Time for the first Interlude! So sorry for the longer than usual wait, I had a crazy week at work that only got crazier on the weekend! But, somehow between the drama and the work, I managed to get this laid out! I figure I've given enough depth to the world to delve a little deeper into it and hit some different viewpoints! Hope I do the characters justice, especially a certain trio!
As always, thank you so much for viewing my work, it really does mean the world to me! I've also been surprised with how quickly my little fic's following has been growing, and it's all thank to y'all!
The dimly lit cargo hold of the ferry rocked gently as it made its way into Hoenn's bustling harbor, the sound of waves lapping against the hull. Inside, Jessie, James, and Meowth huddled together in a corner, surrounded by crates. The scent of saltwater and rust lingered in the air as they finalized their plans. They had only just arrived in Hoenn after days of negotiation and bartering with the region's warring factions—hardly the most ideal of alliances, but in their line of work, you took what you could get.
Jessie crossed her arms, her sharp eyes narrowed as she thought about the uneasy partnerships they'd just secured. "We had to dance around those Aqua and Magma clowns to get what we needed, but it worked out. They're so busy tearing at each other's throats that they were willing to give us a pass for now, so long as we stay out of their way." She smirked, clenching her fist tightly. "But we'll use them like the pawns they are if it comes down to it. This time, we've got the upper hand."
James leaned back against a crate, absently polishing one of the Pokéballs clipped to his belt. "It's been a while since we've faced off against the twerp and that Pikachu," he mused, glancing down at their newest set of blueprints. "But we've got something up our sleeves this time. That electric-absorbing battery robot we built is going to make sure Pikachu's Thunderbolts are nothing more than sparks."
The robot was designed with one purpose in mind: neutralizing Pikachu's biggest advantage. Thick insulation, specialized capacitors, and absorption coils meant Pikachu's electricity would be siphoned and stored instead of exploding into chaos. It was one of their more sophisticated designs, pieced together through scavenged parts and no small amount of creativity. But they were used to that by now.
Meowth nodded approvingly, crouched on the floor and sharpening his claws against a crate. "About time we had somethin' that could really counter that rodent's zaps. I'm sick of gettin' fried like a Magikarp every time we get close!" His whiskers twitched in annoyance as he remembered their many explosive encounters with Pikachu. "This time, we ain't lettin' that little electric rat get the better of us."
But something more serious was hanging in the air beneath their usual banter. They weren't just in Hoenn for Pikachu. HQ had given them a mission—an official directive from the Boss himself. He rarely reached out directly, which meant this was more than a simple recon job.
"Don't forget why we're here," Jessie said, her voice dropping in volume but gaining gravity. "The Boss wants us to investigate that new group causing trouble in Hoenn. Aqua and Magma might be the loudest players, but this third group… they're dangerous, even by the Boss' standards."
James nodded, his expression mirroring hers. "Right. No one seems to know where they came from, but they've been growing fast. They're not just after power or territory—they're out for blood. I heard they're using Pokémon in ways that make even the Boss's operations look tame. And the worst part? The Pokémon they command are terrifyingly strong—like something out of a nightmare."
Meowth's ears flattened against his head. "Yeah, I heard the rumors too. They've got somethin' that's takin' down entire squads of trainers, both human and Pokémon, without breakin' a sweat. Nobody knows what kind of Pokémon they're usin', but word on the street is they've got a bone to pick with someone, and they don't care about collateral damage."
The trio exchanged uneasy glances. They were all for lying, cheating, and stealing, but this was different. This wasn't about some Pokemon theft or making cash hand over fist. Here in Hoenn, there was a mysterious, murderous group on one side and a pair of squabbling eco-terrorists on the other. Things were dangerous, violent, and more than a bit scary. And they were headed straight into the middle of that.
But they weren't about to back down. They were Team Rocket, after all, and if there was something to gain—whether it was information, resources, or new opportunities—they were determined to steal it and bring it back to the Boss.
"Whatever these guys are planning, the Boss wants intel," Jessie pointed at James and Meowth dramatically. "We get in, gather what we can, and report back. And while we're at it, we'll keep our eyes peeled for that Pikachu."
James crossed his arms, nodding in agreement. "We'll stick to the shadows for now, avoid getting caught up in Aqua and Magma's turf wars. But when the time's right, we strike. If we can pull this off, we'll finally get the recognition we deserve—and maybe a promotion to boot."
Meowth grinned. "And that Pikachu would be the cherry on top! Just remember, this ain't like the other regions. Hoenn's a battleground right now, and if we ain't careful, we'll get caught in the crossfire. But if we play our cards right, we could come outta this on top."
With the ferry nearing the docks, they quickly gathered their supplies and slipped back into an emptied crate. It would be one more night sleeping in the crate before they were offloaded. Despite the cramped conditions, Team Rocket fell asleep easily, dreams of paydays and stolen Pikachu's running through their minds.
Desmond Creed wasn't an imposing man. A receding hairline, a slightly protruding gut, thin in the shoulders and hips, he had the appearance typical of a man in his fifties. He was neither handsome nor ugly, a slight bend to his nose, with ears somewhat too small for his head and heavy brows that almost overshadowed his pale green eyes. And yet, people spoke his name in hushed whispers with glances thrown over their shoulders for good measure. His small frame cast a very large shadow, one most people hoped never crossed their own.
Desmond Creed sat behind the vast mahogany desk in his study, the polished surface reflecting the low light from the chandelier overhead. The room was adorned with dark, heavy drapes that framed tall windows, blocking out the early evening light. The walls were lined with shelves filled with ancient tomes, ledgers, and artifacts—testaments to the Creed family's long-standing power and influence in the Hoenn region. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, its warmth doing little to soften the cold atmosphere that permeated the room.
Alton, the eldest of his brood, stood before him, bandages peeking out from his sleeves, a physical reminder of his son's failure. Desmond was content to simply continue his work. Devon Corp had replied with the projected supply needs for the next quarter. A new Pokeball project necessitated an increase in Tumblestone mining, one Desmond would be happy to provide for an additional 2% of their agreed upon price.
The scratch of his pen was the only sound that could be heard above the crackling fire. Alton had the werethal to remain silent for the moment, a tactically sound decision on his part. For the better part of an hour, Alton stood in silence while Desmond penned out the last sentence of his proposal and sealed it within a parchment envelope. He placed the sealed envelope onto the metal tray at the corner of his desk, eyes making contact with Alton for the first time since he had been home. Desmond had to contain the sneer that hovered over his lips as Alton flinched, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Alton," Desmond began, speaking soft enough that Alton leaned forward instinctively. Seems he would need remedial lessons in rudimentary discussion tactics. "I hear you've had quite the misadventure."
Alton swallowed, his throat dry. "Father, I—"
Desmond raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture. "Spare me the excuses, Alton. I've no interest in hearing how you were chased through the forest by a wild Pokémon, or how you found yourself in such a pathetic state that you had to be rescued by Rangers. Did you not say you were ready to be a Trainer? Were all those tutors and trainers I hired to teach you just a waste of money?"
"But it wasn't my fault! I was given a Surskit and–"
"I said I don't wish to hear your excuses."
Alton shrank back, paling under Desmond's glare. Only once he was sure Alton's mouth would remain shut did he continue.
"You blame your failure on the Pokémon you were given? A true Creed doesn't make excuses, Alton. We make use of what we have to produce results. Do you think I built this empire by complaining about the tools at my disposal? No, I succeeded because I adapted, because I saw potential where others saw limitations. While others were whining about fairness, I was earning results. You were given an opportunity to prove your worth, to demonstrate your capability as a Creed, and you failed. Do not disgrace this family by hiding behind excuses."
"I… I understand, Father," Alton said quietly, lowering his head. "I will do better."
"You will," Augustus replied, his tone final. "Because you have no choice. The Creed name is built on excellence, and I will not tolerate anyone bismerching it, including you."
Alton wordlessly nodded, ducking his head as if it would hide the tears that had already welled up in his eyes before backing away. Desmond sighed sharply through his nose. It was shameful to think that his own flesh and blood couldn't do something as simple as control his emotions.
"I understand you have misplaced your Starter."
"Y-Yes father."
"You will find a suitable replacement, and you will make something of it. You will show me that you can adapt. Either succeed as a Creed, or don't bother coming back. Do you understand?"
"I understand Father…goodnight."
Desmond stared at the closed doors for a few moments before leaning back in his chair. The world of trainers was one of fleeting glory and unnecessary risk, a distraction from the true arenas where power was won and lost. He considered it to be childish, a frivolous fever-dream of an existence. Yet, he allowed his son this indulgence.
The path of a Trainer would serve as a crucible. Either Alton would emerge victorious, bringing honor and further prestige to the Creed name in an area yet untouched by him, or he would fail, consumed by the very world he sought to conquer, his name stricken from the legacy Desmond had meticulously crafted.
Frederick "Fred" Dalpe rubbed his temples as he stared at the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Another day, another pile of forms, reports, and interregional communiques. For most people, working for the Pokémon World Organization sounded glamorous—like some high-stakes career involving secret meetings, global influence, and brushing shoulders with the most powerful figures in the Pokémon world. In reality, it was mostly a bureaucratic slog. And Fred, as a mid-ranking employee in the sprawling apparatus of the PWO, had grown intimately familiar with that side of things.
His day had started as it always did—an early morning commute through Lumiose City's congested streets, his PokeNav buzzing constantly with reminders about deadlines, meeting notes, and requests from colleagues scattered across the world. He turned into a small, dilapidated cafe nestled in the back of an alley, a faded sign barely hanging onto the entrance. He flashed his PWO ID to the hidden Alakazam in the corner and sat down at the corner booth. He waited, and after a moment's delay, the booth began to descend.
After reaching the bottom, he stepped out and once again flashed his ID, the familiar tickle of a psychic sweep brushing across his mind before doors opened, and he was admitted into the PWO's Kalos Branch.
By the time he'd reached his cubicle, he was already behind schedule. The damned secret entrance needed maintenance again. And thanks to a particularly lengthy meeting discussing changes to interregional trade agreements between Galar and Sinnoh, he was going to have to work through lunch if he wanted to make his quota by the end of the day.
Fred sat down, quickly glancing at his inbox, which had ballooned overnight with messages from Kanto, Unova, and Johto representatives. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as he skimmed through the subject lines:
- "Re: Proposed Regulation Amendments for Regional Trainer Licensing"
- "Update: Hoenn Incident Report"
- "Urgent: Coordination Required for Kalos/Galar Summit"
Fred's job mainly involved facilitating communications between regional Pokémon Leagues and ensuring that the PWO's overarching policies were implemented smoothly. On the surface, it seemed straightforward, but each region had its quirks, its stubborn points, and its hidden agendas. Galar was constantly at odds with Unova over competitive battle regulations; Sinnoh and Johto clashed regularly over historical preservation laws, especially when ancient ruins were involved; and then there was Hoenn—a region that had become a hotbed of instability with the rise of Team Aqua and Team Magma.
As Fred began typing out a response to a memo regarding upcoming changes to the Pokémon League's standardized testing protocols in Kanto, his PokeNav vibrated with a soft ping. He glanced at it, and his fingers paused mid-keystroke.
He took a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, and stood up. No one seemed to be paying attention to him—just the usual buzz of coworkers busy with their own tasks, the faint hum of a coffee machine, and the occasional clatter of a keyboard. After settling into a rhythm, it was practically meditative.
But Fred knew better than to be complacent. He stood up, stretching casually as if easing a stiff back, and made his way towards the break room. Halfway there, he diverted toward the east wing restrooms, glancing over his shoulder once to ensure no one was watching.
Instead of entering the restroom, Fred slipped into a nearby supply closet, a cramped space crammed with mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies. The faint smell of bleach stung his nose as he reached into the back corner and pressed a nearly invisible latch hidden beneath a shelf. A section of the wall slid back with a quiet click, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for him to squeeze through.
Fred slipped inside, the false wall sliding shut behind him with a soft thud. The narrow corridor led him into a small, dimly lit room just big enough to hold a single desk with a sleek laptop already open and a headset draped over the screen. The screen flickered to life as Fred settled into the creaky chair, the familiar cold light bathing his face in an eerie glow. He entered the twenty-three-digit password, a random mixture of letters, numbers, and punctuations that changed by the day.
Once his password was accepted, Fred quickly connected to the microphone, adjusting the settings of the modulator until his voice was rendered entirely unrecognizable—cold, mechanical, and devoid of any personal inflection.
He dragged the mouse away from the primary application icons and clicked three times on what looked like an empty corner of the screen. Only on the third click did an icon appear. It was a hexagon with a stylized eye in the center, formed by two opposing crescent shapes—one in dark metallic silver and the other in deep crimson. In the space behind the eye, a fragmented radial pattern of purples spiraled out from the center of the eye.
Fred cleared his voice, then began speaking in the same modulated voice that had haunted recent communications across Hoenn. "Status report," he said, his voice buzzing with artificial distortion. "Progress in Hoenn?"
The response came quickly, and text appeared on the screen in neat lines: *Team Aqua and Team Magma remain focused on territorial disputes. Both factions remain unaware of our interference. The destabilization of regional politics is proceeding as planned.*
Fred leaned back, steepling his fingers as he considered the implications. "And the third party?"
Unknown intentions. Identified as public members of Team Rocket. Record for a high amount of public visibility. Incredibly capable escape artists.*
Fred frowned, tapping a finger against the desk. The emergence of Team Rocket was unfortunate but not unexpected. He would have expected nothing less from an opportunistic organization like them. At least he was placed in such a way that he could keep an eye on them.
The PWO's goal had always been to subtly manipulate regional dynamics, ensuring that no single region gained too much influence or autonomy. Fred admired their optimism but laughed at their naivety. There would always be an imbalance; that was how the world worked. There were the strong and the weak; no amount of administration or in-the-shadow checks would change that.
"Continue observation," Fred ordered. "Do not engage until we have more information. Focus on the destabilization efforts. We'll deal with them if and when they directly threaten our operations."
Understood. I'll keep you updated, Admin.*
Fred didn't say anything else, simply powering down the computer and standing, the chair creaking as it released him. As he made his way back through the hidden passage, he straightened his tie, adjusted his glasses, and slipped out of the supply closet, blending seamlessly back into the flow of office life. On the surface, he was just another mid-level administrator, a cog in the Pokémon World Organization's massive, bureaucratic machine. But beneath that mundane cover lay the actual depth of his work.
Back at his desk, Fred finished typing his memo. He scrolled up to the next one but paused to look at the incident report for the Birch Labs.
It had been a perfectly executed test run that had caused enough damage to raise suspicions but left everyone too distracted to notice the real game in play. Hoenn was up in arms, blaming their Pokemon League and Professor Birch. Those in charge were blaming the PWO, unofficially of course, and the PWO was scrambling, unsure whether to tighten their grip or loosen it to avoid further unrest.
The council was paralyzed. Composed of some of the most distinguished and keen minds from across the world–two from each major region, one from each minor region–the council was held as a beacon of reason, of neutrality and honor. Fred saw them for what they really were: relics. Stubborn, egotistical men and women clinging to their perceived power and authority, with an occasional do-gooder trying to speak out for their country rather than their personal interests. And all of them were afraid.
Anger, confusion, and fear, those emotions tarnished hope and toppled regions.
"Destabilization requires momentum," Fred muttered to himself, staring at the map of Hoenn pinned to his office wall. "A series of small nudges, building to a tipping point."
His eyes followed the main supply routes from Slateport to Rustboro. Team Aqua and Team Magma were both targeting these areas—Aqua for control of the ports and Magma for access to the region's industrial centers. If he could leak just enough information to the right parties—false intel here, a few anonymous tips there—he could trigger a series of skirmishes that would drain both teams' resources and force them to take more desperate measures. "Create a storm so big that no one can see who's pulling the strings."
But every move needed to be perfect, subtle, and layered with deniability. If anyone in the PWO began connecting the dots, his cover could be blown. He'd carefully cultivated an image of a diligent, if unremarkable, employee—someone overlooked in meetings, who faded into the background. It was a façade he needed to maintain, but that didn't mean he couldn't push the envelope.
It was only a matter of time before Team Cipher's influence spread across Hoenn. And Fred would be there, guiding it every step of the way.