The clouds in Unova looked like the clouds anywhere else. Except when viewed from an airplane. Then, they were much more below than any cloud had the right to be.
She (just she. Nothing more. The woman who no one would tell her own name) had nothing to say to the clouds.
Those puffy white giants twisted through the blue like belly-up serpents and couldn't hear a thing. Couldn't hear her, couldn't hear the distant V of Swanna flying in formation, honking and a-flapping, and couldn't hear the sprawling mass of green laced with lights that called itself Unova.
She talked - rambled, really - the bottom of her stomach fuzzy like TV static. Being inside a flying contraption of metal and round, unopenable windows didn't help.
"I'm an Interpol agent," she said, pressing her hands against the window. The sun warmed glass reflected a paler shade of her face, a faint smile and a faint shimmer of lipgloss, some glitter too. "Can you believe that?"
The clouds below peeled off themselves in slow moving sheets. Those thin, wispy sheets stole away the land. Stole away any indicator of, "Is it over yet?"
"Codename -" She stopped because that probably wasn't something you were supposed to announce to the public.
Row after row of people didn't seem to care. They went about watching their movies or eating their airline food or wanting to barf or all three.
Agent Looker, right beside her, drummed his fingers against his armrest. Probably because he couldn't tap his foot. He couldn't move his legs all that much in general, apart from standing up, because his knees were firmly lodged in the seat ahead of him, one that had general disregard for respect, tall people, and respect for tall people.
Agent 000 sat beyond him. He looked little more than a smudge of black hair and black clothes.
"Screw off." Said 000.
"I do not believe I will." Said Looker, still drumming his fingers against what could be considered 000's armrest.
The window said nothing. Clouds that looked like blankets said nothing. So, she talked to them, voice low just in case. (Just in case.)
"Codename 533T."
"Did you not decide Sweet suited you better?"
She startled. Her arms jerked close, fingerprints left on the window, and gaze focused firmly on Looker, who of course heard her. "Sweet?"
"The numbers and letters look like 'Sweet.'"
That they did, and she took a long, quiet moment to agree, nodding slowly.
Looker went on, trying to loosen his tie. "I am simply recalling last night! You can always choose something else, if you so please!"
Last night was a distant memory of a distant airport, of stars and suitcases and talking over coffee gone pale with creamer, whipped cream melting in the warmth that had soaked into her hands.
("Oh my." She'd said, eyes wide.
"Hm?" Looker had said, his Croagunk on his shoulder and eating a cupcake.
That had not been the oddest thing in the airport terminal by far. No one had stared.
"This. Is. Amazing." And she'd licked off the whipped cream complete with its golden drizzle of caramel. "It's so sweet!"
There'd been a pause, and then, "That is it! Sweet!"
"What?"
"That can be your unofficial official codename! It even resembles your real one!"
And she had become 533T had become Sweet.)
Time came back and slapped her across the face. Slapped Sweet. The air still held its air conditioner chill, the seat was still rough, and whatever was digging into her spine dug a little harder.
Looker's face flushed red all the way to his eartips. "I apologize! I did not mean to -"
"I think it suits me."
"Oh. I. Uh, you are welcome?"
"Very." Sweet said, grinning louder than words.
Much, much louder than words or the embarrassment still written on Looker's face.
Much, much louder than 000 cared for.
"Didn't I tell you both to screw off!?"
Solid ground was a blessing in the disguise of a crowded, car honking street. Stunted trees grew in their own little squares beside lamp posts glowing yellow-white and waiting for the dawn sun to peek up beyond the patchworked horizon of skyscrapers and downy clouds left uncolored.
The motel, hotel, a mashup of not-classy and sprawling, stood beneath its sign: Azure Point. (Whatever that meant.)
It welcomed them with automatic doors. The inside was plush carpeting and plain wallpaper, blue like its namesake, and a fireplace. Warmth crackled, a different kind than what you got in Hoenn, burning away a spring chill that felt more like winter if you knew what winter felt like.
000 knew what winter felt like. Unfortunately. The job called for it, and what more could he say than, "I hate this season. I hate this season. So. Freaking. Much."
(Had to kind of watch his language because of a bet he wouldn't care about for much longer.)
He didn't say that. He didn't ay anything at all, not when it might start a conversation or something . Small talk hurt - burned more than those logs hissing and popping beneath orange flames.
Nope. He just shoved his not quite warm yet hands into the definitely not warm pockets of his jacket, one of those leather things with the cotton sleeves and fuzzy insides because dang it, he was not about to freeze his ass off if he could help it.
He checked in at the front desk, given a pair of room keys, the shiny plastic ones.
The elevator dinged.
They stepped out into a fourth floor hallway, plush carpeting all the way down. 000 and Looker went in one room, Sweet in the other.
Suitcases were left unpacked. Shoes stayed on. Hot showers were not taken.
They dropped everything and stepped back out into the cold of the world, breath crystallizing in frozen wisps.
People still rushed by, moving fast, talking, hailed taxis, did whatever their predawn plans were.
Nobody batted an eye at the purple glow of Teleport, not so much as a glance spared for the three people who were not dressed or acting in any way like agents , who were standing there and then not .
(Oh, Castelia City. Such lovely indifference.)
The world fell.
It fell the way that someone fell down a staircase and hit every single step, shaking brains and bones and things that should not be shaken.
It fell like a plate to a hardwood floor. Like a pumpkin off the back of a speeding truck with the tailgate left down.
It fell. There were pieces.
Then the pieces picked themselves back up in perfect order, or as close to perfect as they could.
Castelia City fell , lights blurring, tearing apart, and picked itself back up as a desert as if this had been right all along, and it was easier on the brain - and the stomach - to just agree and save the arguing for after the nausea had worn off.
Sand stretched where there had been roads. Where there had been skyscrapers monochromatic and shining, squat cacti now stood, ringed with flower crowns of pink and yellow.
Beyond them was a building with pillars and a statue and grandness, guarded by what looked vaguely like - to put in bluntly - a guard: The Unovan Pokémon League.
Beyond that still, the sun perched, a phoenix ready to spread its wings and alight.
"Holy shit." Said Sweet, doubled over with her hands on her knees.
"Holy shit indeed." Agreed Looker, more than a little pale.
000 said nothing. He took a moment to strip off his jacket, already beginning to simmer, and really look at his teammates and how they were ready to puke thanks to one measly Teleport. He laughed.
Really and truly laughed just long enough for his own stomach to bottom out and stop him dead.
"That 'no swearing' bet's over, right ?"
Sweet nodded without unfolding herself.
000 turned and, to the sun, yelled, "Sweet mother of ever-loving fuck!"
(The side effects of Teleport were always fun.)
Some time set aside just to breathe past by. A few moments to stand there but nothing more. They had a schedule to keep, a Champion - or someone - to meet, a return trip to make, and criminals to catch after all.
Then, Sweet slowly stood and pressed a hand to her head, almost with a wince. "Who even has a Psychic-type?"
"You, KR?"
Looker nodded and held out his hands, a downright orb of a bird sitting there. "One Interpol assigned Natu."
"That is so adorable I might puke." Said Sweet.
"She is quite adorable." He patted her head. Gently. Small birds got nice, gentle pats.
The Natu chirped and hopped onto his shoulder. Croagunk puffed up.
"Matilda is also quite adorable and we should not be finding this an opportunity to compete for my affection, yes?"
Matilda did not deflate her poison sac, arms crossed and muttering what were probably frog curse words. Natu fluttered somewhere under Looker's lapels.
As great as it would be to watch a frog and a bird fight while literally sitting on Looker's shoulders, there was kind of still a mission that they all needed to be briefed for.
The Pokémon League building continued to wait.
"We have a mission."
"And?" Sweet's smile outshone the sun.
Something deep in 000's soul sighed. He could feel himself droop, his jacket heavy in his arms and desert heat starting to dig into his back. (Better than frostbite any day, thank you very much.)
Something deep in the desert sighed too, a stiff breeze hot and wheezing like an outward breath.
And it was going to suck.
It was going to absolutely suck.
If the League towered on the outside, then the inside didn't have a word to do it justice. The ceiling hung like a distant glass bowl, sunlight ringing the dust colored floor.
A warp tile activated. Gray became a gold that put the sunlight to shame.
The security guard motioned them onwards, disappearing behind a slim iron gate that popped up from solid floor. As gates did.
"That's normal." Sweet looked back at the stairs and desert and everything so, so beige suddenly unreachable.
Very, very normal and not at all horror movie-esque.
"Come on, rookie." Nanu said.
The gate kept standing, locked in place. Sand rolled on and on and on.
Looker pulled her forward, a tug on her wrist.
The ground lit up most brilliantly, gold-white-blinding, and there they were. In the Champion's room with no Champion to be found. No Alder. Whatever. Media was pretty keen on slathering Champion faces all over the place, and when one literally looked like his hair was on fire, you didn't forget his face. Or fail to see him in an empty room.
Tiles as even and square as any other tiles were the only thing there. That warp panel, too, still glowing.
Oh, and stairs. So many, many stairs that looked like they were laminated in gold.
000 didn't see them at first. Just sighed into his hands. Then he heard someone walking, that clack-clack-clack of heels against polish and wax.
"I'm Agent Shrub."
He turned, felt like his personal space was being violated, and backed up to a good, "stay away from me," distance.
Sweet - Arceus bless her - raised her hand and dropped it, already talking. "Is...is that a codename or -"
"Oh for the love of -" 000 rubbed a hand down his face. "You don't just ask an agent-"
"I'm going to cut you both off right there, and let's not make this any longer than necessary, okay?"
(As no nonsense as that straight hair and straight forward glare.)
"I feel this woman on a spiritual level." Said 000.
Agent Shrub glared.
000 glared back.
The world gulped in fear.
"On with the briefing."
Indeed the briefing went.
A Pokemon trafficking ring had appeared in the region, primarily set up in Castelia City, intel thought. Hoped. Those things had a tendency to spread themselves around like a fungus.
Breed Pokemon for as cheaply as possible, as often as possible, using as little food and water as possible, and then sell them for a profit because people were always looking for a little Cubone or Scyther or those other rare cuties that no one ever saw in Unova. A perfect money racket until the police caught wind of the little cuties up and dying.
Or. You know. Up and going absolutely apeshit until their hearts exploded. Because that was completely normal.
000 and his teammates stared. (So in sync, the three of them. Look at 'em go. Just widen those eyes and smile in horror.)
"Are you familiar with Symbiont?"
"The giant jellyfish?" Asked Looker, looking at the ground as if it were were the most interesting thing in the world.
"That's certainly one way to describe it."
Looker flinched. Full on flinched, pulled back from the words like they were a steel-toed boot.
The words kept going as smooth and nonthreatening as ever. "Symbiont is a dangerous and unclassified beast. It secretes a neuro-poison through its tentacles, a steroid-like stimulant that preps a target for possession by pumping them full of adrenaline. Or makes the victim's heart explode. Depends on the dosage."
"Possession?" Looker echoed.
"Yes." Agent Shrub thought about it, the way you stared at a blank wall in deep thought, by doing exactly that. "It's more parasite than symbiotic organism."
"Like a Parasect?" Asked Sweet, raising her hand again.
"Worse."
"Wouldn't that literally eradicate free will?!"
"Well, we've never actually had a live specimen and host for study, so maybe, maybe not?"
"Sounds fun." Said 000. Just turn over all your worries and inhibitions to a gelatinous parasite.
(He wouldn't mind that, sans the whole heart exploding from adrenaline thing.)
"We believe the Pokemon mill is using their operations to test Symbiont's poison."
(Pause for dramatic effect. Yep, just everybody play along.)
"On innocent Pokémon."
That stole the sound right out of the room. Not that there was a lot of sound to begin with, some shuffling of fabric, some foot tapping, maybe a little bit of breathing because that was something people did. But that? Yeah, that stopped it all in a heartbeat.
000 could tell it was a heartbeat cause his own was trying too hard to relocate itself to his neck or something, a steady pulse that wouldn't shut up. (Not that it needed to shut up. Maybe just. Function a little more quietly.)
"Your mission is to locate the mill and subdue the target." Shrub said. "Any questions?"
The ban on breathing lifted. Fortunately. 000's lungs didn't take well to, you know, not doing that.
"Can we leave now?" He asked.
"Please do."
She tossed him a flashdrive, a little silver thing quickly tucked away.
And that was that. Mission briefing over and time for a second round of everyone's favorite game.
The Interpol assigned Natu used Teleport.
Stuffing so many different blues into one room must have been hard, garish interior design a secret held close to the chest by Azure Point's beds and pillows and curtains and rugs and walls. Even the lampshades matched, a blue like velvet that muffled bedside light to a dim circular glow.
That made the agents all the more of oddities.
000's duffel bag sat deflated on the floor, crumpled like a napkin, dreary and discarded. Looker's suitcase added a splash of brown, hidden under the sprawl of his equally brown trench coat.
"Unova's most popular travel channel," or so the TV claimed, played the same advertisements on a loop. There was a park north of Castelia, circular, had a fountain and the amount of trees that was between "a lot" and "not enough." Fancy restaurants perched on street corners if you looked hard enough, their bright shining signs definitely not the same as every sign before. A snow globe shop was somewhere. Who even knew?
"Hey, KR," said 000, crumpled not unlike his empty, empty duffel bag. "What'd you say if I told you to buy me a snow globe while you're out?"
Looker retied his tie again. "I would say buy it yourself."
"Buy me a snow globe while you're out."
"Buy it yourself." Retied it again, too tight against his throat.
"One of those with a little Arceus statue?"
He undid the knot. "That sounds sacrilegious."
"Come on! I wanna use a god as a paperweight."
"Would you prefer I call it uncouth, absolutely horrifying, or simply tacky?"
"Hmm. Good choices, good choices."
"I could go on." He said, tying his hundredth knot. His reflection in the hallway mirror showed his sweater vest and tie complimenting each other nicely, except he kept scrunching his eyebrows together like his clothes were spitting insults and he was terribly offended.
"Stop that 'fore you have a conniption."
"I feel awkward."
"I wonder why." 000 said, deadpan and hunched over a laptop. The case file flash drive shone silver, lit up with little lights.
"Truly, you are the cruelest of teammates, Zeroes."
"And truly, I don't care what the hell you do." He unplugged a flash drive, this one plain black and well on its way to hitting Looker's face. "Knock yourself out."
It fell short and plopped to the carpet.
Blue carpet and black...flash drive...blended together a bit too well. Nothing that some squinting and patting around couldn't fix.
Looker pulled on his trench coat because trench coat pockets were absolutely reliable to shove things in. "I wish you well, Zeroes."
"I wish you'd stop trying to date our coworkers."
"It is not a date."
"Keep tellin' yourself that."
The door absolutely wasn't slammed in 000's face - if only because he was on the other side of the room.
"I really don't think we should be doing this."
"I can assure you this is perfectly legal. " Looker said, pulling out a chair for Sweet.
(As was chivalrous and what someone was supposed to do during a fancy dinner.)
The floor was so smooth and polished that the chair only made a whisper as it settled into place. Lights glowed like white-yellow eggs on intricate patterns, warped and wobbling.
Sweet stared like she'd never seen a restaurant before. Or at least not a fancy one with potted plants and climbing ivy, objects gilded with gold or bronze or something else polished to a face-reflecting shine. She was aglow. The sheer amount of lights made sure of that.
She sat. The chair hugged her coldly, a spindly armrest trapped under her elbow, and a fidgeting Looker trapped under her gaze as he took the only other seat, his foot tapping a rhythm that went against everything the faintly drifting music stood for.
Speakers hidden in decorative rocks tried to glare before remembering they neither had eyes nor consciousness.
Sweet made it so they didn't have to. Her glare bounced from Looker to the balcony railing, to the skyscrapers like window-lit mountains, to all the stars hidden in the sky, nothing but black and gray and clouds swirling with cold.
Were those snowflakes, those speckles falling, or were they cigarette ashes from the next balcony up?
"So."
"So indeed." Said Looker.
A laptop, perfectly blue screen bright, sat between glass saucers. Ice cubes swirled and clinked perfectly against a water glass with the twisting of Sweet's wrist.
"Why are we on a private balcony?"
"That's elementary, my dear Watson."
Sweet stared harder, doing the whole wide eyes, head tilt, pursed lips combo. "Who?"
"It...it means the answer is obvious."
"Do I look like Galarian is my first language?"
Looker flailed, literally, his hand gestures desperate. "It is not mine either! I mean to say that we are on a private balcony for privacy!"
"Is this a date?"
"No!" There he went, face turning red. "Why does everyone make that assumption?"
"Then what is it - oh, sorry, thank you!" She said, with a bright, bright smile at the newly plopped down basket of rolls.
A waiter, as proper as you'd expect, with a fancy little notepad, took their orders and left as properly as you could when you'd just walked in on a grade A embarrassing moment.
Sweet waved her knife a bit more than necessary, buttering a roll and stuffing the whole thing in her mouth.
"We are here to take review of case files!" He showed the laptop, file after file waiting on screen.
"In a restaurant?"
"Yes? It is well past dinner."
"I don't think this is confidential. At all."
Looker shrugged. "When you are an agent, you take any chance for a decent meal you receive."
Another roll met its end, torn in half and skewered. "Suddenly, I'm worried," she said, entirely unworried and not with the best table manners.
"I lead a...less than ideal life."
"Mediocrity." Ice cubes clinked, cold against bright red lips, the color smudged on slick glass.
He pressed a hand to his chest, right over his tie. (Was it still half an inch too short?) "I am wounded."
"What's it say, and are you going to eat that?" She pulled her chair around, right next to Looker, and stole his roll right off the plate.
A click and pictures filled the screen. Articles. A whole, you guessed it, Word document of the stuff. So professional.
The first was a Cubone, fractures jagged across its outer skull, eyes shadowed by deep hollows.
"Malnourishment led to brittling of Case A's bones and cannot be attributed as an effect of the poison," said an excerpt.
Those marks though...the poor, poor thing.
Red ran beneath patchy fur, thick, miserable looking things, like string wrapped tighter than blood circulation could bear and laced with puncture wounds.
"Can I just say, ow." Said Sweet.
"And that, my friend, is just the beginning."
Okay, yeah, she could see why he...didn't eat his rolls. Not that her taking them had anything to do with that.
Pictures scrolled by, lifeless eyes and limp bodies. Scarlets, crimsons, even wine dark maroons, some gone scaly and dry, some oozing, scabbed over and cracked back open.
Her stomach rolled - burned. Where they'd stitched her back together, black thread held her guts in, and oh, it hurt.
He scrolled, screen tilted just so, and winced. "Brace yourself. This one is particularly - Sweet, Sweet, please refrain!"
(And that was the last time Looker took a coworker out for dinner.)