Chapter 5

You walk into the Cinnabar Pokémon Center with a calm assurance born of practice, Rats and Titan resting exhausted in the pokéballs at your waist. Not far away, perhaps, your water-bloated corpse rests at the bottom of Seafoam Caverns. This doesn't bother you, but Cinnabar itself does. You've had good memories here, but this is also where you died—it's a hard thing to overlook. And there's something else, too, on this sunny little island; some kind of wrongness in the soil, maybe, something alien rolling on the waves. In the past decade, what has this place seen?

There was the twisted excess of the Mewtwo project, that perversion of nature that ended in flame and the death for most of the island's population, those who worked in the slick research facility dominating its northwestern corner. And then, barely five years later, the volcano erupted one quiet morning, completely out of the blue, sweeping away all the rest on a tide of lava and ash.

You were there, in fact, that very day, playing in the shallows and digging aimlessly in the sand. It was the first time you saw Absol do her appearing act, not even stepping from shadow like she normally did but just there, suddenly, grabbing your arm in her teeth and dragging you away along the dark paths even as the sand beneath your feet began to tremble. Few were lucky enough to have such a friend. Few remain who can recount that fateful day, Gym Leader Blaine among them.

With a friend like Absol, it's hard not to be superstitious, because you know that even if you aren't, certain others are, and they do their best to see the dictates of karma carried out. But even if you weren't superstitious, you think you'd probably be a bit wary of living here on Cinnabar. The place has come back—the gym reinstalled near the volcano's fiery heart, new resorts hogging the shoreline. But so far, the people have not, not really; the Pokémon Center is quiet, only a few trainers hanging out around the television, and overly-exuberant banners are draped across the high-rises, advertising the rooms still to be had.

You turn over your pokéballs and idle by the desk, peering with interest at the Center computers. They're new, their plastic still shiny and smooth, not scuffed and dented from encounters with young trainers. They appeared two weeks ago, not long after you started training with Titan again, and you haven't tried using one yet. Today, though, you need money, so you'll get a chance to experience the wave of the future for yourself.

Once your pokémon have been healed, you wander over, give the new terminals a good inspection. You slide your pokédex into a slot and don't even flinch when the machine razzes at you. You nearly had a heart attack the first time that happened, nearly blew your cover in the most dramatic way possible, but now you have more experience. You lean into the screen, calm, unruffled, to read the error message. By now you know that this is the only way to keep safe, to keep unnoticed; if you give any sign of weakness, they'll be on you in a moment.

But the message is not one you understand. "ERROR: Access Denied. This pokédex has been blacklisted. Please see the front desk for assistance." You'd expected it to tell you that you'd inserted the thing wrong. Annoyed, you press the "Pokédex Eject" button.

The machine razzes at you again, and you almost jump in surprise. Another consultation with the screen gives you no new information. It's the same message staring back at you, hateful and red. You press the button again and grit your teeth as another loud buzz grates against your ears.

It's getting hard to remain calm. You're leaving sweaty fingerprints on the keypad now as you jam the button over and over again, the terminal's buzz droning in your ears and making your heart rate climb. Still the flashing error remains onscreen; still your pokédex stays locked in the depths of the machine. You grit your teeth and press down harder on the button, your eyes starting to blur with tears-

"Excuse me? Is something wrong?"

The nurse. The nurse. You spin around so fast she flinches back, staring at you like you're an agitated animal who might lash out and bite her, and she doesn't know how right she is. You can feel your body starting to shift, starting to forget your human mask and respond to your boiling emotions. You quickly rub a hand over your face, wipe the tears out of your eyes and massage the muscles back into place. Then you take a deep, shuddering breath, try to drown the terror pounding at your insides, and make an attempt at communication.

"Yes. The thing took—I do not know." You gesture helplessly at the computer, then watch the nurse like a hawk as she makes a cautious approach, peers at the message herself. You don't let yourself hope that she'll know what's going on, that she'll be able to get it back. That's not why you're leaning forward to watch, that's not why your breathing's picked up again.

"Oh," the nurse says, her forehead creasing in a frown. "It's these new models. There's something about a change in policy, trying to crack down on pokédex theft, I think." She turns and gives you a reassuring smile. "I'm sure it's just a glitch or something. They're still getting the kinks worked out on these things. Somebody'll be over in a few minutes to look at it, and they'll be able to get it all sorted out for you. I'll call and make sure they have someone on the way."

You are not reassured. In fact, it is as though the nurse has torn open your torso and poured a bucket of ice water into your guts. There is no glitch. This is not a mistake. They've found your dead body, marked you down deceased in their eternal electronic records. This time, they are not content to let you walk the world of the living. They've taken your pokédex and now they're coming here, to retrieve it, to retrieve you.

There is a flash of hot and then cold again in the depths of your chest. "They" aren't coming. Leonard Kerrigan. This is his doing. He stole it. Now he is the one coming, to confront you at the last.

The nurse is still looking at you, the frown back on her face. "Are you all right?" she asks. "Would you like a glass of water?"

You turn away from her gaze, shake your head. You rake your fingers through your hair, sweaty down at the roots, and try to focus. Try to concentrate. "I..." you start to say. "I am..." You are what? You are whom? You are—Nicholas Garret, you went to visit the Seafoam Islands, you slipped, you fell, you died. You are—trapped inside the machine, all that's left of you, the little card, the little card that tells you who you are. Who are you without it? Who are you now? Who are you? "I am..."

You are faintly aware of the nurse saying something else, backing away from you. You can feel the eyes of the other trainers on you. Now you are making a scene. You can't help it. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is racing. Thoughts are pounding so hard inside your skull that your temples are throbbing. He took your pokédex. He has no right! It's all you have! It is you!

You make some kind of guttural noise, a choked scream, and shove the nurse out of the way so you can get at the terminal again. You plunge your arm straight through the screen, shattering the mocking words, ignoring the glass in your arm, the shards of plastic and spitting wires. Your heart flutters before you remember to toughen your skin against the electricity, and you reach ever deeper, tearing apart the insides of the machine, searching.

Your fingers brush against something smooth and metallic, a box jutting inwards from the computer's plastic skin. You seize it and wrench it free, hauling it out of the wreckage. It's the device reader, your pokédex still caught inside, but it's safe now, it's free, it's in your hands. You cradle it against your chest like an injured paw, but it's your arm that's injured, running with blood, burns and cuts all up and down its length. The terminal in front of you is ruined, its screen caved in and smoke pouring out of the hole, pops emanating from inside as severed wires short.

You turn around, grinning. It's okay. You have it again. It's safe. And your eyes meet the horrified stares of every trainer in the place, most now on their feet. A couple are releasing pokémon.

Your smile only gets wider. Something seems to have come loose in your head. You can't think. But you feel you ought to say something into the stunned silence. Something witty and apt. You flip through your mental notebook, looking for the right phrase.

And there it is. Still grinning, you say, "Don't worry, I can pay for that." Then you lean forward over the pokédex and charge for the doors.

–

The child lies curled on the bed, sobbing and shaking in the dark. Its grip on the pokédex is so tight it can feel the pulse beating in its fingertips, and the device's metal casing has grown warm from the heat of its body. Duskull floats nearby, his single eye giving off a cold exit-sign glow. His presence is comforting; some of the child's earliest memories from this life are of the damp and the cold and the light, the little red light, of Duskull, watching. It cried a lot then, too.

It is not badly hurt, although it's healed itself too quickly, and the skin's closed around and trapped some shards of glass in its flesh. They'll need to be dug out later. More blood will have to flow, but for now, tears are enough. The child cries not because it is in pain, but for the sheer wrongness of it. They tried to take the pokédex, its most precious possession, its very identity. How could they? What gave anyone the right to steal its soul?

But underneath the horror, the dirty feeling of having someone's sweaty hand close around its spirit, is the sour ache of shame. It knows who's behind this all. Leonard Kerrigan, with his cold sad eyes and tired face, he's the one who nearly brought it low. It had thought it had the upper hand; it had thought the man was no real threat. And it had been wrong, oh, so very wrong. It sobs and sobs until its whole body aches, like its every muscle has been wrung dry. It holds the pokédex as tightly as it can and vows to never let it go. Never ever again will they have the chance to take it.

Soon Absol appears. The child doesn't actually see her come in, but there is the whisper of footsteps on the carpet, and then the pokémon leaps up next to it. Absol settles within easy reach and permits the child to throw its arms around her neck, endures being dripped on, overlooks the fact that her ruff is getting gummed with snot.

Once the deluge has slackened to intermittent showers, she speaks. "What happened?"

The child tells her, stopping now and again as the recounting brings more tears. Absol listens quietly, then remains so for some time afterwards, thinking. The child waits. Finally, Absol says, "That is unfortunate. You will have to be more careful."

"I don't want to be more careful. I have to get him back, Absol. I can't let him do this to me. I need to get War back and not have to worry about him anymore."

"Seeking revenge is a sure way of making a mistake."

"I don't care. I don't care." The child turns its back on Absol, curling into a ball around the pokédex again. It can feel her eyes on it, always the same calm, incurious stare. "He tried to steal from me, Absol. He already stole from me, and now he's not just taking one pokémon, he's trying to take all of them. I have to make him pay. He shouldn't be able to do that."

"It is not yet his time. We have discussed this before."

"That was different!" The child pounds its free fist on the mattress. The other still holds the pokédex close. "I can't do it anymore, Absol. I don't want to wait. I'm not going to. If I ignore him, he's only going to get closer to the truth. It's more dangerous not to go after him now." This is what it says to Absol, not that it wants to see the look on the man's face as he realizes what's going on, realizes that he really has lost everything, and there's nothing he can do about it. He will be powerless, and he will know it. And he will never again, never ever again, dare to bother the child about its business.

But Absol would be disapproving. She already is disapproving; the child can hear it in the long pause before she speaks. But she doesn't understand. An absol bears no grudges, names no enemies, holds none dear. The child knows this. Sometimes, it wishes it could be like Absol, eternally serene, eternally detached.

"Wait until you have rested. Think it over. You will see that I am right," she says.

The child doesn't care if she's right. She probably is—that's the exasperating thing about Absol. It wants to answer the burning anger flooding its body, not listen to her measured reason. "It won't matter. He has to be punished, Absol. I can't let him do this to me."

Absol shifts over so that her back is up against the child's, and the heat of her body soaks in through its shirt. "Rest," she says. "We will talk more later."

–

The child wishes there were some way to avoid the news. Absol's displeasure was bad enough when she'd heard its own take on events; no doubt a report would bring even more embarrassing facts to light. Of course, Absol is no fool; she insists. "We must know what the humans are thinking," she says, and trots out into the living room without bothering to look back, knowing that the child must eventually follow.

They sit on opposite sides of the couch. Rats, who was there first and therefore has pick of the space, is curled asleep between them. The child is grateful for this physical buffer between itself and Absol; it's much easier to ignore her signs of disapproval at this distance than if they were right next to each other.

The child turns the television to one of the twenty-four hour news channels and, sure enough, finds itself staring into security footage of its little tantrum. Absol watches without comment as the computer terminal is destroyed, while the child shrinks back into the cushions in cringing shame. After all this time, it thought it had a better handle on its human act than that.

Meanwhile, commentators chatter over the silent tape. "Yeah, I see where they're coming from," says one. "I mean, the way he just stuck his whole arm in there like that, didn't even care about the glass and stuff, that's not natural at all, I mean-"

"But he's bleeding," points out another, as the action moves on to the brawl between Nicholas Garret and the other trainers in the center. "I mean, have you ever heard of a zombie that bleeds?" Laughter.

The security tape ends with Nicholas Garret's successful escape out of the automatic doors, and the screen cuts back to the newscasters. "What you saw there was footage of an incident that occurred earlier today at the Cinnabar Pokémon Center. A trainer identified as Nick Garret of Cerulean City had a breakdown and destroyed a computer terminal, then injured several other visitors to the Center who tried to detain him. What makes this case interesting, though, is that Nick was found dead in Seafoam Caverns just last week."

The second anchor cut in to add to the intrigue. "The whole thing started when the computer Nick was using refused to return his pokédex, causing him to panic and destroy the terminal to recover it. This pokédex quarantine is a recent change in policy. Previously, trainers with suspicious pokédexes would be flagged by the network but allowed to continue using the device without penalty for a short period of time. Shortly after the incident, the League held an official press conference to discuss the motivation for the change and its relation to today's events."

The screen cuts to a tape of a harassed-looking young man leaning heavily on a podium emblazoned with the Indigo League seal. Text at the bottom of the screen identifies him as Michael Fitzwallace, an administrator of the Indigo League Trainer's Network, and the child rises out of its pit of misery for long enough to wonder why Leonard isn't making an appearance. "Look," the man says, "we implemented the lockdown procedure in an attempt to curb the recent surge in pokédex theft by Team Rocket and other petty criminals. The grace period was long enough to allow thieves in possession of a suspicious 'dex to do serious damage to the previous holder's accounts before flipping it. That's all. And because the system isn't perfect, sometimes an innocent trainer is going to get flagged and have their pokédex taken away; the grace period was supposed to prevent that from happening by allowing time for spurious flags to be resolved."

"Whatever's going on with Nick, it's a job for the police to figure out. It's got nothing to do with us. The league does not believe the dead are walking in Kanto, and we are not discriminating against undead trainers. Questions?" He grins cockily at the camera for a moment, but his smile dissolves in the face of the clamor that follows—obviously he'd expected his wit to go over better, but the reporters aren't going easy on him. The child milks that for all the bitter amusement it's worth. He deserves it, the smug liar. Nothing to do with us. The smug, smug liar.

The picture bounces briefly back to the news desk, where the anchor says, "Nick's family has been unavailable for comment, but the funeral home where his memorial service was held last week reports that there was nothing odd about the proceedings or the body, and that it was definitely in the casket when it was put into the ground. Nick's grave site appears intact, and plans to exhume the corpse for inspection are on hold until forensic evidence comes back that positively identifies the trainer on camera as Nick. Electronic records show that the pokédex in use at the destroyed terminal was Nick's, however, and both eyewitness reports and security footage match his description. Sheira Miles is on-site at Cinnabar Island to speak with some of the trainers who witnessed the incident. Sheira?"

The child doesn't catch most of that. Its insides freeze over at the mention of "forensic evidence," and it simply can't concentrate on the rest. All it feels outside the cold prickling in its chest is Absol's gaze, burning a gut-turning spot of disapproval onto its shoulder. It can't meet her eyes. Its head fills with scenes from its favorite crime dramas, white-coated lab techs bustling about, mixing mysterious fluid, reading the glowing lines that say who it really is, the person hiding in the blood that spilled from Nicholas Garret's body. It hadn't even been thinking, hadn't been careful. How much blood would they be able to recover? Enough, it thought. How much did they even need? Only the tiniest drop...

Unable to take its eyes from the screen, the child watches dully as a smiling woman chats with a few trainers it distantly recalls having seen in the Center. "...not human," a teen was saying for the camera. "I mean, the dude punched out a fucking feraligatr, like, one hit, bam! It was crazy."

"And the person was definitely Nick Garret?"

"He looked like the guy in the picture you showed me, yeah."

Beside you, Absol makes a noise. It's not much of anything, a faint cough, maybe, while she shifts pointedly around on the cushion. But it brooks no argument. You aren't going to be able to avoid me forever, it says. And I'm starting to lose my patience. Swallowing down its dread, the child turns to look at her. She's watching it, impassive. Waiting.

"See? See? I told you, they did something. They took my pokédex, Absol. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't let them have it. What would happen then? What was I supposed to do?"

"You lost your temper."

"I know. I'm sorry. But what was I supposed to do? What would you do if—I mean, I tried. I tried to be calm. But I can't be calm like you, Absol." It clenches its hands into fists and looks down at its lap, taking deep breaths and trying to keep back tears. It knows Absol's eyes are on it now, and on the fact of it failing to stay calm yet again, and that makes everything so much worse. Absol waits.

"I know I screwed up. I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting it, and I panicked." It clenches its hands tighter, bent almost double into a little ball of misery, then grabs at its forehead, burying its fingers in its hair. Absol just watches. "What am I going to do now? What if they get my blood and figure out who I really am? What if they figure everything out, Absol? What am I going to do?"

"What do you think you should do?"

It doesn't know. But it knows what it wants to do.

"It's Leonard," the child says. "He's behind this. Whatever this new rule is, it's his fault somehow. It isn't safe to use the pokédex anymore, not like I used to. And what if they do manage to figure out who I am? They might figure everything else out, too. They might put all the others away where I'll never be able to find them. They might find me, Absol. What would I do then? If they find me and they stop me, then she'll be all alone. I have to save her, Absol. You know I do." It stops for a moment, mouth working on nothing and words catching in its throat. It grits its teeth again and forces the tears back, determined not to put on another pathetic display.

Absol just watches, then gives the faintest of nods, inviting the child to continue. It works its mouth a bit more, until it can finally unstick the words from its throat, and goes on. "So I have to get him. I have to stop Leonard, Absol. I know you don't like it. But it's the only way. I have to get War back from him before he figures everything out."

Absol's eyes narrow the merest fraction; her claws dig into the cushion beneath her. But she just watches. The child keeps going, spilling out the words as fast as it can, getting it over with, like plunging into an ice-cold lake. "So I'm going to go and get War back from him and make sure he can't do anything to stop me. If I'm lucky, I might be able to get Thunderstorm from him, too. Or at least he should be able to tell me where it is. And then, if I get Thunderstorm and War, that will be it, won't it? I can go and find her. It will all be over and I'll find her and it will all be okay."

"You should wait," Absol says. "I told you you should wait. Patience. You are panicking. You are losing your temper. Haven't you already done enough damage?"

"I can't wait forever, Absol! It's been years. What if it's already too late? What if we wait and wait and in the meantime, they, they—do something to her? They're hurting her, Absol. You know, when she talks to me I see—she's scared. She's hurting. We can't just leave her there."

"It will do no good rush in when the time is not right. You will only make things worse."

"But it's fate that we meet again anyway. Why does it matter if I speed it up some? Can you even prove that this isn't how things are supposed to go? Maybe I'm fated to get angry and go off and confront Leonard." They're old arguments, bickered on and off over the months and years prior. The child is making one last attempt, putting all it has on the line. If Absol doesn't agree—then she doesn't agree. It's just going to have to do it anyway. The thought of going against her puts a cold edge of unease alongside the flush of its anger.

"This is not fate," Absol says icily. "This is vengeance. And those who practice vengeance will only see it visited on themselves. I cannot stop you if this is what you wish to do. But neither will I be able to save you when fate turns back on you for it. It is not my place to intervene."

"I know it isn't. But maybe it's mine. Isn't that what humans do? Isn't that what you told me?" The child throws its hands up and tries to believe its own arguments. This isn't about vengeance. It isn't. It's just what needs to be done.

"You are not human."

"I know! But I'm not a pokémon, either. So maybe I get to choose."

Absol cants her head to the side, just slightly, and for a moment the child could swear she's smiling at it. When she speaks again, her tone isn't quite as acid as before. "Perhaps. But I would choose wisely. I have told you it is dangerous. You could be throwing everything you have away. But it is not my place to intervene." She jumps down from the couch and stands stretching a moment before turning back to the child. "At least wait a little while. Get some rest. Think it through. You should not decide this hastily."

She pads away, off towards the kitchen. The child scowls after her and sinks back in its seat, turning its eyes back to the screen and trying to focus on the news again. Some woman who claims to be an expert on surviving a zombie apocalypse is being interviewed. The inane chatter washes over the child but can't drown the dark churning of its mind.

Of course Absol doesn't understand. The child could swear that ice runs in her veins instead of blood. She wouldn't hurry if there was a tidal wave collapsing down on top of her; she wouldn't show a hint of anger if her entire family was murdered before her eyes. She doesn't understand how hard it is for the child, her and her perfect "fate" and her detachment and her always being right. She doesn't understand why it has to do this.

It's not just because Leonard is making its life difficult. That's annoying, but not much more. There is some humiliation in it, yes, in how it failed, and that is the only reason he has any power over it at all. But it's more than that, now, so much more. He's gone and put his dirty hands all over the child's soul. He tried to take the pokédex, the only thing it really has left. And the child can't let someone do that to it. Not now, not ever. It can feel bile rising in its throat just to think of it. Not now, not ever, never. It doesn't matter what Absol says. She doesn't understand.

The vapid news show is only making it more angry. It flips the channel to a loud cartoon instead, and Rats stirs as sounds of mayhem fill the air. She uncurls and blinks around blearily until her eyes focus on the child. She frowns. "What happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

She gives a little twitch of her whiskers, her equivalent of a shrug. "Okay." They sit and watch a pair of nidoran chasing each other around the screen, hitting each other over the head with mallets and playing pranks on their idiot trainer. While Rats enjoys the spectacle, chuckling to herself every now and then, the child watches it without watching, its mind still stewing.

Absol is right about one thing. It should think this over. And it is thinking it over, very, very carefully. It is considering everything it knows about Matt Kerrigan, every piece of information it has gathered over the years, and what it's going to do with them. It won't make the same mistakes it did last time. It is prepared, this time, to be Matt Kerrigan properly. Matt Kerrigan, the lost son. Matt Kerrigan, the suicide case.