UNWANTED
EXPERIMENTAL CHAPTER 1: I WOULD CHANGE IT IF I COULD
On Prince Mewtwo's birthday, Queen Mew gives her son a gift he didn't ask for. Mewtwo disapproves. Sabrina is confused.
On the sixth of February, the Sunlit Empire went into mourning. Everyone, from the Goddess-Queen down to the lowest slave, dressed in black clothes. Black ribbons were tied around wrists and necks, black bells were rung in the streets, and black drapes were hung in the place of flags and tapestries. Black candles were lit in windows, where they burned with a cold blue light. After dawn, mourners visited the graves of their dead; at dusk, they gathered at the nearest temple. There, under the banner of a golden sun on a blue field, they would sing, weep, and pray. They would give thanks that their ancestors had not drowned along with the old world, when the Great Storm had swallowed the Earth.
Over a century ago, the winds had turned to water. Lands had flooded, cities had crumbled into the sea, and billions of lives had been lost. But over the years that the storm had raged, everything had also been washed clean. Afterwards, there were no more wildfire-red skies, no more oil-slicked oceans, no more poisonous mists settling over fields and villages. There were still conflicts, of course, and ghosts beyond count. But the ghosts could be soothed and the battles were quieter. They didn't leave cratered wastelands and cell-curdling debris behind. This new world was better, the children of the survivors began to say, while building their houses on sodden ground. The world was healing like a sore after it was scoured with saltwater, and like the heart of their goddess, broken and mended with the balms of time and change.
But while she had forgiven humanity, she remembered what their ancestors had done. She could not let them forget it, for if they forgot, they might repeat their mistakes. They might seek to control her and her kin again, and rot the world through with their hunger for power and wealth. No one who read the story of the Great Storm wanted that.
Or at least not many of them did. Those who did—who asked if all of that death and destruction had truly been earned, who wondered if the old world had been as bad as the stories said—were then told about the queen's child. He had been born twisted and feral, a product of humanity's greed and hubris. When he'd set the Storm in motion, he'd meant to end the world, not cleanse it. He had wanted every human and member of his own kin to die, for reasons not even his mother could say. Was it vengeance for her sake? Rage for how he had been created? Had he hoped to rule over the ruins? Had he wanted to spill blood for the sake of it? There had been humans in the old world like that, who had made others suffer so they could feel stronger. Whatever the truth was, she had kept him from succeeding entirely, and even now kept him in check. But he remained a shadow in her court, a prince who could never be crowned. Some whispered that he was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to finish what he'd started. All anyone had to do was look at his true form—at that skeletal, mutated beast with searing eyes and red-stained fangs—and they would know that it was true. Doubters were taken on pilgrimages to see. And once they did, almost all of them returned to their manors and farmsteads uncertain and afraid.
We are lucky to have the queen, their elders would tell them. She will not let him have his way.
Why doesn't she get rid of him? the youths would ask. Wouldn't that be safer?
It isn't that simple. You can love someone who is unworthy of it. Whatever else he is, he is her child. Perhaps she hopes he will change for the better.
Do you think he will?
Some of their elders said, Some people do. And an eternity is a long time to stay the same.
While others would add, But it has been decades and that should tell us something.
And so many of the doubters returned home as believers. No more heretical questions would fall from their lips or cross their minds, which was important when worshiping a goddess who could, it was said, read their thoughts. Then, on the sixth of February, they would gather with the others and remember why all of this was necessary.
(And those who still weren't convinced? They walked into the dead lands, seeking a truth that, their elders said, did not exist. They did not return.)
And on that day, the prince would seclude himself as much as his role would allow. He had learned from a very young age that the day of his birth was nothing to celebrate.
That being said, God-Prince Mew II was still prince, even if no one needed to kneel for him. That meant that he had obligations to fulfill, including making an appearance today. So he donned his human shape, dressed in his finest black clothes, grabbed his cane, and limped his way to the great hall for the ceremonies of the day. The morning was filled with preaching from the Sunkissed, the highest ordained priests and priestesses of the temples, which turned into hymns around midday. The dirges were slow and steady, like the throbbing ache from his bad leg. He discreetly took a sip from his flask to take the edge off, though the medicinal herbs were bitter on his tongue. He choked down what he could of the feast, though he wasn't the only one who struggled. He stuck to the seafood soup, but even that had too much salt—for the waves of tears—and the wine was too thick—for the blood that was shed—to be thirst-quenching.
There was also the play, which took up most of the evening. He didn't need a reminder of the events leading up to the Great Storm—the ways in which humanity had ravaged the world, culminating in them capturing and betraying a god. His mother certainly didn't need the reminder, but apparently she thought that someone did. So he looked at the stage, but didn't watch it, letting the blues, greens, and greys of the costumes and set pieces blur together. He focused on the sound of his own breathing, rather than the actors' lines. That worked through most of it, though he felt it whenever someone in the audience glanced his way. The pressure of their eyes built when his own representation—the embodiment of humanity's sins, which seemed to have more teeth each year—appeared on stage. He kept his expression blank, but the weight doubled, making it hard to take in a full breath. It was like trying to breathe underwater, and billions of people had learned firsthand how futile that was.
Soon it will be over, he told himself. Soon you can leave.
When the actors took their bows and the lights came up, the court turned their attention to the queen. When they did, his mother nodded at him. He leveraged himself up with his cane and just a touch of his telekinesis, subtle enough that it wouldn't be noticed and start a panic. (The last time he'd floated himself through the east wing, the servants had screamed bloody murder.) The walk across the great hall took an age of the world, pain pulsing up his hip and into the base of his spine, but he made it. He passed through the doors, turned a corner, and when the pressure of those eyes fell away, he teleported to his quarters.
He reappeared in his reception hall, which was much smaller and darker than the one he had left. The lamps lining the walls glowed blue as ghost-fire, as did the candles on the round table in the center of the room. Those candles burned in every window tonight, but his wouldn't be swapped out for normal candles in the morning. He was death-touched and would do well to remember it. But at least no one else was here. He had no guests and the servants didn't like venturing far into his chambers, especially today. He could spend the rest of the night in the bath if he liked.
He passed through another few rooms until he reached his bedchamber. The candles on his table were out, so his lit them with a wave of his hand. He would need to get some replacements soon; they were nearly at the end of their wicks. He glanced at his books and scrolls, wondering if he should try to make some progress with them, but there was a pinching behind his eyes that promised a headache if he tried. No, a bath would be better. He shed his cloak and was working on the buttons of his shirt when something moved behind him.
He froze. It sounded like it had come from the bed. Was—was someone in here with him? He hadn't sensed anyone. He should have, unless—a chill ran down his spine—unless it was a dark pokémon. That had happened a few times over the years, though the assassination attempts had never gone far and the culprits had met gruesome ends (his royal blood might count for little, but it still counted for something). But as long as there was the chance of success, someone might try again.
He spun around, summoning fire into his palm. Psychic energy might do nothing, but most things feared fire. The light revealed the other occupant of the room, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. She winced at the sudden light.
"Who are you?" he demanded, grateful that his voice hadn't cracked from nerves. She looked like a noblewoman, given how she held herself, spine straight, eyes lowered, hands folded together in her lap. She was wearing a long-sleeved black dress made of fine silk, though there wasn't much embroidery, just some simple touches of silver along the hems. Oddly, there were no indications of her house, either. No crests or patterns that would refer to one. Was she trying to obscure which one she belonged to?
She lifted her head. Her skin looked gray in the firelight, but her eyes were a startling red. That might explain why he couldn't sense her. Dark-touched humans were rare, but they existed. Though why she wasn't immediately going for his throat was a mystery.
"My name is Sabrina," she said.
"And you are here because...?" he pressed.
She blinked at him. "Queen Mew asked me to look after you." He must look confused, because she added, "I'm guessing she didn't tell you?"
"No," he confirmed. "She didn't mention anything about you."
She considered him, then said, "She must have wanted to surprise you."
Well, his mother had succeeded. The last time he had found a strange woman in his chambers...oh. Oh no. "How exactly will you be taking care of me?" he asked, a suspicion coiling in the back of his brain.
She looked away from him. "How would you like me to?"
Gods damn it. He had told his mother to stop doing this. The first time it had happened, he'd been baffled. By the sixth time, he'd well and truly run out of patience for it. "Thank you, but I do not need anything from you. Tell your family that while I'm flattered by the offer, I am not looking for a consort at this time." Or ever. After what had happened to Ai, it would be cruel to try. His mother should have thought about that before...well. He shook his head. "It is late, but I can see you to the guest wing. I will arrange a carriage for you in the morning."
Sabrina stared at him for a very long moment. "My prince." She pursed her lips, as if trying to think of a delicate way to continue. "I am not a lady."
What? "Are you a courtesan?" he asked. His mother had had him meet with a few over the years, but that hadn't worked out any better than the Sunlit Empire's most eligible daughters. She'd even thrown some bachelors in the mix, just to see if that was the problem. It wasn't. It was just...rare...for him to feel that way for someone. It had only ever happened once.
Exasperation flickered over Sabrina's face, so quickly that he wondered if he'd really seen it. She reached up and brushed her long, dark hair over her shoulder. As she did, her sleeve fell back, revealing the thick band of iron around her wrist, the crystals embedded in it pulsing with blue light. His stomach flipped at the sight of it; he barely stopped himself from recoiling. And then she tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck. "No, I'm not."
A floral tattoo bloomed across her skin. The brand of the Tower of Dusk.
A slave. His mother had bought him a slave.
His gorge rose in his throat. "Excuse me."
He did not precisely run away, but it was a near thing. He stopped in his reception hall, taking a few moments to steady his breathing (how could she do this, why would she do this, was she trying to torture him?). Then he teleported back to the great hall. The servants nearby jumped, a courtier cursed, and one lady let out startled shriek. A thousand eyes snapped to him. He was already tense, but the muscles of his shoulders coiled painfully tight in response. But he pressed on, the crowd parting before him, until he reached his mother.
She was smiling. Of course she was. The sight made something twist in his gut. "May I speak with you? Alone?"
She gave the crowd an indulgent look, as if to say, Can you believe this? Out loud, she said, "Very well. I will return shortly." She led him to one of the adjoining tearooms, which served as a war-room once a week. Not that they were at war, officially. Dealing with a few dissidents didn't count.
Today it was only a tearoom. A ceramic tea-set, patterned with clouds, was arranged on the table. The queen reached out a hand and, with a twist of her fingers, traced and illuminated the silver lines on the sides of the kettle. A few seconds later, steam spilled from the spout.
"Tea?" she asked, adding the leaves, blended with rose petals and dried red berries, into the water to steep.
He wanted to say no, but knew better. "Yes, thank you."
By the time the tea was poured, Mewtwo's bravery was beginning to falter. Maybe he should have demanded answers outside. He cradled his teacup in his hands and took a breath. "Mother-"
"Is this about the girl?"
What else would it be about? "Yes. Why would you buy me a slave?"
"It's your birthday. I thought you might like a gift," she said, then took a sip of her tea.
A gift? "I don't want a slave. I don't need one," he protested, the sides of the teacup searing his fingers.
"Weren't you complaining the other day that the servants won't clean your rooms for you?"
He had, at most, asked the steward if he could send someone if they had another sleet-storm. The cold damp of the last one had left him bedridden and unable to focus. And that was rich coming from her. As if she ever cleaned her own chambers. "I doubt you bought a slave from Dusk to clean for me."
She inclined her head. "Admittedly, no. That would be a waste of her talents."
"Which I don't need."
"How do you know? Did you even ask her what her specialties were?"
He didn't have to. Sex wasn't going to fix his faulty brain chemistry or maimed limb. "No, but-"
"You are being incredibly ungrateful," his mother said, "considering the time and effort I spent picking her out for you. You would like her if you just gave her a chance."
How would you know what I like? Her choices had been so eclectic that he could never see a pattern to them. Though those people, at least, had been free. "Nothing she would do or say would be genuine."
She lowered her cup onto its plate, the ceramics clinking as they kissed. "That's cynical, considering your first friend was a slave."
Rage rushed through him, making the furniture in the room shake. "Fuck you-"
Pain exploded across his face, sudden and forceful enough to make the vertebrae of his neck creak. His ears rung and stars burst in front of his eyes. The taste of blood seeped into his mouth. He swallowed it down and poked at his teeth with his tongue. None were loose.
"You will not speak to me that way. You will say thank you for the thoughtful gift I have given you. And you will go back to your rooms and appreciate it," the queen snarled.
He opened his mouth, gingerly, to see if it would hurt to speak. It did. "I am not going to sleep with her."
"Pity. It would do wonders for your mood."
His lifted his head. His neck throbbed with protest. "Why do you care? You prefer it when I'm miserable."
"Don't be absurd. You're my son. I want you to be happy," she said.
It was a lie, of course. But she had always been good at believing her lies.
"And you think this will do it?"
"Most people are happier with lovers and children," she said.
Ah. There it was.
"You want me to have a child with her," he said slowly.
She picked her teacup back up and took a long sip. "You need someone to care about. Maybe it won't be her, but I can't imagine you would be cold to your own child."
That would almost have been touching, if it were the real reason. "You want a new heir."
Her brow furrowed. "Does that surprise you? You have told me, more than once, that you have no interest in ruling. And the people wouldn't accept you even if you did."
Whose fault was that? "You could select someone else. It doesn't have to be my child."
"It does, actually. My heir must be of my blood. And since I can't produce another..." She downed the rest of her tea with a grimace.
Against his wishes, pity kindled in his chest. Regardless of the choices she had made afterwards, what the humans had done to her had been evil. But given what she had been through, she also shouldn't be asking him to do this. "I'm sorry. I can't give you what you want." You are stuck with me and I with you.
"It's not hard, you know. Most people enjoy the process," she said, pouring herself more tea.
Yes, well, he wasn't most people. "I won't." As much as the concept of a family did seem...nice...the price would be too high. And you couldn't grieve for something you never had.
(If he kept telling himself that, maybe he would believe it someday.)
She sat down at the table with a huff, her brow furrowing. "You've always been so stubborn. This would help us both, and you-" She gestured sharply with her hand, a dismissive gesture that wasn't a dismissal. "What am I meant to do with her, then? I can't return her. It would not be kind of me to."
That was oddly empathetic of her. "You could free her," he suggested.
"She is safer here. The others who wanted her—belonging to you would give her a measure of protection from them," she said with a frown.
That might very well be bullshit. But also, given how expensive the services of Dusk were and how much their slaves sold for, his mother might not be lying. "She has our gifts. She should be able to protect herself from—most people." Clearly not all, given her status. "And you could give her guards."
"I doubt they would be effective if another psychic wanted her dead," his mother said.
That was specific. "Is that likely?"
She gave him an exasperated look. "Maybe you should ask her."
And his mother said he was stubborn. "You are not going to let this go, are you?"
"I paid a fortune for her, so no. Give it a year and maybe we'll revisit the matter."
Great. He wasn't going to be able to budge her on this. He would just have to get used to having someone else in his quarters. And ignore the whispers. At least he'd had plenty of practice. "What about the bindings?" he asked, remembering the band around her wrist. No doubt she had a matching one of the other.
"What about them?"
"You put them on her. Were you worried she would try to run?" He'd teleport away too, if he thought it would help him disappear. Experience told him otherwise.
"No. That was actually for your safety," his mother told him.
Well that wasn't ominous at all. "You think she would try to hurt me?"
"Oh no. But her control has...slipped...on a couple of occasions. I thought it best to be careful."
She wouldn't give him the key, then. "You don't think I can handle her?"
"I don't think I am willing to risk it. Regardless of what you may think, I do care about your well-being."
His leg throbbed beneath him. "May I be dismissed? It appears I have a guest to get settled."
She gestured for him to go, but as he reached the door, she said, "Please do try with this one, won't you?"
He teleported away. Sabrina was still sitting on his bed, but she was drooping. She straightened immediately when he appeared, but her eyes were dull with fatigue. She was shivering too, and feeling the chill in the air, he cursed himself for being so thoughtless. He lit a fire in the hearth and added an armful of wood to it. When the flames were dancing merrily, filling the room with warmth and light again, he turned back to her. He wasn't certain what to say, so he took a moment to study her. She didn't look like the type of girl his mother preferred. Her long hair was black, not red or gold, with shorter locks that covered her ears and fell across her forehead. Her skin was pale, not tan or brown. The angles of her jaw, cheeks, and eyes were sharp, giving her a severe look. She had thin lips and a small, pointed nose. There was none of the roundness in her face that he was used to seeing in court, nor any hint of the mirth his mother favored. She was also slender, with narrow hips. Considering what his mother wanted her for, that surprised him. Then again, maybe she didn't care if Sabrina had an easy birth. As long as she got the heir she wanted, what did the health of its mother matter?
The thought depressed him. She deserved better than this. "My mother explained her hopes for us. You should know that I am not interested in that."
Her eyes widened. "I..." She seemed to swallow her first response. "You don't want me?"
Oh. Oh no. He didn't want to hurt her. But he couldn't lie to her, either. "You are beautiful." He could admit that. It was the truth. "But my mother should have asked me first. As it is, you and I are strangers. And I am not comfortable with bedding a stranger."
She looked genuinely confused. It was heartbreaking and a little nausea-inducing. Then her expression went carefully blank. "Then what do you intend to do with me?"
"I do not know," he admitted. "But you can stay here if you wish. Though if there is somewhere else you would rather be-"
"No," she cut him off. She took a breath and said, more politely. "No. This is fine."
Maybe his mother hadn't been lying about this being the safest place for her, at least temporarily. "Very well. Why don't you take the bed?" It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in his study. He went to his wardrobe and pulled out a robe for the night.
"You're not staying?" she asked. "There's plenty of room."
He turned back to look at her. Did she sound a little panicked? Her fingers were clutching at his blanket, so perhaps so. "I toss and turn in my sleep. It wouldn't be comfortable for you," he said gently.
She swallowed. "If you change your mind-"
"It is alright. There are other rooms I can sleep in. I will arrange some for you tomorrow." He paused, looking at the empty mug on his nightstand. He didn't recall putting it there. "Have you had anything to eat?" How long had she been waiting in here for him, anyway?
"Not since this morning," she admitted.
Damn it. "Let me get you something."
There was, fortunately, a late supper spread out in his dining room. It was a simple meal of rice, pickled vegetables, and smoked fish, but it was better than nothing. He brought the tray back, set it on his desk, and gestured for her to take a seat. When she stood, she was a foot shorter than him. She seemed to glide across the room and murmured her thanks as she took a seat. She ate delicately, but also quickly. She must be famished.
"I usually break my fast around mid-morning," he told her. "But if you would like something sooner, that can be arranged."
"Mid-morning is fine. I am used to late nights," she said, setting her utensils across the empty bowl.
Ah. He supposed she would be. "I am a night owl myself. I usually stay up late reading."
He'd been trying for lightness, but her gaze went flat. "I see."
"Do you not like reading?" Surely she knew how? The slaves of Dusk were famously trained in a variety of fine arts.
"It isn't that," she said quietly.
"...Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
She looked away from him. "It's late. We should retire for the night."
That was a no, then. That was alright. He wouldn't want someone prying into his secrets, either. "Do you have something to sleep in?"
She actually gave him a small, sardonic smile. "I don't think the queen intended for me to wear clothes to bed."
He had a brief mental image of her naked in his bed, which he quickly shut down. "I would have thought she'd give you something with lace."
Her eyebrow quirked upwards a fraction of an inch. "Do you like lace?"
He felt his face heat up. "Um. That was not what I meant. I-" He went back to his wardrobe, digging out the softest nightgown he could find. It would be huge on her, but it was better than nothing. "Here. You can have this," he said, holding it out to her.
She took it, then set it on the bed next to her. She reached for the ties of her dress and started tugging-
He spun around, nearly dropping his cane. "What are you doing?"
"Changing." There was the rustle of fabric hitting the floor. "You can look, if you'd like. I don't mind."
You should mind. You don't even know me. "Let me know when you are done."
It didn't take long. Getting into his nightgown was much simpler than getting out of her dress, it seemed. "You can turn around."
He did. As he'd thought, she was drowning in his clothes. The bottom hem was pooled at her feet and the sleeves went past her hands. The neckline was also...lower...than expected. He jerked his gaze upwards to meet hers. "I will get you something proper in the morning. If there is anything else you need, please let me know."
"Of course, my prince," she said, settling back down on his bed.
"You don't need to call me that," he said quickly. This was so awkward. "You can use my name: Mewtwo."
She blinked. "Mewtwo?"
"When I was younger, there was a child who didn't understand that 'Mew II' was pronounced 'Mew the Second.' She called me Mewtwo instead," he explained, managing to keep his voice steady as he did. "The name stuck among those I would consider friends." He did have a few of those, despite what his mother thought.
Sabrina considered him, then nodded, "Good night then, Mewtwo."
He felt something in his chest loosen. "Good night, Sabrina."
He went to his study and lit the hearth. His leg screamed at him afterwards—he'd put it through too much today. He limped to the nearest armchair, sinking into it gratefully. He tugged a quilt over himself, but it still took several minutes for him to stop shivering.
He wished there was more he could do. He was supposed to be a prince. A few centuries ago, that would have meant something. He would have been able to reshape the world into something better.
I'm sorry. I would change it if I could, he thought, remembering Sabrina's face, and his mother's, and those of the hundreds of mourners.
And Ai's.
Happy birthday, Mewtwo, she'd said so many years ago, smiling and holding out a box with a small, misshapen cake inside.
Tears burned in his eyes, sudden and treacherous. He blinked and choked them down. What good were his tears, anyway? Today was the sixth of February, and if today had ever taught him anything, it was that there was nothing in this world that he could change.