"You should have less."

Ariana let out a long, suffering sigh. There was no point. She flipped through a few pages of her magazine, straining herself as she scanned the lines trying to decide whether or not teaching her vileplume Reflect. Or maybe four damaging moves…? But Solar Beam probably wouldn't be useful in the caves, would it?

"This is stupid," she said aloud. Her brother shot her a look. "Not you. I mean, yes, you, but this." She slapped the magazine with the back of her hand. "How the hell do you quantify effort? What the fuck does this even mean? And they keep talking about stabbing things. Lily can't hold a knife. She doesn't have thumbs." Archer rolled his eyes.

"We cannot be related," he muttered. "It's not a literal stabbing, it's STAB, the Same-Type Att—"

"I don't care. It's a bunch of nerds writing about nerd shit." She finally rolled the magazine up and tossed it towards the paper bin at the other end of the room, where it caught on the edge and flapped pathetically open. Neither of them moved to correct it. "Just like you. Just like Petrel. Whatever is going on in there, we're not going to find out. It's not worth the effort trying to dig it out of them."

She knew he loathed her approach to life; she was meticulous. A planner. She liked to have a fine, ruthless line from point A to B, and she didn't like surprises. Grunts and admins seemed to think their roles were reversed, but they both knew better and in times like these the stark contrast between the twins made itself clear. Like her arbok coiled and poised to strike, Ariana bided her time as she waited for her prey. So it didn't matter what Petrel and Giovanni talked about on days like these. It didn't matter if it was about them or not. It especially didn't matter that her brother was about self-destruct into a pile of goo on the linoleum.

All that mattered is what would happen next, and whether or not they would come out the other side unscathed.

"They talk about us, you know?" Archer confided, and finally having exhausted himself, he came to flop into a chair next to her, uncharacteristically slumped as he sourly eyed the door to the hallway.

"I know."

"I'm certain beyond all doubt he was the reason Kuang and Tachibana were executed."

"I am too."

"I'm tired of being treated like we're some conniving, scheming revolutionaries. I have no intention of staging a coup. I'm not his enemy. But we're owed more than we receive."

"I'm sure he said the same thing about his mother."

Archer's lip curled at the thought. That was just enough before him that he'd barely experienced Rocket under Madame Boss; he was still a trainer at Giovanni's gym when everything had happened. Ariana had a few years on him in that way. She remembered what the change was like; she remembered the sudden sense of silence and secrecy around the compound, the late nights her then-boyfriend Giovanni spent conniving behind his mother's back with her own supposedly loyal Executives. Then suddenly they had all turned on each other like rabid mightyena, and Ceres and Atlas were dead. Icarus fled to exile. Juno, their sacrificial wooloo, remained waiting on death row to this day. Only Sotiris had been left, and Petrel—Lambda, then—had certainly learned all the secrets his father had to teach him.

If Archer had been around for that fiasco, he wouldn't be so concerned, Ariana reasoned with herself. This may have been silence and secrecy just as well, but it was different than the kind that hid daggers poised to strike. She was an observer now, just as she had been then. So was Archer. Grudgingly, so was Proton. The only sense of danger and urgency came from the threat of their test subject let loose into the Cerulean caverns. It certainly didn't come from an idiot stoner stroking Giovanni's ego to score some weed.

"The reality is, when Giovanni consults Petrel, they suddenly become the most careful idiots on Earth," Ariana reminded him, "and unfortunately if we're not being included, there's probably a reason."

Archer's scowl deepened into something resembling an insolent pout. He leaned his cheek heavily on his fist as he sank further into his chair. It was alright; she understood. He was on-edge. They all were, and would be until this whole mess was taken care of. Soon, she thought. Soon. In a year they would be looking back at this, the mewtwo securely in Giovanni's possession and the revenue flowing through Rocket higher than ever. So what was a little bit of time in the dark compared to that?

"You're right," her brother finally, bitterly agreed. "Of course you're right. I just… don't like not knowing. I only wonder if…."

There was a knock on the closed door. A familiar knock; a confident, sharp one. Instinctively, Archer sat up straight and proper, his expression cooling almost immediately from the hot anger to cool, calm, collected. The knock came again.

"You see?" Ariana prompted him. "We're being included already. Answer it."

"Yes, of course," Archer readily agreed. He lifted himself to his feet and went to open the door, bowing politely. "Master Giovanni, welcome."

"Archer," Giovanni greeted as he came through the door. "Ariana."

"Hello, love," she answered sweetly. But he wasn't alone, and for a second she wasn't really sure what she was seeing. Or, well, she was sure. But she didn't believe it. Hesitating, mouth just slightly agape, she looked to her brother who had gone completely rigid, eyes wide in shock.

"Archer," the second Giovanni greeted as he entered after the first, "Ariana."

She didn't know which was which, but as the realization of their situation dawned on her, she decided she didn't care. She was going to throttle both of them.