The sky is lightening, the stars disappearing into its warm gray, and the birds are trying to sing the sun up. For a few groggy seconds you think they're the ones that woke you. You're about to shut them up with a little song of your own when Duskull drops down in front of your face, eye pulsing slowly on and off. "Oh," you say, the smile sliding off your face.

You scramble to your feet and start to hurry over to the Rocket, Duskull drifting behind like a tiny storm cloud, then stop yourself. You need to do this right. You need to be careful. You tickle your voice box low enough for human speech, tongue and teeth rearranging. The spitting flare of your tail flame sinks back to a faint glow as you school yourself to calm, and you hold it close behind you as you start to walk again. From the Rocket's perspective, you should be nothing more than a silhouette. You expect this conversation to be difficult enough without him getting a good look at you.

You can hear him moving, tentatively, making faint noises of pain, but he stops as you get close. "I know you are awake," you say. "There is no point in pretending."

He stays still and silent. You let out a smoky huff of irritation and swat him lightly on the side of the head. His eyes fly open as a gash reopens and spills sluggish blood into his ear.

"Gah! What the fuck was—" he starts, jerking away from you. The motion turns to a wince of pain, and he hisses a long string of curses between his teeth as, with delicate slowness, he settles back into a relaxed position.

"I do not have time to play games. I have a proposal for you, and I require your attention. Do you understand?"

"You're fucking insane," he croaks. You take a reflexive step back as you see his eye, no more than a slit in the midst of a receding shiner, glinting in the light of your tail flame. "What in the fuck is going on here? Who the hell are you?"

"What is going on is I am giving you the opportunity to save your worthless life. Pay attention."

"Fuck you and your 'opportunity.' I ain't doing nothing until somebody explains what the hell this is." He has to take a second to get his breath back before plunging on. "And you didn't answer the fucking question: who the fuck are you, anyway?"

You consider possible responses while he lifts himself ever so slightly and peers around the clearing, squinting in the half-light. "Hey! Where the fuck are you, anyway? Just going to set your pokémon on me while you hide out somewhere, asshole?"

"No. I am standing right in front of you. Now, if I can return to what I was actually trying to say—"

"You can return all you like, but I ain't going with you until you tell me just who in the fuck you are." He stares hard at everything in your vicinity but you and Duskull, still searching for a lurking human.

"You will be quiet and listen to what I say or—"

"Or what? Bring it on, you cowardly little bitch, I ain't scared of—"

"I said be quiet or I will—"

"What, you'll get your pokémon to do your dirty work 'cause you're too much of a fucking pussy to—"

Irritation burns in your breast, flammable gases evolving, temperature rising. "Shut up!" you roar, and flames gush out with the words, setting the leaves at your feet alight. You see the burst of fire reflected in the great Nathaniel Morgan's eyes and realize, a second too late, your mistake. You stand there silent and mortified, cringing at the dry-leaf rustle of Duskull's laughter.

"Christ," the great Nathaniel Morgan breathes, staring into the returning darkness, eyes as wide as they can go. "That's no fucking charmeleon. Fuck who are you—what the fuck are you?"

"I am me. Not that that is important. What is important is that I want your help."

Through a convoluted process of ginger movements he's managed to get one hand up to clutch at his head, and he's muttering to himself, a breathless stream of words you make out only after turning up your ears. "...so fucked. Like thanks for the fucking head injuries asshole, I wasn't up shit creek already without fucking seeing things..."

"Pay attention!"

He closes his eyes and sighs, and if he even hears you, he doesn't bother to respond.

"I said pay attention!" You're on him in a second, knocking his hand out of the way and ignoring his cry of pain as you jostle unknown injuries, putting your face so close to his that the heat of your breath starts to blister his skin. "Look at me!"

He manages to open desperately watering eyes, and you straighten up again, staring down into his face. "Now. I am not a hallucination. I am very real, and I do not like to be ignored. If you intend to continue living, I suggest that you listen to what I am saying."

The Rocket twitches, like he's going to try and strike you, but can only subside with a choked noise of discomfort. You glare at him for a second, then go on when he doesn't try anything else. "Now. Once again, I have a request for you. I want to use your identity in order to take the gym challenge, and I need you to come with me as I do so. If you agree to those terms, I will spare your life and return your identity to you after I finish the Indigo League Tournament. What is your answer?"

He's quiet for so long you're about to press him again, but at last he takes a wheezing breath and says, even softer than before, "Look, I still don't even know what in the fuck is going on here. I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I'm fucking cold, and I feel like a bunch of snorlax have been doing the fucking conga all over my body, okay? I'm having a little trouble concentrating on your fucking offer, get me?"

You let your breath hiss out between your teeth, hoping it will take some of your aggravation with it. "I have food. I have water. I will give them to you if you agree to my terms."

"How about no, food first, and then we fucking talk?"

"You are in no position to be making demands. Will you come with me or not?"

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the trunk. After a second he says, "Look, could I just get some fucking water? Fucking 'please,' all right? Then I'll listen to your bullshit offer or whatever, swear to God."

You bare your teeth at him and snort out another half-flaming breath to relieve a bit of your temper, but when he doesn't react, you give up and stomp over to your pack. You can tell he's watching as you rummage out your water and storm back over, the tiniest slit of eyes showing under his lids, but he's not prepared when you upend the canteen over his face.

"Hey! What—" he splutters, then coughs and sits glaring at you for a second, licking moisture off split and swollen lips.

"There is your water. If you want more, you will listen to what I have to say."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the great Nathaniel Morgan growls. "Bastard. Fine. Let's just get this shit over with already."

"Yes. As I said. I need you to accompany me on my journey. I am going to take on your identity and use your pokédex to earn the last two badges in the league. Then I will enter the Indigo League Tournament. Once it is over, I will return your pokédex to you, and you will be free to go. All I ask for is your cooperation over the next two weeks."

"Whoah, whoah, whoah," he says. "Hold up. Badges? The fucking league finals?" His face twists into a hideous smirk, shattered teeth glinting bloody in the growing light. "What the fuck is this? Splice-boy wants to be a motherfucking pokémon master?"

"Splice-boy?"

"Oh, come the fuck on," he says, smirk growing wider. "You're obviously some kind of ugly mutant thing. I mean, whatever lab you escaped from"—his smile falters for a second, and his eyes widen. You wait in confusion as he groans, "Oh, fuck, that's it, isn't it? You're some escaped freak they were cooking up down in the labs, huh? And now you're free, you're going to get your revenge on Team Rocket or some shit, like liberate your mutie brothers and sisters and start a revolution, am I right? Well, forget about it, I got nothing to do with that shit..."

"I am not an experiment."

"...don't even like scientists, those nerds give me the fucking creeps, let me tell you. I mean, yeah, sure, I know some guys who were in on the whole Mewtwo thing, but who the fuck doesn't? Like—"

"Be quiet. I am not a mutant. I am not a Rocket experiment. I am myself, and I am doing this for my own reasons."

"What, fucking with me? Because you want my identity? What, you think you can just walk into a gym or something, show my fucking pokédex, and they'll let you in?"

"They will if I look like you."

He stares at you for a moment, then bursts into actual laughter. It only lasts a second before it turns into coughing, wrenching noises that shake his whole body. He's gasping for air but trying hard not to breathe, curling in over smashed ribs and choking back the wracking noise. Eventually he opens his tearing eyes again and glares at you. "Come the fuck on, Freak," he says, barely above a whisper. "I may be ugly, but I'm not that fucking ugly. What are you, some kind of master of fucking disguise?"

"Yes."

He blinks up at you, then lets his head fall back against the tree trunk with a careful sigh. "Fine," he says. "You know what? That can be your fucking problem. But I still don't know how the fuck you expect me to be going anywhere in time for the goddamned finals, hell, anywhere for like fucking weeks."

"Why not? If you have some other plans, you will have to cancel them. This is more important."

He stares at you again. "What the fuck are you talking about, retard? Plans? Hell yeah I got plans, like, you know, lying around in a fucking hospital, high out of my mind on painkillers, until I can fucking walk again, shit like that."

"You mean you need more time to heal."

"Yes! Yes, that's what I'm fucking talking about. I can hardly fucking move over here, and everything hurts like a motherfucker. I ain't going nowhere, with you or nobody else."

You barely suppress a growl of frustration. Pathetic. "Fine. I will heal you, and then you will join me."

"Oh, right, heal me, you'll just fucking heal me, with your magic mutant fairy dust, that it?"

"No. Softboiled."

"What, they drop you on your head when they were pulling you out of the fucking test tube, or what? That doesn't work on humans, dipshit."

"Mine does. That is what I used to heal you earlier."

"Heal me 'earlier?' Yeah, some fucking fantastic job you did of that, didn't you? I mean, fuck, I can't even move my fucking arm, here."

"I saved your life. You owe me your cooperation."

"I don't owe you shit, even if you are telling the goddamn truth." He takes a fortifying breath and starts again, a little stronger. "Look. You fuck off and leave me here, and I swear to God I'll forget I ever met you. Hell, I'm already trying to forget I ever met you. You can have my fucking identity, sure, fine, fucking peachy. Not like I was going to be able to use it anymore, anyway. Which is another thing. The whole reason we're having this fucking delightful conversation in the first place is Team Rocket decided they didn't like my fucking face and wanted to put me six fucking feet under. Guess they kinda fucked it up, but all that means is they're going to be after you if you go around pretending to be me—"

"I know."

He breaks off in confusion. Then, "What the fuck are you talking about? You 'know?'"

"Yes. I was following the Rockets when they came to get you. How did you think I found you in the first place?" Idiot.

"What? Hold the fuck up, you were just hanging out watching while those morons beat the shit out of me? And you didn't do jack about it?"

"Of course. If I had interfered they would have started attacking me, stupid. Besides, you are a Rocket yourself. I am sure you deserved it."

His face twists into another one of those awful smiles, and his shoulders twitch with suppressed laughter. "My fucking hero. Well, whatever. What I was trying to say in the first place is that we should just go our fucking separate ways. I swear I won't ever tell nobody about you and your crazy fucking plan, and you can just go on your way and do whatever the fuck you want. Sound good?"

"No. You will accompany me."

He starts what sounds like a growl, but it nearly turns into a cough and he chokes it down, bottles it up inside. When he goes on, it is in a carefully neutral tone. "Why the hell do you care so much about that? What the fuck do you even think I'm going to do to you? I already fucking told you, I'm gonna be fucking bedridden for longer than your stupid-ass little adventure is going to take." He doesn't quite manage to hold in another cough, and it takes him a while to pick up his train of thought. "God, you haven't got any meds on you, do ya?"

"No. And I do not trust you. I cannot afford to leave any loose ends. You will come with me so that I can watch you and be sure that you do not betray me."

"Look, seriously, here, what the fuck are you even planning to do? Carry me?"

"If necessary."

"Are you—are you fucking—?" He shivers a little, like he wants to move but hurts too much. "For fuck's sake, who am I even going to 'betray' you to, anyway? You think I'm going to go to the fucking police or some shit? Who the hell would even believe me, huh? They'd just lock me up in the goddamn psych ward, come on."

As well they might. Most people probably wouldn't believe his story. But there is one, you know, who would believe it, one person whose ears it can never be allowed to reach.

"It could be anyone. Your Rocket friends, perhaps. I cannot risk it."

"Rocket friends? You mean the fuckers who just tried to kill me?" He glares at you. You stare back and wait. "Look, the answer is 'no,' got it? Drag me along with you or whatever, I guess, if you can fucking manage it. But first chance I get I'm screaming as loud as I can and at least when they come to take me away they'll get you too, you piece of shit."

"You will not."

"And why the fuck not?"

"Because if you start to do so, I will kill you."

He grimaces and shifts his weight against the trunk. "Then might as well save us both some time and bump me off right now, Freak."

You'd like nothing better. You flex your claws and lash your tail, letting its flame leap higher, spitting and popping with your anger. But though the shadows are empty, you can imagine Absol's displeasure well enough. For the moment, at least, your desire to stay on her good side stays your hand. "Stop being stupid," you snarl to the Rocket. "You have nothing to gain by being stubborn. If you cooperate, we both benefit."

"Yeah? Funny, I still haven't heard how the fuck I benefit from letting some psycho freak bastard push me around."

"If you cooperate, I will make sure you live."

"Oh, right, after you've threatened to kill me like every two goddamn seconds. I believe the shit out of that one."

You stare each other down for another few seconds. Finally, gritting your teeth, you hiss out, "Very well. What do you want from me?"

"I want you to fuck off and find some other poor bastard to threaten. I've got more important things to do than run around on your fucking stupid badge quest."

Your tail flame surges higher, its heat beating on the back of your neck. The smoke from your nostrils is stinging your eyes, and you tremble with the effort of not unleashing a flamethrower straight into the Rocket's ugly face. A few stray licks of flame spit from your mouth as you snarl, "Fine. I will leave you here, and maybe if you are lucky you will manage to crawl back to Fuchsia before you starve or something eats you. Otherwise, good luck doing your 'more important things' when you are dead. At least Team Rocket will be happy that they got what they wanted in the end."

You whirl around and stomp away, feeling darkly pleased. Surely the human will expire if left on his own, and then you'll be able to use his face and his pokédex without fear of repercussion, at least from the law. As far as you're concerned, Team Rocket coming after you is a bonus. That way you won't have to waste time looking for them later.

And it's fair as fair can be. You gave him a chance to save himself—not even Absol could argue with that—and he threw it back in your face. Let her grumble about shadows and mirrors all she likes; if anybody is trying to thwart Fate here, it's obviously the accursed human himself.

You're brought up short by a stab of pain as your tail pulls taut. Without even thinking you spin back and lash out at whatever's caught you. The human yelps and lets go, staring at the gashes down the inside of his arm.

"Agh! What the fuck—"

"Don't touch me," you snarl, then stop for a moment to lick the blood off your claws. "We are done here. You did not accept my offer, so I have nothing more to say to you."

The Rocket manages to tear his gaze away from the bright blood welling out of his new wounds. "Oh, we're done, are we? I don't fucking think so. Guess the fuck what, Freak? I changed my mind. You want to go on some fucking stupid master journey? What the fuck, I guess I'll come with you. Should be one hell of a laugh if nothing else."

You're snorting hot embers now and only just manage to grate out, "And why have you changed your mind so suddenly?"

He tries another smirk, but some twinge of pain stops him, and he only manages a faint grimace. "Oh, I dunno, Freak. Call it a little fucking revenge. You want me to come along on your goddamn journey? Fine, you get your fucking wish, and I get to make your life hell the entire way."

You stand there for a few moments, concentrating on breathing while your anger sears the back of your throat. In the end you say only, "Good. You had better be ready to move in three hours."

"Are you fucking insane? Look at me, moron. How the hell do you expect me to go anywhere in three days? Three hours? You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Looking him over, you must admit he has a point. What you can see of him is variously bruised, lacerated, smashed, or bleeding. Sometimes multiple at once. His movements are slow and careful, and even then he has to stop them periodically, whether from fatigue or pain you can't be sure. You're surprised he was able to move quick enough to grab you.

"Very well," you say tightly. You clench a fist and exert all your will to force healing energy through it, rather than the fire that so desperately wants to leap from your scales.

The great Nathaniel Morgan watches quietly, for once, as the softboiled takes shape in your palm, forcing your claws open as it grows. "What the fuck," he mutters. "How the hell does a charmeleon—wait, what are you doing? Oh, n-no, that's okay, I can do that myse—agghwhulp!"

There's no way you'd trust the Rocket to handle the softboiled, weak and clumsy as he is. What if he'd dropped it? That would be all your energy lost for nothing. So you hold his mouth shut to keep him from spitting the egg out and wait until his thrashing becomes noticeably stronger. He grabs your arm and tries to wrench it away.

You let go of him and easily twist out of his grasp while he sputters and gasps, "If you ever touch me again, Freak, I'll rip your balls off and shove them down your fucking throat, got it?"

You incline your head. "The same to you." But he isn't listening. Instead he's flexing his fingers in front of his face, wincing.

"Ugh, that stings like a motherfucker. Hey!" He shudders faintly and looks down at the sleeping bag covering his other arm, then shoves it aside. "Some shitty job of healing me. I still can't move my... Oh, shit."

You're barely paying attention, rolling your shoulders and flexing your claws to work the ache out of your muscles, but the Rocket's tone gives you pause. He goes on, a bit breathless. "Oh, shit. You didn't... You didn't splint my arm or anything before you fixed it, did you?"

"Splint it? What are you talking about?"

"Shit," he says, so quiet you can hardly hear. "Oh, shit. I think it healed wrong."

"Healed wrong?" All your anger returns in a flash, setting tail and teeth blazing. "Heal wrong? What do you mean, 'heal wrong?' How could that possibly happen?"

There's naked fear in his eyes, and he flinches away from you. You dig your claws into the earth and force yourself calm again, evaporating your fire into smoke while the Rocket babbles in the background like the fool he is. "I don't know! Do I look like a fucking doctor to you? All I know is my fucking arm should not be... like that, okay? No need to get all pissy at me about it."

You climb over him to get a better look, ignoring his groan as your weight settles on his chest. And it's true. His arm hasn't healed properly: it's still all crooked and jutting in the middle.

The worthless human can't do anything right. You curse Absol again for putting you in this situation. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Fix it, duh. You really are fucking stupid, aren't you?"

"What if I choose not to? You do not need this arm to travel. The other works."

"Are you fucking kidding me? God, you're such an asshole. Look, my arm isn't the only thing that's broken, okay? I'm pretty sure, at least. Let's just say I'm not going to be doing much fucking walking in the near future, you get me?"

Of course. You glare down at him and at his ill-healed arm. To make matters worse, you think you do remember seeing a few humans wearing funny contraptions on injured limbs, bulky casts or slings. Things to keep them from moving around too much, to hold bones in their proper place. Plot points. You hadn't expected to deal with that sort of nonsense yourself—but then, you hadn't expected to deal with many humans, either.

"Fine." You try and fail to read the Rocket's expression, decide he's nervous, and return your glare to the problem limb. "I did it wrong the first time. But I will get it right now."

You use a foot to brace his arm just above the knot of bone that holds it at its strange angle, and he starts to sputter. "Hey, what're you—no, no, don't—"

You jerk up on the free end of his arm, and the mishealed joint snaps again after only a moment of resistance. The Rocket's scream makes you jump, but it's cut mercifully short. You poke him with a claw and discover he's fainted.

That's a relief. Now you won't have to put up with his sniveling while you work. You inspect him carefully, searching for more breaks, made thorough by your irritation. Once you've undone all the false reattachments and gotten the bones in line as best you can, you stuff another softboiled into the Rocket's face.

Shaky and nauseous, you're short with Duskull when he complains about being asked to watch the man again—it isn't really fair, and you could have someone else do the job, but you're too tired to try explaining the situation to your other pokémon. You drag yourself back to the other side of the clearing and collapse, seething with resentment as you consider the work ahead of you. Honestly, this human is so useless he can't even die properly.

At least he's given you an excuse to go shopping. You'll need clothes for the both of you, more food, extra supplies. You packed for five, not six, and that means heading into the city for a while. And then perhaps the Rocket can provide you with a bit of entertainment.

After all, you only told Duskull to be sure nothing bothered the great Nathaniel Morgan, not to make sure he didn't run off. You hope that when you return tomorrow you'll find the ghost waiting alone.

"Good morning."

The great Nathaniel Morgan starts and looks around, and it takes him a moment to catch sight of you, even though you aren't trying to hide, just standing with a screen of trees between you. You haven't been trying to hide for nearly twenty minutes, and still he didn't notice you before you spoke up.

They call humans "the most dangerous game," don't they? A gross exaggeration, at least in this one's case. There'd be more fun in tracking slowpoke, and they're stupider than dirt. You shouldn't have hoped, of course. The human is a constant disappointment.

Even now he doesn't look ready to put up a fight, just staring at you with mouth half hanging open, eyes wide, making faint choking noises. "You are not very good at this. Did you think that I would let you just walk away? If you remember our agreement—"

He bolts. You watch him go for a second, considering. Judging by his horrible, teetering run, he's probably only going to end up falling, injuring himself, and requiring more fixing. Tedious.

You pass him in a matter of seconds, reaching out to grab him before he crashes into you. "I will not allow you to run away, either."

He tries to twist out of your hold, but you simply tighten your grip until he grits his teeth and stops struggling. You wait while he tries to gasp something out, taking the shallowest breaths possible and hunched over ribs that must still be sore. "What... what the fuck are you? Let... let go of me, you fucking..."

"I told you before. I am me. Now, can I let you go, or are you going to try and escape again?"

He sags a bit in your grip, still panting and trying not to pant at the same time. "What, you're that... that fucking charmeleon thing? No fucking way... no fucking way..."

"I said I would look like you. Did you not believe me?"

"That's... not..." He suddenly throws himself backwards, trying to wrench out of your grasp, but even caught off-guard you have no trouble bracing yourself against his struggles. "If you keep being difficult, I will have to paralyze you. Calm down."

"Calm down? I'm barely alive over here and I'm getting fucking attacked by my fucking evil twin. How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?"

"I am not your evil twin. If we are twins, you are clearly the evil one because you are a member of Team Rocket."

"Oh, right. Let's ignore the fact that you're some kind of bad-trip demon thing that keeps going on about how it wants to murder me, yeah, clearly I'm the evil one here."

"I am not interested in listening to you babble nonsense. We are agreed. You are evil." He starts to argue, but you cut him short with a quick shake. "I said I am not interested in listening to you. Now, I am going to let you go. If you try to run off again, I will make it so you cannot run. Do you understand?"

A slow smile spreads over his face, horrible and too wide, not reaching his eyes. "Sure, why not? Buddies for life, right, Evil Twin?" To your confused horror, he starts giggling, madly and convulsively, despite the fact that he's obviously in pain.

You let go of him and watch in disgust as he doubles over, unable to stop his strangled laughter, chest heaving fitfully and tears streaming from his eyes. Even when the spell passes and he's able to stand straight again, that awful grin stays in place, strained and painful and somehow threatening.

In the end it falls to you to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Well. Good. I am glad we understand each other. Now, before we go any further, you need new clothing. What you are wearing now will attract too much attention."

"What? Can't you just magic it better? You know, like... woooo..." He waves a hand vaguely, then sinks into another painful laughing fit.

"Are you brain damaged?" you ask while he's trying to recover. Perhaps your healing abilities had side effects. How on Earth are you supposed to deal with this?

"No, no," he chokes. "I'm just being told off by some asshole mutant thing that looks like me and claims it saved my life so it can take the fucking league challenge and become a pokémon master. It's all just so fucking sane, I can't take it anymore!" You stand by helplessly as he gags on his own mirth, clenching your hands into fists.

"Shut up! Shut up, shut up," you snarl, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him upright. Scales spread down your arm and claws slide from your fingers, shredding into the fabric. That, at least, is enough to quiet him down. His grin vanishes as he stares down at your sudden talons.

"What... what the fuck?" He tries to struggle against your grip, and you shove him away, letting him stumble to a shaky halt.

You're going about this all wrong, somehow. You've tried to make this as straightforward as possible, and whether he's just stupid or intentionally misunderstanding you, he simply isn't getting the picture. Concentrating mightily, you gather what few references you have for this sort of situation and line the words up in your head. Then, very slowly and carefully, you recite, "Listen, pal. You've made good friends with some bad people, but if we stick together, we'll get through this thing just fine. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, capiche? Whaddaya say? Partners?"

For a few seconds he just stares at you, and then, to your horror, dissolves into a fit of hitching giggles. "Oh, God," he manages to gasp out after a couple of seconds. "What the hell. Might as well enjoy the trip while it lasts, right? You want to go for a trip through the fucking magic woods or some shit? Fine. Lead on, Evil Twin, lead on."

While he's trying to recover again, you stare at him and consider. It's a "yes," anyway. That's probably the best you can hope for. "Good. I have no intention of hurting you, but if you continue to be a nuisance, you will end up injured. Now." You pull some clothes out of your pack and hand them to him. "Put these on. I have food and water for you—I am sure you are hungry. You can have them once you have changed."

You step away from him and watch as he blinks tears out of his eyes and, frowning, starts picking through the clothing. Slowly he says, "This is the same shit you're wearing, isn't it?"

"Yes." Pause. "Is that a problem?"

That horrible smirk of his is broad enough to show the angular stubs of teeth. "Oh, no," he says, and a spasm of suppressed laughter shivers through him. "No there's nothing fucking weird about that. You're definitely not my fucking evil twin, huh?"

"Right. I am not." What exactly does he find so funny?

You try and puzzle it out while the great Nathaniel Morgan finishes shuffling through the clothing. "Hey. A little fucking privacy, here?" he asks as he sees you looking.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, so now you want to fucking watch me get naked too? Just what the fuck is your problem? Look, I don't know if this is all some kind of sick power trip to you, but—"

Oh, right. You'd forgotten about humans and their taboo against nudity—not having any particular use for clothes yourself, you usually do without. Dressing up is fun, though, especially in bright colors, or clothes with your favorite cartoon characters on them. Unfortunately, though, this morning's shopping trip failed to turn up any Transformozords shirts in the great Nathaniel Morgan's size.

"I have no interest in your body. I simply do not wish to turn my back on you."

"Oh, yeah, sure, I buy that one, you sick fuck. Tell me, you do this kind of thing often, or am I just so lucky to be the one who—"

"Fine. Fine. I will turn around, and you will change clothes, and if you try anything else, you will regret it." And you do turn, glaring off into the trees and keeping ears wide open for any sign of an attempt at attack or escape.

But he only mutters, "Fine. Fucking whatever, then." Then there's the rustling of fabric and the occasional hiss of pain, and in your boredom you notice you haven't changed back the arm you transformed earlier, which glints teal and scaly in the sunlight. You massage it back to the right shape and rub your fingers together to drive out the last of the tingling. Finally the great Nathaniel Morgan announces, "There. Done. Now where's the goddamned food?"

You turn back around and give the Rocket a critical look over. The new clothes do help, and they cover most of his injuries. The unreasonable number of softboileds you stuffed down his throat have left only a few fading bruises and scabby cuts behind, but he's still covered in blood and dirt, and the skin underneath is pale and loose-looking, like it's a size too large for his body.

It's a start. At least he doesn't look like he got run over by a tyranitar while out on a killing spree anymore. You unsling your pack and dig out a sandwich. "Catch."

He drops his old clothes and fumbles the sandwich out of the air. In a matter of seconds he's managed to tear the plastic open with his teeth and is devouring the contents in huge bites. You can't help but be impressed as you stand there with the rest of his lunch in your hands—just an apple, an energy bar, and a water bottle. You probably should have anticipated his appetite—using softboiled certainly leaves you hungry, and all things considered it's probably harder on him.

He walks up to you with one hand out, and you silently pass over the rest of the meal. The great Nathaniel Morgan takes it without pausing in his destruction of the sandwich, and you leave him to it while you deal with his old clothes. You pick them gingerly out of the grass, trying to ignore the smell of blood, then set them alight with a wash of heat from your palms.

A choking noise makes you glance back at him the great Nathaniel Morgan, who's been attacking the apple, gnawing at it with the good side of his jaw. He's caught in a fit of coughing, and you watch impassively as he splutters and chokes, going through the usual contortions of pain. The fire burns itself out in the meantime, leaving you holding no more than a few smoldering tatters of fabric. You drop the ashy remains in the grass and stomp them out.

"How the fuck did you _do_that?" the great Nathaniel Morgan wheezes at last.

"You thought I was a charmeleon, remember? Would you be surprised if a charmeleon did that?"

"No, but you ain't no fucking charmeleon, duh. Where did the fucking fire even come from?"

You shrug. "From the same place as all fire attacks, I suppose. Now come on. I want to get to Fuchsia by afternoon."

"Oh, nice. Real helpful, asshole. Do you get off on being a mysterious dickhead, or what?"

You ignore him and step forward, reaching out to catch his arm. He jerks away and snarls, "What the fuck are you doing? You want to walk, fine, whatever, I'll fucking walk. You don't have to motherfucking drag me or anything."

"I am not going to drag you anywhere unless I have to. We are going to teleport. Anything else would be too slow." You can see him starting to object, but before he can get anything out, too fast for him to dodge, you lunge forward and grab him by the shoulder, then pull him along the trail of your memory to a spot a couple of miles north of Route 18.

"And now we walk."

He shrugs your hand away and blinks around at a new assortment of trees and bushes, a sudden shift in light and shade. Then he turns to you and snarls, "If you can just fucking teleport wherever you want, why are we still in the middle of the goddamn woods? You're going to Cinnabar, right?"

"I didn't want to risk anyone seeing me teleport. It could lead to awkward questions."

"Right, like having me walking around half fucking dead isn't going to get you any goddamn 'awkward questions,'" he grumbles, but at least for the moment he's more concerned with eating than arguing. He wanders after you when you start moving again, struggling to get the energy bar's wrapper open as he goes. And, after the roughly fifteen seconds it takes to dispose of the snack, "Hey! Is that all?"

"Yes. You can have more at dinner."

"Oh, nice. Real fucking nice. Look, I'm so hungry I swear if I ran into that fucking ursaring again I'd up and eat it. I'm probably going to collapse of starvation or some shit."

"If you continue to complain about it, you will get nothing." But the question jogs your memory, and you scrounge up something you forgot to give him earlier. "For now you can have these."

"Fuck, why didn't you give me the drugs first, Freak?" he grumbles, struggling for a few seconds with the childproof cap on the bottle. He dumps a slurry of pills into his palm, considers them for a moment, then knocks the lot back with a swig from his water bottle. "Well, thanks, I guess. But I don't think what I've got going on here is really aspirin-level pain, you know?"

"I thought giving you medication might make you stop whining."

"Fat fucking chance, Freak. Fat fucking chance." He pockets the pill bottle and sighs.

For a time the two of you walk in silence, and you bask in the sense of being out on your trainer's journey at last. The sun stabs little islands of warmth through the cool shade of the forest, and the air is full of the dampy-sweet smell of decaying leaves. There is no path out here, and you clamber over fallen logs and thrash through bushes, following the ups and downs of the land.

You keep hoping you'll be attacked by a wild pokémon—you are a trainer now, after all. You hear them from time to time, brief snatches of conversation in the distance, the odd yell of surprise or anger. Here and there you encounter their signs, symbols scratched out on tree trunks or sudden blasts of scent where someone's marked their territory.

But nothing bothers you. Maybe it's because there are two of you humans. Maybe it's because you're still far from the route; pokémon interested in engaging trainers usually hang around near humans, after all. Whatever the case, your walk is left uneventful, if pleasant. But there is, inevitably, one glaring problem.

"Can you not go any faster?"

The great Nathaniel Morgan starts to reply, then nearly trips over a root. He stops for a moment, leaning against a tree trunk as he regains his balance. "Hell yes I can. Just not after I've been beaten practically to fucking death and then revived by some asshole who wants me to walk a thousand miles through difficult fucking terrain. We can't all be motherfucking nature spirits like you." He aims a petulant kick at a bush, which clings thornily to his leg. "I mean, come the fuck on, I should probably be sleeping fourteen hours a day for the next fucking week, here. And I'm hungry. And I'm thirsty. So you know what? Why don't we just take this opportunity to have a nice fucking rest break?"

He moves as if to sit down, only to scramble upright again as you reach out to stop him. "No! No rest breaks! It has barely been half an hour! You can rest while we are surfing to Cinnabar."

"Wait, surfing? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"How did you think we were getting to Cinnabar Island?"

"I don't know, the fucking ferry, like sane people. I mean, that'd be bad enough, but surfing..."

"Trainers do not take the ferry," you say with utmost disdain. What would even be the point? No wild pokémon to battle. No trainers, either; it's considered a safety hazard. Why go journeying if you were just going to take shortcuts? "We will surf on my pokémon, of course. Why are you so stupid?"

"Surf on your what? How in the hell do you have pokémon?"

"I caught them. Why are you surprised? How did you expect me to take the gym challenge without pokémon?"

"I thought you were using mine, dumbass."

"Your pokémon? I do not have them."

"You don't." His face sinks into an even deeper scowl than usual, and he levels a glare at you. "Then where in the hell are they?"

"Team Rocket took them, of course."

"Of course. Of fucking course," he mutters. "So how about you explain to me just how in the hell that works, huh? They somehow decide to take all my shit but my pokédex?"

"No. I managed to get the pokédex back."

"And you just left the fucking rest?"

"Yes. It would have been difficult to retrieve it all without being noticed. The pokédex was all that I needed."

"All that you—" He bites the sentence off and slams the side of his fist into the tree, turning away from you for a second. Then he snarls, "And I guess it didn't occur to you that I might need some of that shit later, asshole?"

"I do not care what you need. You are a criminal. You got what you deserved."

A nasty smirk spreads across his face. "You got that fucking right, Freak. I am a goddamned criminal."

"Yes. So you should not be surprised if other people steal from you. It is only fair. Now. We need to get going. I had expected to get to Fuchsia by noon, but at this rate we will be another hour. I do not want any further delays."

"Oh, you don't, don't you?" the great Nathaniel Morgan sneers. "Funny, 'cause me, I was thinking I might just like to lie down and take a fucking nap right now."

"No. You are done resting."

He backs up a step as you start towards him, baring his teeth. "What, you think you're gonna haul me the rest of the way there? Face it, Freak, you can't make me walk if I don't want to."

"I can and I will if you force me. I do not think you will enjoy the experience. Last chance now. Are you coming?"

He stares at you for a few seconds, then drops his gaze and sinks into a resentful slouch. "Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not? God, this is the shittiest hallucination ever."

You let that one go in favor of getting moving again, but despite all your exhortations and threats that you really will carry the him if he will not walk, you achieve only a moderate increase in speed. The great Nathaniel Morgan only gets clumsier as time wears on, and slower, too. He's panting like he's run the whole way, sweating heavily into his new clothes. Pathetic. At least he doesn't have the energy left to complain, sunk into a dull, head-down doggedness, all his attention invested in staying upright and taking yet another step.

At last the trees thin out and leaf litter fades into scruffy grass as you emerge onto Route 18 proper. You've been hearing it up ahead for almost twenty minutes, maddeningly close, and it's all you can do not to whoop for joy at finally making it. Not far off, the city looms.

Up ahead you spot the battle you'd been following by ear, one between two geodude whose trainers' idea of strategy is telling them to smash into each other over and over until one goes down. Amateurs. You'd stop and challenge one of them to a battle if you weren't so heinously late.

Instead you angle across the grassy verge and onto the paved part of the route, where foot traffic shares an uneasy peace with cyclists shooting past from Cycling Road. The great Nathaniel Morgan lags behind while you play the part of just another trainer passing through, keeping a watchful eye on the humans and pokémon passing by. And they are passing you, inevitably; the going is easier here, but the great Nathaniel Morgan's shamble doesn't speed up appreciably. You tense up despite yourself, wishing you could reach into your hunter's trance for calm without worrying about butchering any human interaction you may have thrust upon you.

"Hurry up," you hiss. "We are nearly there. The faster you walk, the sooner you can rest." You are not reassured when the great Nathaniel Morgan does no more than give you a blank look.

This is all his fault. If not for him, you'd be long gone, well on your way to Cinnabar. And you wouldn't be attracting so much attention, either—your dirty, staggering friend is drawing eyes. You meet curious stares with your broadest smile, and that, thankfully, has so far been enough to get onlookers hurrying on about their business.

Finally, when the great Nathaniel Morgan stumbles and nearly falls, tripping on nothing, you concede. "Fine," you growl at him. You grab him by the arm, haul him over to a bench by the side of the route, and practically throw him onto it. "If you insist on being so pathetic, you can stay here. I will bring food. Titan," the pokéball is in your hand without conscious thought, and you drop it next to the bench. "Watch my brother for me. He is not feeling well."

"Your brother?" Titan looks down at the great Nathaniel Morgan, brow furrowed. "Why does he look like a human?" He leans in close to snuff at the man, who does not react. Not even the charizard's appearance got a twitch out of him; he hasn't moved from where he was dumped. "He smells like a human," Titan says, an accusation.

You wish there weren't anyone around so you could explain things properly. For now all you do is pat Titan on the shoulder and say, "That is right. He just needs a bit of time to rest, that is all. So you are going to watch him and make sure he does not move or make any noise, okay?"

Titan gives you a bewildered look, but after a second he nods, then turns to stare at the human again. You do the same. "And you understand as well?"

The great Nathaniel Morgan's eyes are closed, and he's covered them with a shaking hand, but he does nod, ever so slightly. "Good. I will be back soon."

There are take-out places hugging Fuchsia's outskirts, wooing hungry and impatient travelers. They're used to people in a hurry, foreigners, a bit of strangeness, the kind of thing you expect out of trainers. Even so, flustered and out of sorts as you are, you probably come across as exceptionally unusual, what with forgetting the basic concept of waiting in lines, but ultimately no one stops you. You're back in under half an hour, arms full with your spoils.

The rest of your party's exactly where you left it: the great Nathaniel Morgan asleep on the bench, Titan staring at him with single-minded diligence. At least you don't have a new crisis to add to this farce of a trip. Titan can smell both you and what you're carrying a ways off, and he half turns towards you, wings stretching upward in anticipation.

"Thanks, Titan," you say. "Here. I brought you some food."

The charizard fidgets while you rearrange your burdens, tail sweeping back and forth in agitated little arcs. He snatches the bucket from your grasp as soon as you hold it out and rips the top off with his teeth, then sticks his whole head inside, gobbling and crunching with such reckless enthusiasm that you have to smile.

If only your other companion could be so easily pleased. Irritation lends a bit too much force to your kick, and you glance around nervously, hoping no one notices the dent you've put in the bench's metal leg.

At least the harsh blow has the desired effect. The great Nathaniel Morgan wakes with a start, followed immediately by a wince and a growled curse. "Now is not the time for sleeping. You can do that on the ocean. For now, eat. Then we will walk the rest of the way."

"Yeah, because eating is the first fucking thing I want to do before getting on the goddamn seasickness express," he says, but he doesn't turn down the fast food bag you hand him—probably he would have grabbed it like Titan if it didn't require any fast movement.

As it is, he just pushes himself to a half-upright position on the bench and digs into the food. You watch with mild interest as you get out your own cheeseburger. If only the human walked as fast as he eats.

After a couple of minutes, you're halfway through your sandwich, and the great Nathaniel Morgan is nearly done with his entire meal, chasing stray fries around the bottom of the bag. "I realized that you need a name," you say.

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"I need something I can call you."

"Yeah? You first, Freak."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's your name, dumbass."

"Do not be stupid. My name is Nathaniel Morgan, of course."

He looks at you with eyebrows raised for a moment, then rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine, what the fuck ever. Guess I walked into that one. No, I mean what's your name. Like, I know you're all pretending to be me and shit, but what's your real name?"

He really is so stupid. You give him an exasperated look, the lull in conversation filled by scraping and gulping noises as Titan sniffs around in the bottom of the bucket. "I just told you. My name is Nathaniel Morgan."

"Fucking—look, cut the act already. Before you were all... looking like me, or whatever, what the fuck was your name then?"

"Charmeleon, I suppose."

"You—what? This shit again? I told you, Freak, I know you're no fucking charmeleon."

"I was."

"Okay, fine. Whatever, asshole. If you want to keep being mysterious about pointless shit, you just go right the fuck ahead."

You suppress a growl of agitation. "I was not being mysterious. I was telling the truth. It does not matter anyway. I just need a name for you to use until our time together is over."

"Which can't come fucking fast enough, believe me." You stare at him and wait. "What?"

"Your name."

"Fuck's sake. I don't care. Pick something."

"You choose. I am not very good with human names."

He groans and covers his face with his hand for a second. "Shit, I dunno. Gary. Why not? Like the most fucking popular name around these days."

"Gary what?" He removes the hand so he can glare at you. "Human names have two parts."

"I know that. Gary Morgan, you moron. Unless you're not really my brother. Give it to me straight, bro, I can handle the fucking truth."

You frown as you think. Is that right? You're not sure why he would be lying. Brothers have the same second name? You try to come up with examples from television but draw a blank. Humans don't use their second names a lot in conversation.

While you're puzzling, the great Nathaniel Morgan makes as if to go back to sleep, and you decide to shelve the matter for now. Gary Morgan it is. "Get up."

"Oh, fuck you. You keep pushing me, you're going to need to start dishing out the emergency heals real damn fast, because I am not in any fucking shape for this shit."

"It is only a twenty minute walk to the beach from here. You will make it if I have to carry you the entire way. Now get up."

"Oh, yeah, like that's not going to attract any fucking attention or anything—"

"Get up!"

Titan stops licking the inside of the bucket and pulls his head out, looking nervously between the two of you. Grease shimmers on his muzzle, and he's managed to get a little clot of breading stuck to the base of his horn. You glance around, embarrassed, but though a couple of people had looked around after your shout, no one seems particularly interested. The great Nathaniel Morgan opens his mouth to make some complaint or other, but before he can get anything out you grab him by the front of his new shirt and haul him to his feet.

While he stands coughing, trying to get his breath back, you say, "There. You are up. Now we walk. Titan? Do you want to come with us? We are going to the beach."

"Oh? The beach? Um." The charizard licks at his snout as he thinks. "Sure, I'll come."

"Hey Charizard, think you could do me a favor and set this asshole on fire or something? I don't want to go to no fucking beach."

"Titan. This is Titan."

Titan, who is looking anxious. "If he, um, says he doesn't want to come..."

"It is fine, Titan. Do not worry. And you." You shove the great Nathaniel Morgan so hard he staggers forward a step. "Walk. Do not make noise. If you do, I will see to it that you can no longer talk."

"Yeah, I bet you will, won't you, assh—" But then he wavers where he stands, clutching his head and gasping in breathless pain. "Fuck. Wh-what—?"

"That was only a weak confusion. I could very easily disable your language center with a stronger one. Now walk."

He walks. Slowly. Titan brings up the rear, cleaning his face with little bursts of flame. You close your eyes a moment and take a long, fortifying breath. The rest of the day should be easier, when War will be doing all the work.

The fine weather has brought a crowd out into Fuchsia's streets. Tourists mill around quaint little shops, and trainers are out in force, battling their pokémon under the brilliant sun. Normally you wouldn't mind taking your trip slow, stopping to buy ice cream as Titan strongly hints you should, enjoying the human show. But you can't relax today, when you're sure every look you get is wondering who you are, what's wrong with the great Nathaniel Morgan¸ whether they ought to offer assistance or get help. Your pace feels plodding instead of leisurely, the crowds threatening rather than engulfing.

By the time you reach the beach proper you're so on edge that you're literally prodding the great Nathaniel Morgan along, for what little good it does. Titan wanders off, beckoned by open stretches of sand, but you drive the great Nathaniel Morgan straight down to the water's edge. He collapses as soon as you stop harrying him, and you ignore his wheezing and release War into the water in front of you. The tentacruel takes shape with his jagged beak buried in the sand, staring out at you from the shadow of his bell.

"We are going to Cinnabar Island, War," you say. "We will stop at the Seafoam Islands tonight. Will you carry us?"

"Both of you?" the tentacruel asks, looking down at the great Nathaniel Morgan, who's content to lie back in the sand and ignore you, eyes closed.

"Yes, him too. I will explain when we stop for the night, where we can have a proper conversation. I am sorry. I know it will be a lot for you to carry two people. Do you think you can do it?"

"Oh, sure, sure, no problem," War says, waving a few tentacles dismissively. But his gaze is still on the great Nathaniel Morgan, alive with curiosity.

"Good. Thank you, War. Now." You prod the great Nathaniel Morgan in the side with your foot. He opens his eyes and glares mutely up at you. "This is War. He will be taking us to Cinnabar Island. War, this is th—my brother. Um. Gary."

The great Nathaniel Morgan raises his eyebrows at you, then addresses War without bothering to get up from his sprawl. "Yeah. Hi. Did you know your trainer's a total fucking douchebag?"

The tentacruel lets out a grating laugh that sets his whole bell quivering. Then he reaches out, and the great Nathaniel Morgan, finding himself confronted by dozens of bulb-tipped tentacles, scrambles backwards, nearly falling as he tries to get to his feet in the same motion. "Hey! What the fuck?"

"Oh. He wants to shake hands." You're not sure what the tentacruel finds so fascinating about the human custom, but you hold washed-out memories of days spent carrying a tentacool around, annoying people with very important jobs to do with requests to indulge his curiosity.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Shake hands with that thing? I don't even want to go near all those fucking tentacles."

"His name is War," you snap as the tentacruel's eyes narrow. "And yes. You will shake hands. It is polite."

The great Nathaniel Morgan stares at you, then at the tentacruel, forest of tentacles still upraised. "Oh, fine," he snarls. "Fucking fine. I guess I should just give in now and accept that you're fucking insane."

He takes a step forward and reaches out, gingerly taking one of War's tentacles by the bulb and moving it ever so slightly up and down. "There's your fucking handsh—aagh! Fuck!"

"War!" you say while the Rocket pulls his hand away like he's been burned, hissing expletives between his teeth.

"That bastard stung me! Shit!" he snarls, staring at the line of red welts down the middle of his palm. War is beside himself with mirth, slapping at the water with his tentacles while his laughter tumbles on and on, a pattering noise like churning pebbles.

"Yes. He has a strange sense of humor. Keep your voice down." You glance around, but the only people nearby are a group of swimsuit-clad children gathered near Titan, watching the charizard wallow in the hot sand.

"Jesus fuck, all your pokémon are as sociopathic as you," the great Nathaniel Morgan snarls, cradling his injured hand against his chest.

You aren't sure what he means by that. "You deserved it. Now we are going. Get on."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I could be fucking dying over here, and you just want to sail off into the motherfucking sunset?"

"You are not dying. War did not seriously injure you," you say, shooting the tentacruel a look that says, Right? War stares back at you, placid and inscrutable. "You have held me up enough already. Either get on, or I will drag you up there myself."

The Rocket looks from War to the ocean beyond, teeth bared in a grimace. "Look, if I have to be perfectly fucking honest here, I kind of really fucking hate water, okay? Like I can't swim for shit and I kind of don't trust your evil fucking tentacruel not to throw me overboard the first fucking opportunity it gets."

"That is unfortunate. Get on."

"I'm just saying, is all. If you don't want me throwing up all over you and your fucking pokémon, it would probably be safer to just take the ferry or something. The ocean and I don't fucking get along, see."

"I told you already. We are not taking the ferry. And you are not taking it alone, either," you add, when he starts to protest. "If it is really such a big problem for you, I will put you to sleep so that you do not realize where you are. That is my final offer. Make your decision before I make it for you."

"I don't even want to fucking know what you mean by 'put me to sleep,' do I?"

"I am not going to wait much longer."

You allow him a couple seconds of deliberation, then take a step forward, readying a spore attack. But he recoils, snapping, "All right! Fuck, I'll do it. Stay the fuck away from me. You're probably just going to try and dump me overboard or some shit as soon as there are no witnesses, and I'm not going to make that any fucking easier for you." He skirts around you and approaches War, face set grimly.

The Tentacruel watches him come, forcing his beak deeper into the sand with a drawn-out grinding noise and tipping his bell down towards the human. Even with the help, the great Nathaniel Morgan has a rough time of it, trying to shimmy one-handed up the springy curve of the tentacruel's bell. After much cursing and the occasional exclamation of pain, he finally manages to drag himself up to the crest of War's bell and perch there, weary and slumped in defeat.

Then he lets out a stifled shriek and throws himself flat as War wrenches his beak out of the sand and raises himself to his full height in one sudden, swaying motion. You sigh in exasperation and say, "Stop messing with him, War. I do not want to have to listen to his whining all afternoon, and I do not think you do, either."

You almost forget yourself and jump straight up next to the great Nathaniel Morgan, but remember where you are just in time and ask War to lift you up instead. The tentacruel deposits you next to your shivering, sweating companion, who's still clinging to the tentacruel's bell for dear life. You ignore him and call, "Titan!"

The charizard's buried himself neck-deep, sending up little plumes of grit as he snuffs around under the sand, wriggling his way deeper. He lurches guiltily upright at the sound of his name, blowing sand out of his nostrils and looking around in wild disorientation. His audience is beside themselves with giggles. "Titan. We are leaving. Do you want to come with us now, or catch up later? We will be stopping at Seafoam tonight."

"Seafoam?" he roars back, and you realize your mistake as his expression hardens, his tail flame leaping higher.

"It is okay, Titan. I can take you in your pokéball. You do not have to go there if you do not want to."

"No," he says with unusual force. "No, I'll go. By myself."

Before you can object he stretches his neck up and spreads his wings, sending children scampering as they realize what's coming. The charizard takes off in a blast of wind and sand, flapping mightily in a rapid ascent. Below, the kids squeal and stumble around, laughing and blinking sand out of their eyes. A couple wave.

You do not. You watch Titan bank around and soar out over the ocean, anxiety tightening your chest.

Nothing to be done for it now. Best to get moving. You push your worries aside and pat War's bell, shouting down, "Okay, War. Let's get going." The tentacruel lurches around, clumsy in the shallows, and sets out into the sea.