Spider Web

	“Dead in the fucking water.”

Chairman Cassius reeked of booze and cheap antiperspirant. Like an excitable child, his ass rocked uncomfortably in his chair, to and fro, the cushion squealed. Gin pummeled the back of his throat, made it burn, as he then leaned forward, craned his finger, and repeated: “Dead. In. The. Fucking. Waterrrrr.” 

Colm laughed nervously, and replied: “Y–yes, well, my work on the border swung things in my favor.” His fingers nervously wrung themselves around his tie, adjusting a skin-tight three-piece suit. He then glanced away, toward the throngs of white-clad Pokémon. Everyone, everything, covered head-to-toe in white. Tomorrow, Chairman Colm would be inaugurated as the Chairman of Peace. 

Naturally, Colm would spend the night surrounded by his contemporaries, his donors, and his lobbyists. He’d swim from one crowd to the next, rubbing elbows, grazing hands. He’d grown quite used to artifice by now. It was important that he maintained a cordial and prudent demeanor, smiling wide… 

Cassius continued: “I just never seen a candidate get beaten so bad. It was a fuckin’... a massacre.” He snorted, wiped sloppily at his face. The sound of rock-against-rock rang through the ballroom. Colm struggled to hide his intimidation; Cassius was three times his size, after all, and immeasurably strong. Just a stray flick from his hand could collapse Colm’s skull. 

	But nonetheless, Colm smiled. And he agreeably replied: “I’m just grateful for my people, you know. The little people, working on the ground in the D-O-P. Without those key endorsements, I never would’ve stood a chance.” He laughed. “It really sounds like a rags-to-riches story, huh? I never thought I’d really be here.” 

	Then, it was Chairwoman Akiva’s turn to butt in. With an eerie smile, she said: “Sometimes, the power of faith trumps everything else.”

	And indeed, it had. Just two months prior, Chairman Colm, then acting as the Assistant Deputy of Peace, caught notice of five fugitive humans living in a makeshift camp near the Divide. At first, he was reticent to intervene; he’d never seen a human before, after all. Supreme tool-wielders, heralds of unknown technologies. Hairless and lanky and rotten-smelling. They almost never crossed the Divide. Colm struggled to understand why they were in Pokémon-controlled lands at all.

Come to find out, these strange creatures were fugitives. One sunny spring morning, five unassuming humans would turn onto a sparse side road in Grand City and enter a department store. Having entered, they then brandished five short knives and ransacked the front desk. This part of things was not uncommon. 

What happened next, however, set the city on its head. On the way out of the store, one of the assailants pushed aside an elderly woman, who subsequently hit her head on the hard sidewalk, and died. Grand City mourned this hitherto unrecognized woman for three days before the media stopped reporting.

	But even after the chatter stopped, the hunt continued. These five were now forced to flee the country, living in feral, Pokémon-infested lands. Straddled with useless cash. Starving. 

By the time Chairman Colm stumbled upon them, they hardly presented any threat; in fact, the humans were grateful to have encountered anyone at all. Colm arranged for the delivery of bread, water, and blankets, in return for their continued custody. The humans obliged. 

This was, however, a moment of great political significance. What’s the Department of Peace to do with a group of aliens? If they were allowed to remain in Augustan lands, Grand City would lob diplomatic hardballs for the next decade as recompense. The only remaining option, then, would be repatriation; in other words, to transfer custody of the humans back to Grand City, where the assailants would await trial. 

And that’s exactly what happened. Colm returned the humans without issue, even hugging each before mounting them within the carriage; he reassured them of due process, of the goodwill of humanity, and even promised to grab a beer with them should he ever visit. Furthermore, he explained that their charges would likely be dropped due to insubstantial evidence. Everyone left in good spirits. 

Tragically, all five assailants were executed one week later, three weeks before election day. Chairman Colm, having punished these criminals to the fullest extent of the law, was widely lauded as a clever and learned politician by local media outlets. The subsequent tabloids launched this unassuming Kecleon into stardom. His name was everywhere. It riled long-established politicians into a frenzy. 

So there Colm sat, having just learned the polling results, smiling wide, holding a glass of champagne in his thin-fingered hand. Swishing around the liquid inside, watching as it pooled over itself. 

“This is gonna be a huge change for me,” Colm said. His voice was flat, like he wasn’t very excited about it. “It’s gonna be… it’s gonna be a whole new ball game for me.” He chuckled. “I still feel like I’m dreaming.” 

Akiva scoffed: “The folks upstairs hope they’re dreaming, too.” She scratched along the rough surface of the white tablecloth. A candle’s flame flickered before her knuckles. And she added: “Libra spent about two million coins on her ad campaign. She must be furious right now.”

“Especially because she was set to win,” Colm assented. He almost felt guilty about snatching the victory from her jaws. “I can imagine her now, screaming at her poor staffers…” 

That thought made Cassius guffaw. He burped, an ignoble display for someone of his station, and boomed: “See, that’s why you don’t want an Exploud for a boss. Fucking nightmare.” 

“As if you’re any better,” Akiva sniped. She wore a tight-lipped smile, staring at her brother with an inscrutable expression. “Growing up, I could hear you stomping from a mile away. They even put padding in your room. Remember?” 

Colm mimicked that smile, tersely drawing his lips together, and playfully asked: “Cassius, is that true?” 

But Cassius wouldn’t hear it. He groaned in embarrassment, waving away the issue with a flick of his wrist, before pivoting himself backward, looking straight at Chairman Maximus. The others looked, too, just in time to see the poor old man polish off a bottle of gin. It fell onto the table with a glassy thwump. 

Colm asked: “Does Maximus always drink like that?” 

And Akiva replied: “Only at night.” 

Then, nothing. Like spectators at a sports match, they watched with due reverence as Maximus removed the foil from a wine bottle’s tip, uncorked it, and poured the entire thing into a gargantuan wine glass. He then sipped from it tenderly, taking gentle sniffs with his eyes closed, as if it were the finest thing in the world. 

“Maybe we should invite him over,” Colm suggested. He looked to the others for affirmation. “I’ve hardly gotten to speak with him since polling came back.” 

	But Cassius’s expression was enough to dispel the idea. Breathy, like something else was on his mind, the Rhyperior said: “When he gets like this, it’s best to just leave him alone.” 

	“Like… what?” Colm asked. 

	Akiva said, flatly: “This.” 

	Sensing her discomfort, Colm didn’t ask again. He instead loosely gripped a wooden toothpick, skewered through a wrinkled-looking olive, and stabbed the bottom of his glass. 

	“I think I might try and create a feral rehabilitation program,” Colm blurted. “So ferals can gain citizenship.”

	 Cassius raised an eyebrow, dumbstruck by the suggestion, then asked: “What?” 

	“I just think they ought to be given a fair shot.”

	Akiva smacked her lips, staring blankly, and said: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

	“Well, it’s what my constituents want.” 

	“Fuck your constituents,” Cassius grumbled. “Haven’t they already elected you? What does it matter?” 

	The naive Kecleon was taken aback by his outright cynicism. So he faltered, and then explained: “Well, they’ve given me so much. It’s only right that I give back.” 

	Then, Akiva and Cassius shared a look; an empathetic one, since they’d felt the same before; and Akiva said: “That wasn’t one of your campaign promises, was it?” 

	“N–no,” Colm answered, since he’d struggled to maintain a consistent political platform. “It was just a personal… like, a personal promise–” 

	Then, Akiva scoffed. She curled her hand around the champagne glass, lifted it to her lips, and mumbled: “Then what does it matter?” 

	“Well, I suppose on paper it doesn’t,” Colm admitted.

	Truthfully, the boy was embarrassed to have even suggested it. Every step of the way, he struggled to explain himself to his colleagues. How could he? His company had been hardened by years of intense governance. It was probably futile. 

	So he lifted himself from the table, removed the napkin from his lap, adjusted his lapel, and said: “I’ll be back. Bathroom.” 

	“Sure,” Cassius said, but he wasn’t paying much attention. He was watching Maximus again, almost as if he were anxious about something. Colm crossed his line of vision as he scurried into the men’s bathroom. 

	Having entered, Colm then shut the door, speed-walked to the sink, and splashed a few handfuls of cold water onto his face. The colors of his face morphed reddish pink, then blue, then back to violet. He watched intently as the blotches bled into each other. 

	What did it mean to have power? Colm hardly knew. But he could speculate. 

Soon, he’d be in charge of defending the Divide. This was, of course, incredibly important, since major legislation was often intended to address the problems this Divide had instigated. A century-long political project, dumped into the hands of a layman… 

	“Oh, I’m fucked,” Colm breathed. He spoke only to himself. A sense of acute despair lingered there, behind the thrill of his new position. His new responsibilities, his new colleagues. Soon, he’d be dropped into a whole new world. It weighed him down. 

	Then, the bathroom door opened. Watching in the mirror, breath caught in his throat, Colm saw Chairwoman Iris enter, then lock the door. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

	“Chairwoman,” Colm greeted, then turned around. Big smile. “It’s good to see you. But, um… this is the men’s.” 

	Iris returned a smile of her own, and explained: “I know. I just needed to get you alone.” Pause. “Are you doing alright? Tonight is meant to be a celebration.”

	Colm lied: “Yeah, I’m fine.” And then, noticing the bits of paper peeking from Iris’s purse, he asked: “What’s that?” 

	And Iris replied: “It’s your script.” She turned her flank toward Colm, motioned for him to take it. “For tomorrow, for your acceptance.” 

	“Right,” Colm said, and took it in his hands. “But I already wrote my own speech.” 

	The Ninetales chuckled. “Yes,” she answered, “but we’ve edited it for you. Take a look.” 

	And then, Colm glossed it over. He flipped from one page to the next, gleaning the neatly printed lettering, the pristine white paper, and he said: “You added a fair bit.” 

	“Orders from above,” Iris affirmed, and motioned upward with her tails. She seemed nonplussed about it. “A speech like this – a big one – it needs to have pro-Pokémon language.”

	So the Kecleon asked: “Was I not pro-Pokémon enough?” 

	“Well, it’s more so about prioritizing Pokémon.” Iris smiled. “We need to make sure our audience feels seen. For example, peace with humans is a non-starter. We have bigger issues to talk about.” 

	Colm was quiet for a moment. And then, he said: “Like… tightening our border?” 

	Iris smiled, cooed: “Exactly.” 

	“But the Divide is already strictly regulated–” 

	“–Colm, you’re a hero.” Iris tilted her head, gave the Kecleon a kind glance. “You have the opportunity to give people hope. ”

	Colm nodded blankly. It took all his courage to ask: “If that’s the case… maybe I could propose something new. You know, like a path to citizenship for ferals. I could announce my intention tomorrow, during the speech. It’ll be sure to get a rise. What do you think?” 

	Iris raised an eyebrow. She asked: “Would that serve you?” 

	“Maybe,” Colm said.

	And Iris rebutted: “I don’t think you want to begin your term with a controversy.”

	Recoiling, the Kecleon admitted: “W–well, of course not.” 

	“This script is intended to introduce you to the nation,” Iris pushed. “You already have quite a positive track record. You returned law and order to our streets. We intend to protect that reputation.” 

	“But,” Colm argued, “does the script have to be so… aggressive?” 

	The resultant silence nearly crippled him. Iris’s stare stunned him into submission. Instinctively, he shrank under her scrutiny. 

	“I’m not the one ordering you to do this,” Iris confided. “Like I said, this comes from above.” She then mustered a tight-lipped frown, her eyes fluttering over to the script, squeezed between Colm’s index and thumb. In a hard-pressed voice, she breathed: “Take my advice. Just read the script, edits and all. Please.” 

	“Right,” Colm echoed. His voice was nothing more than a whisper. Even Iris, it seemed, was scared of Maximus. Such earnest fear spurred him to toe the line. 

So after a brief pause, Colm said: “Well… thank you, Chairwoman. I’ll give this a read tonight." 

	Iris then nodded, turned away. As she unlocked the door, about to step outside, she said: “Perhaps we can revisit some of your ideas another time, though. Alright?” 

	“Of course,” Colm said, and watched Iris depart. For only a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of the debauchery outside. The lights and drinks and chatter. And he repeated: “Another time.” 

	Colm donned a wide smile. His movements were graceful, smooth, and intentional. His finger slithered onto the intercom, pushed downward, and he spoke:

	“Thank you for your cooperation.” 

	His voice traveled through meters of copper wire, criss-crossing through the abandoned asylum, before emerging from an ocean of static. Five Pokémon heard it, but none of them listened. They instead surrounded a scabbed and bleeding Cinderace, holding his head above the floor, slowly lowering his moist, tender scars onto the cold tile. He couldn’t help but groan.

	The Kecleon smiled at the sound. With a sadistic twinge, he beamed: “Arceus… don’t tell me you’re injured already.”

	Fey, however, was occupied. He examined the soles of Asher’s feet, blistered and peeling. Tiny trickles of blood seeping from his wounds. 

	“I’m sorry,” Asher blurted, and winced. He hadn’t moved himself so intensely since his injury. He was embarrassed to have hurt himself again during such a crucial time; and furthermore, to have betrayed his friends’ trust only moments prior.

	Worse yet, the door to the waiting room had just slammed shut. Maestro duly rushed to it, sticking his finger along the creases and edges, checking for any vulnerability. But he wouldn’t find any. He then wrapped his fingers around the handle, pushed and pulled, but received no mercy. 

	Professor Rubrum, however, was occupied with another endeavor. He cradled a pitch-black tablet against his bosom, taking glances at its glowing text. He then watched as Maestro, the love of his life, scrambled about, tugging on the other door, checking for any possible vulnerability. 

Eventually, Maestro let his hands fall to his sides. And with a sigh of defeat, he admitted: “We’re stuck in here. Figures.”

Fey turned, said: “There must be another way.” 

“There might not be,” Maestro breathed. Quietly, ignoring Asher’s pained groans, he considered his options. The five of them had intentionally walked into a trap, hoping that they could outsmart it. But there was always the distinct possibility that the trap would prove insurmountable; Maestro prayed otherwise. 

Rubrum then stood, wrapping the Key in his jacket like a swaddled infant, and spoke: “Okay, Colm. We’ve done what you’ve asked. Now, uphold your end of the deal. Let us go, and you’ll never see us again.” 

The intercom was silent for a moment; and then, as if relishing in their discomfort, Colm replied: “No, I don’t think I’m going to do that.” 

The Lucario furrowed his brow, hugged the Key tight. The flagrant disrespect in Colm’s tone made his blood boil. But, pushing those feelings aside, he asked: “Then what’s your plan? Surely, you didn’t lock us up without a plan.” 

“Oh, I have a plan,” Colm explained. As always, he was forthright. He sniped: “I’m just going to lock you all here until morning. By the time you’re done trying to break the doors down, my soldiers will have arrived. They’ll take you all into custody, and we can finally put you on trial.” He scoffed. “Say, do you think Maximus will recommend leniency?”

At that, blood rushed to Rubrum’s face. His teeth clenched in frustration, his fingers curling tightly around the pulsating Key. Much to his chagrin, Colm’s gambit had worked; and moreover, he was gloating about it. Celebrating like a brat while the rebels scrambled to survive. It made Rubrum sick. 

“And this Key?” the professor asked. He ran his fingers along its black, glossy surface, looking up at the dusty intercom. “Can I assume it’s a fake?” 

Colm’s response was wholly unexpected. With an annoyed sigh, as if Rubrum were asking too much, he replied: “No, it’s not fake. That really is the Key. Truthfully, I didn’t have time to make a counterfeit.” A chuckle. “And I did technically place it in the most secure room of the facility.” There was a creak, like Colm was leaning back in an office chair, positively enriched by his masturbatory navel-gazing. He could talk about himself for hours. 

The Kecleon then continued: “I figured… does it matter if I give you the real one? You’re going to die here, anyhow.” He laughed. “Feel free to try and translate it, though. You have about eight hours. Plenty of time… unless you have anything better to do.” 

And with a disconcerting screech, the intercom cut out. The five rebels, bruised and beaten, were left only with bitter silence. Asher’s breathing was labored; as gently as he could, despite all the cruel words Asher had spoken that night, Fey held him close. 

“Fuck,” Maestro breathed. He hummed to himself, bit his thumb. His eyes darted from one corner to the next, searching for any possible escape. Under his breath, he mumbled: “Fuck, okay. There has to be some way out of here.” 

Rubrum frowned, said: “Maestro…” 

The professor then laid a tender hand upon the Meowscarada’s back, rubbed up and down, as they considered their options. Perhaps they could all try attacking a door at once? Or maybe it would be best if they somehow baited Colm to their location… 

But none of Maestro’s plans seemed feasible. No matter what, Colm had already considered it, and planned ten steps ahead. The realization made his stomach sink. 

Then, from across the room, Asher spoke. Grating against the floor as he sat upward, he said: “I–I could get us out.” 

Fey recoiled, breathed: “Huh?” 

“I could melt the doors,” Asher said. He was steadfast. “If I put my all into it, I could get it done. Definitely.” 

Rubrum took obvious issue with the idea. He screwed up his face and replied: “Asher, no. You shouldn’t be using fire after such a major injury.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Asher asked. He was serious. “Look around. Do you see another way out?” 

And indeed, they didn’t. Even Sid, that quiet Snivy, was simply sitting against the wall, fiddling with his leaves, rubbing Iris’s pendant between his lithe fingers.

“But you could die,” Fey butted in. His face was plain with concern.  “I don’t think your body can handle your flames right now.” 

In response, the Cinderace simply nodded. The rest regarded him with a strange mix of disdain and reverence; almost like they wished he weren’t there at all. But the fact remained that he had proposed the only feasible solution. 

Maestro, however, was not willing to entertain Asher’s sacrifice. “Off the table,” he shot back. He shook his head. “We all need to get out of here alive. Anything less is an abject failure.” 

Rubrum assented: “That’s right.” He ran his fingers idly over the Key’s pulsating engravings, glowering at the intercom. His eyes betrayed his frustration. “We’re not sacrificing anyone. Not anymore. We need to find another way.” 

Then, the room fell silent. Asher laid his head back onto the tile, taking deep breaths of damp, cool air. Fey hovered over him, holding his hand, while Rubrum and Maestro took turns inspecting both steel doors. Neither would discover a vulnerability. 

Saying nothing, Sid then stood, meandered over to the room’s corner. There, he slowly unfurled his vines, stretching them out, and trailed them along the beige-tiled wall. Like tentacles, the tips twitched and curled, eventually finding their way over to the ceiling. There, they met their intended target: a small steel grate, just small enough for a Pikachu to fit through. The rest, now having caught on, watched with bated breath. 

With only a couple tugs, the grate was removed. A trickle of brown, rusty debris fell from the atrophied screws. The steel then fell to the floor with an unimpressive clank. Behind the microphone, Colm perked at its sound.

Maestro, his voice hushed, his eyes wide, whispered: “Sid… could you fit through there?”   

In response, the Snivy nodded. He then plunged his vines inside the vent’s entrance, felt around for a ledge, and grasped it. No doubt, he had enough leverage to lift himself into the ventilation system. He told the others as much.

But Rubrum was unimpressed. He whispered: “Sid, I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

Sid asked: “Why not?” 

“Because you’re inevitably going to run into Colm. Or soldiers, probably,” the professor explained. Even the thought of losing another friend terrified him. “Do you really think you could infiltrate this asylum on your own?” 

Sid downturned his head, replied: “Think about it. Do we have another choice?” 

“But–” 

“If I can make my way to the main office, I can open this whole place up.” Sid sucked in air through his teeth, sighed, and continued: “Meaning… if I can find my way to the third floor, I might be able to pull this off without fighting anyone.” 

Rubrum huffed: “I should hope so. You’re still recovering.”

At that, Sid winced. Only a few days prior, he’d been blasted clean away by Iris’s flames, flung across rocks and dirt and twigs. His head still felt fuzzy. His legs, tired from days of marching, begged for respite. It was a shame that they wouldn’t receive it. 

Eventually, mustering all his remaining courage, Sid admitted: “This is a bad idea, I know. But we can't wait for a miracle. Our only other option is to sacrifice one of our friends. And I… I just can’t let that happen.” 

Maestro nodded, head downturned. Shame burgeoned in his gut. He wished he could do more. And he breathed: “Just be quick, okay? Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention. The sooner you get to the control panel, the quicker we’ll come help you.” 

“Right,” Sid agreed. And then, with a hint of embarrassment, he asked: “And what does the control panel, um, look like…?” 

Staring into the distance, Rubrum simply replied: “It’s like a… map. With buttons and switches on it.” 

Sid asked: “Buttons like on a shirt?” 

“Yes.” 

The Snivy then nodded, understanding nothing at all, and said: “Okay. I get it.”

Only a few moments later, the tiny Grass type had lifted himself inside the metal shaft. His hands and knees thumped softly against the hard, cold interior, gliding over patches of rust, dirt, dust, and cobwebs. With his mouth pressed shut, a small Energy Ball floating by his head, he crawled as quickly as he could, barrelling in the direction of the main hall.

Eventually, Sid spotted it – the faint glow of a metal grate, this time mounted on the wall. With a silly grin, the boy gunned for it, scraping his knees upon the jagged metal. And then, having reached his destination, he dislodged the grate with a haphazard kick. The mess of steel clattered to the ground below in a cacophony; and, as if waking up, the lights within the hallway automatically turned on. 

Two floors above, Colm noticed the motion sensor trip. This was certainly an unexpected development; to his knowledge, none of the rebels were small enough to have escaped through the vents. So, with his heart racing, a wide smile, he put his lips to the microphone and said: “Oh! Hello there.” 

Despite the friendly greeting, Sid didn’t bother to respond. He rose to his feet, burst forward, and gained his bearings. On either side, children' s dormitories stretched along a dim beige hallway. Dust coagulated on the floors in cobwebs and smudges; in the air wafted the scent of aged paper. 

Sid rushed to the closest door, tugged on its handle, but it didn’t budge. Faded drawings adorned the wooden surface. Pictures of forests and flowers and Pokémon, hand-in-hand, smiling, playing.

Grimacing, the Snivy then ran next door, tugged. He did it again, again, but none of the doors opened. And all the while, Colm’s prattling rang out from the intercom.

“Tell me… who are you?” the Kecleon asked. Like a teenager, Colm rested his head thoughtfully on his outstretched palm, chatting into his microphone. He watched as motion sensors flared. 

Colm said: “You’re not one of the usual culprits.” He paused, considered the options, and repeated: “Really, who are you?”

But Sid ignored him. Thinking quick, he mustered his vines, slipped them under the nearest door, and felt around the other side; having undone the lock, he then pushed the door open, begrudgingly inhaling the decades-old air. It stung his nostrils. 

“You’re in the orphanage wing, you know,” Colm announced. As he spoke, Sid entered the bedroom, dug his hands around in the myriad blankets and drawers. Colm continued: “Funnily enough, the orphanage wing was constructed first. Did you know that?” A small clunk sounded over the intercom, like the Kecleon had dropped something, and he added: “The children here were said to be especially gifted. Some might even call their existences torture.”

Sid still didn’t engage. If he responded to Colm in any way, he’d be revealing his abilities, his identity; it was best, then, to keep quiet. 

So the little Snivy ran from one web-ridden room to the next, thrashing about, catching sight of dilapidated posters and monochrome photos and long-abandoned blankets. That is, until he noticed something – one of the doors, unlike the rest, with a long vertical crack down the middle. Long-hardened glue glistened from the fissure, but failed to contain the damage. 

Just like the rest, Sid unlocked the door. Inside awaited a strange sight: swathes of bland-colored panels covering the walls, floor, and ceiling, as if the occupant was sound-proofed. Haphazardly upon these panels hung a dizzying array of comic book pages, motivational posters, and crude drawings. A tattered banner still drooped across the room’s middle, emblazoned with the dark, bolded words: “BE A HERO. SAVE OUR RACE!”

Somehow, the sight made Sid feel queasy. Blankets were still strewn messily across the gargantuan bed, at least twice the size of the others, like the occupant had left in a hurry; and somehow, despite the decades of age, there still remained a faint hint of sweat and mildew in the air. 

Sid then headed in, tossed open the desk, and rummaged his little hands inside; in the back, he finally found what he was looking for. A sharpened pencil, fitted perfectly for his palm. Gripping it tightly, he then re-entered the hallway, breathing heavy. Little puffs of steam slipped from his mouth, falling over his chest. 

“You might be wondering how I noticed you,” Colm announced. He picked seeds from between his teeth, bored. “The truth is, this place was a testing ground for emerging technologies. But all of it is primitive… it’s nothing compared to what we have now, really. Or  what the humans have.” 

Just then, Sid heard something. A subtle footfall from the hallway’s end. He turned, squinted his eyes, but the passage was shrouded in darkness. The Snivy could just barely make out the glistening edge of a sealed steel door. Instinctively, he gripped the pencil harder.

“...But, of course, motion sensor technologies are fairly basic,” Colm continued. He was blathering. “Aurum has allowed a complete revolution in information technologies, relegated only to the richest and most powerful… lest it be abused, of course.” He laughed. “There’s a certain noble duty we have to uphold. A feral like you probably wouldn’t understand, though.” 

At that, Sid surged. Snapping himself toward the nearest intercom, screwing up his face into a grimace, he snapped: “Oh, shut the fuck up.” 

Colm grinned, beamed: “Oh! The intruder speaks.” He almost seemed relieved. “It’s good to know you’re a Pokémon, at least.” He chuckled. “It must be terrifying being in a building with electricity for once. Tell me… did the lights scare you? Be honest.”  

The Kecleon’s rote words made Sid’s fists clench. He licked his lips, looked around once more, and announced: “I know you have soldiers in here with me. I heard them.” 

“Hm?” Colm shuffled. His voice was smug, oozing with sadistic joy. “No, there are no soldiers here. They’re all outside. Are you sure you're not hearing things?” 

Sid snapped: “Bullshit.”  He then unpacked his map, gave it a once-over. He traced his little fingertip over the winding halls, zipping from one to the next, before settling on the same vent he’d entered from. A frustrated sigh fell from his lips. 

“If it weren’t obvious, aurum is a wonder technology, more or less,” Colm explained. As he spoke, Sid lifted himself into the vent he’d just emerged from, crawling onto his hands and knees. “Every day, we find more uses for it. Medical implants, computing, engineering… it’s His gift to us all, really. And it can only be found in Illumina, too! I thought you might like to know that.” 

Then, silence. Sid crawled forward into the dim, grunting, his knees and elbows scraped from the steel’s sharp corners. Colm listened intently to the sounds of his struggle, quietly relishing in it. And then, he said: “Tell me. If you had the power of aurum, what would you build with it? What would you use it for?” 

And then, throwing the words haphazardly from himself, reeling in his sore and battered vines, Sid answered: “I’d probably use it to kill you.” 

Colm was taken aback by his outright scorn. He said: “No, seriously. Have some imagination. What would you really use it for?” 

But Sid simply replied: “I told you my answer.” 

	Truthfully, Sid’s hostility was quite telling. Internally, Colm was jumping to all sorts of self-indulgent assumptions, wondering how best to extract information from the poor lizard. Every sentence, every word, was quietly intended to poke at the most vulnerable bits of Sid’s psyche. 

	The Kecleon intended to speak again, but was stymied by a quiet thud. Sid snapped backward, eyeing the sudden intrusion, only to catch sight of a shadowy figure, unmoving, having just entered the same vent. The sight made Sid’s breath catch; he froze, staring intently, as he said: “You told me there were no soldiers in here.” 

	And Colm replied: “Well, that’s not a soldier.” 

	Sid’s heart nearly flung itself from his chest. Taking slow, deep breaths, the Snivy gently placed his hand forward, his neck wrenched backward, watching; but just as he did so, the shadow did the same. One distended paw, emerging into the light, crawling just as Sid did, at the same pace. 

	The realization send Sid into a full-on panic. He slammed his hands ahead of him, wrenching himself forward, catching his tail on the rusted seams. One right turn, then left, moving in a total hysterics, all the while listening to the approaching thump thump. 

	“Your thrashing is really loud,” Colm mocked. “Do you think you could quiet down, maybe?” 

	But Sid wasn’t listening. Having flung himself a fair distance, he then turned around, his breath caught. There, rounding the nearest corner, was that same shadow; grunting, breathing, crawling. Their approach was heralded by a terrible smell, like rotting produce, their hands haphazardly grabbing at the steel.

	It was closer now. With tears in his eyes, Sid clawed for the nearest intersection. His nails scratched loudly on metal, his knees knocking against the walls and floor. And then, having reached the split, he felt something strange – airflow. Warm air gently lifted his leaves, fluffing them, heralding a vertical shaft just above his head. 

	With a manic grimace, Sid deftly shot his vines upward, felt around for a ledge. All the while, the shadow lumbered forward. Sid heard it clearly now; labored breathing, mixed with short, high-pitched yelps. Like it was excited.

	The Snivy found the ledge with only moments to spare. He then strained his vines to their limit, bruises shining, lifting himself at the most awkward of angles; and just as his feet lifted from the cold metal, a rush of hot air passed underneath. It grazed his feet, reeking. Breath.

	Sid then slumped himself over the ledge’s sharp edge, took deep gulps of air. And then, still hearing the rumblings from below, he sloppily burst himself through the nearest grate, plummeting himself onto the second floor. He fell face-first onto the tile, landing in a plume of dust and debris. He coughed. 

	Just as before, Sid’s presence was duly welcomed. Overhead lights flicked on, bathing the room in a warm, orange light, humming delightfully. Sid had just barely avoided colliding head-first with a coffee table. And as he finally lifted his head to observe his surroundings, he realized it – he was in another waiting room. Smaller this time. 

	Baby blue walls gave way to a white trim, a pure white reception desk. Uncomfortable wooden chairs lined the walls in a neat line, magazines still strewn about, culminating in a small shrine to Arceus, His head eternally tilted upward toward the ceiling. An ever-watching Decidueye peeked from decrepit, moisture-curled posters. Mildew and dust hung in the stiff air.

	All things considered, the room was well-kept; save for the steel door at the room’s back, flung open and broken. The entire thing was wrenched and warped, as if someone had forcibly bent its mass from the inside, curling it in on itself. 

	Lifting himself from a cloud of dust, Sid choked, rasped: “What the hell was that?” 

	In response, Colm simply replied: “I see you met our friend.” 

	Sid was dumbfounded by his nonchalance. He smoothed his leaves back, rubbed on his head, as he struggled to calm himself; and then, he was off. Just like before, he ran around to the receptionist’s desk, rummaged around inside for anything useful; but then, having found nothing, he turned toward the broken door. Brown, long-crusted liquid still flowed from underneath. A big pile of it.

	Drawing in a tender breath, ignoring the poor Snivy’s panic, Colm asked: “Tell me. Are you religious?” 

	“No,” Sid replied. His eyes were fixated on the stain, his tone absent.

	Colm chuckled and said: “That makes sense for your kind.” 

	Then, Sid approached the door. His feet trampled on the dirt-infused carpet, his fingertips tracing along the rusted, torn metal. Still, a dim hum rang out from the walls. Sid imagined this building in its prime, filled with Pokémon, chatting amongst themselves, going about their everyday lives… 

	Under his breath, the Snivy asked: “What the hell is in here with me?” 

	“Something special,” Colm replied. 

	Sid demanded: “Tell me.” 

	“If you reveal your name, I’ll tell you everything,” Colm said. His words were begrudgingly enticing. “I think you deserve to know, after all. And I’m willing to help you.” 

	At that, Sid froze. The Kecleon hadn't honored the last deal, true, but what trap could he spring with just a name?

The Snivy’s fingers lingered on the hydraulic door’s curves. Vines arose from his back, peeled the slab from its resting place. Rusted hinges screeched and disintegrated. And the trapped animal quietly admitted: “My name is Sid.” 

	“Sid,” Colm echoed. He tossed it around his mouth. “I like that name.” 

 Then, the Kecleon took a deep breath. He was intent to fulfill his end of the bargain, after all, but didn’t know where to begin. How could he possibly explain what the Board had been doing? 

“Tell me,” Colm began. “Do you know what a genome is?” 

Finally, Sid had opened the door. The lamps beyond suddenly alit. He was met with a sight beyond his understanding. And he replied: “No, I don’t.” 

Smacking his lips, tilting his head, Colm struggled to explain himself. So instead, he simply said: “That thing that was following you… she was intended to be a gift.” 

“A gift to who?” 

Colm smiled. “The entire world.” 

Sid’s surroundings told a different story. A singular reclining chair sat in the middle of the room, like a dentist’s office, straps dangling sloppily from its torn cushions. To its side, two small tables of medical implements were tipped over, spilled onto the tiled ground; and next to them, several blocky machines, busted open. 

Many years ago, a fight had occurred here. It didn’t end well. Dried blood acquiesced in little pools; along the walls, splatters of crimson and viscera, like someone had exploded in the room’s corner. Scorch marks, too, covered the walls and floor. Sid inspected them with shocked reverence. 

Colm asked: “Sid… do you know anything about this facility?”

Rummaging through the surgical equipment, Sid replied: “I know it’s old.” 

“It’s actually not that old,” Colm clarified. Such semantics were important to him. “It only shut down about thirty years ago. Because of an… electrical fire.” He smiled. “That’s what the Department of Welfare said, anyway. Do you believe that?” 

“Judging by what’s in front of me?” Sid asked. “No, I don’t think I do.” 

Then, he noticed it. Nestled within a messy pile of tongs and pliers and bandages, a scalpel poked through. Sid carefully wrapped his fingers around its handle, held it close, and threw his pencil to the side. The cold metal leeched heat from his hand. Tiny flecks of blood still shone on the scalpel’s blade. 

Sid white-knuckled it. He then turned around, hurried back through; and as he did, he caught sight of the surgeon’s queue. A tiny slip of paper, bound to the wall by a rusted tack, upon which many names were listed. All of them were crossed off, save for the last – “Madeline.” 

Just as the Snivy crossed the threshold, Colm butted in: “You know… Sid, I think I see a lot of myself in you.” Pause. “If you don’t mind, would you mind telling me how you came to live outside Augusta?” 

At that, Sid rolled his eyes. He said: “I don’t think you really care… do you?” 

“Oh, but I do.” And then, a click filled the air. Colm had unlocked the main hydraulics, swinging open the main door to the second floor. It screeched for the first time in decades. And Colm announced: “There. You don’t have to crawl around those dirty vents anymore. Doesn’t that feel better?” 

Sid cautiously approached the doorway, peeked outside. Just like the first floor, bulbs flickered to life ahead of him, bathing the area in yellow-orange light. They hummed in a uniform cacophony, illuminating years’ worth of dust, filth, and neglect. 

“So,” Colm continued, as if he were owed conversation. “Tell me. Were you born feral?” 

Sid walked slowly down the hall, his heart thumping. He would turn, check his backside, and swivel back, only to lay eyes on another empty row of sick beds. The floor was full of them – stacked along both sides, surrounded by pure white curtains, pure white beds. Made and dressed, like someone had prepared them only yesterday. 

Not knowing why, Sid confided: “Iris threw me out for attending a protest.” 

“Ah!” Obviously, Colm was delighted to hear this. “So, you were originally from Augusta, then? That makes sense. I was thinking… you spoke very well for a feral.” 

Sid chose not to respond. He instead reached the end of the hall, came face-to-face with the main stairwell’s entrance, and tugged on the hydraulics. Nothing budged. Just like the others, this route to the third floor was sealed shut. 

“I see you don’t want me coming any closer to you,” Sid said. 

Colm replied: “Well, as much as I enjoy your company, I’d like to keep things professional. I hope you'll understand.” 

The Snivy then meandered over to the nearby receptionist’s desk, shivering in the near-complete silence. Every time the speaker crackled to life, Sid nearly jumped out of his skin. Even the sounds of his own footsteps, echoing through the hall, made him perk. 

 Predictably, the receptionist’s desk was a disaster. Littered atop its glossy grey surface was a pile of chocolate-smeared wrappers, yellow, each emblazoned with a crown. The royal pile of trash spilled over the desk, piled onto the floor, and bathed Sid’s feet in a sea of aluminum. It crinkled.

Incredulous, Sid asked: “Why are there… chocolate wrappers?” 

But Colm didn’t respond. The air was eerily still, free of any pointless sniping, free from torment. Sid waited two, three seconds, then asked again: “Did you hear me? Why are there so many wrappers here?” 

Still, nothing. Sid was only left with his own thoughts; so he brushed aside the miniature mountains of trash, piled it all onto the floor. Ten long seconds of swiping and crinkling and smudging.

Behind them was an unexpected sight: three little switches, labeled haphazardly on peeling strips of tape. Bravo, Charlie, Delta.

The sight of them brought a smile to Sid’s lips. He’d been informed of electronic switches like this – the ones in the main control room. If these were anything like the main control panel, there was a chance it’d unlock the main stairwell. The prospect made his chest tingle, his jaw grind.

“Hey Colm,” the Grass-type called. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his mouth curled into a nervous smile. “What do these switches do?” 

Still left with nothing but silence, Sid was forced to investigate the matter himself. He reached a trembling finger toward the first switch – Bravo – and allowed his fingertip to lick the cold, round, metallic switch. One flex, and it was done; that is to say, nothing happened. No doors opened. No machinery functioned. It was as if the panel had done nothing at all. 

Sid breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, he thought, the entire switchboard is broken. With a newfound confidence, he then raised his finger once more, laid it across Charlie, and flicked.

A grand thwack then rang out, like a door slamming shut; and then, darkness. Every overhead light darkened in one fell swoop. That subtle hum which had once occupied the air, near-imperceptible, dissipated into complete, tinnitus-inducing silence. The Snivy hastily tried to flip the switch back, but to no avail. He was unwittingly plunged into a sea of darkness. 

The tiny Snivy then hastily lit an Energy Ball, held it to his surroundings; and as he did so, laughing boomed from the speaker. Colm, duly amused by Sid’s fumbling, mocked: “Arceus, are you really that stupid? Who goes around flipping random switches?”

Defensive, Sid yelled back: “What did I just do?” 

Matter-of-factly, Colm explained: “You just activated emergency counter-measures, in case of a Pokémon’s escape from the OR.” He giggled. “I’m guessing you flipped… Charlie? That one’s meant to protect against Electric types...”

 Sid swore under his breath. He then cautiously backed away from the desk, nearly slipping on chocolate wrappers, and caught himself on the wall. And then, he heard it – footsteps. Same as he’d heard before. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I invited a guest,” Colm mocked. In the main office, he kicked his feet onto the desk, folded his hands behind his head. “She’s been awfully eager to meet you. Why don’t you go and say hi?” 

Colm’s words landed on deaf ears. Before the Kecleon had even finished speaking, Sid had made a mad dash for the stairwell. He stumbled forward, his hands grazing the dirty tile, as he flung himself around the nearest corner – only to hear the footsteps emanating from the stairs. Frantic, unsteady footfalls, like it was rushing toward him. Lunging. 

Slipping over himself, Sid then turned tail, bolted in the opposite direction, past ten rows of white-clad hospital beds, past dangling lights and webs and aluminum wrappers. Heavy breaths made his chest burn, his legs cramping with exhaustion and hunger. 

The lizard blew past the waiting room’s doorframe, collapsing onto the carpet, before recovering his Energy Ball and unsheathing his vines. They crept up the wall with blinding speed, curling their edges along the edges of the vent, only to realize that hot air was being funneled through. Very hot air. Even touching the metal shaft made his flesh burn. 

Sid breathed heavy, retracting his vines, as a horrified grimace stretched across his face. Both the main stairwell and the vents were blocked off. And out there in the hall, accompanied by ragged breaths, were the footfalls of a monster. Sid agonized, but there was no choice. He had to hide. 

Scrambling like a child, Sid snuffed out his Energy Ball, then flung himself under the receptionist’s desk. He hit the back panel with a quiet thump, and then laid there, unmoving, as he listened for any sign of approach. 

At first there was nothing, save for the low hum of the vents; but then, it came. Stumbling, excitable footfalls, like a hatchling’s; they meandered around the room’s periphery, seemingly tracing along the walls, before coming across the operating room’s broken door. The creature seemed to linger there, as if reading off the patient’s list; and then they resumed, coming closer, closer… 

	Until eventually, they came to the desk’s front, stopped. The shadow breathed there, heavily, sniffing at the air; and then, with a malformed grunt, the beast bent down, putting one hand upon the desktop, and stopped. 

	Stuck in the dark, Sid could hardly tell what was happening. The beast was close, but hadn’t touched him; perhaps it hadn’t noticed him? Lounging on the desk? Or perhaps it was simply toying with him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

	In any case, Sid was cornered. Cracking under the pressure, he let out small, tepid breaths. He struggled to stay quiet; and then, he smelled it. A sort of rancid milieu, consisting of trash and feces and chocolate. The monster let out an excited squeal, leaning forward in the dark, its fetid breath tickling the tip of Sid’s nose. 

The Snivy, near-paralyzed with fear, upheld his palm in the pitch-black darkness; a small Energy Ball, the size of an apple, alit in his hand. Within only a few seconds, the desk’s underside was set aglow with a faint green light. And there, only a foot from Sid’s face, was the beast – a Raichu, misshapen and stinking. 

Orange, mud-stained fur sprouted from her body in sparse patches, criss-crossed with mismatched stripes and scars. An open sore burgeoned from her chest, still trickling blood, as if it’d been scratched and torn open. And her face, perforated by a prominent cleft lip, was stretched into an uncomfortably long smile, as hot breath oozed from her lips. 

Sid opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He instead let out a stunted “Uh,” completely frozen, his eyes flickering left and right, searching for escape. Behind his back, the scalpel glinted and churned, tightly clutched.

The squealing Raichu then lowered herself onto her hands and knees. Like a supplicating child, she slowly pressed her forehead against the floor; and on the back of her neck, scarred and red and raw, was a second face, malformed, two pitch-black eyes staring back.

The Snivy watched in horror as its mouth then opened, its tongue flailing against razor-sharp teeth, and began to vocalize. A deep hum at first, which then flew up, up, until it reached Sid’s register. And, with a satisfied grin, the beast contorted her throat, bulging against the skin of her back. And, perfectly replicating Sid’s voice, she let out a guttural:

“Uh. Uh. Uh.” 

Sid shook, took in unsteady breaths. Fear threw him into a frenzy; in one fluid moment, he threw himself forward, catapulting himself past the beast, throwing himself sloppily onto the desktop, and then toward the gaping doorway. Only the faint light of his Energy Ball lit the derelict hallway; before he knew it, he was screaming, running, tears flowing from his eyes in one last-ditch effort. 

From behind him, that same scream rang out, followed by uncoordinated footfalls. Sid ran faster, drowning out the din with shallow, panicked breaths. Those sick beds passed by once more, pair by pair, until Sid finally reached the main stairwell’s door. He then hastily wrapped his hands around the hydraulic handle, pulled as harshly as he could, only to be met with failure. Despite the power outage, the door was still stuck. 

	Sid let out a frightened whimper, listening to his approaching doom, and unsheathed his vines. They flew out in a tangled frenzy, clutching every bit of the door.

“Come on!” Sid yelped. Behind him, the screams grew louder, frantic, mixed with the screeching of metal-on-metal. Desperate huffs flew from Sid’s throat as he tensed every bit of himself, planting his feet solidly on the floor, tugging backward in hysterics. 

“Please!” Sid screamed. Already, he could hear the monster approaching. With each tug, the door came unstuck from the doorframe, just enough to let light peek through.
 
“Please, please, please!”

And from behind, through spasming throats, the monster repeated: “Please, please, please!” The sound emerged from her flesh through fluid-filled gargles, harmonising with itself, blending. One foot in front of the other, it cheerily approached. 

Then, a wet crack. Sid glanced backward just in time to see the Raichu tilt her head left, then right, as if dislodging its own neck, opening up red, raw flesh; and from these wounds burgeoned a familiar sight. Slender, wet, green vines, rising from its wounds, four of them, rising toward the ceiling, then curving back down… 

“Colm!” Sid screamed. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. His vines stretched to their maximum, straining, threatening to break. “Anyone! Please!” 

Something wet, slimy, slithered across Sid’s nape. The monster was behind him now, stroking along his flesh, exploring it. That rancid smell infiltrated Sid’s nose, made him sputter and gag. And all the while, the monster spoke, in a fetid chorus: 

“Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby. Baby.” 

Then, a miracle. 

With one last solid tug, Sid successfully wrenched open the stairwell’s door, collapsing down onto his butt. Pale yellow light shone from the doorway, illuminated by decades-old bulbs. The light shot out like a bullet, burned the monster’s eyes; the Raichu’s pudgy hand shot up, covering her face. 

Now was Sid’s chance. 

He threw himself forward like a ragdoll, near-collapsing onto the concrete stairs, and began to climb, clutching the rail in one hand, the scalpel in the other. Each step was a leap for his little legs; what little calories he stored were quickly burned up, funneled into an adrenaline-fueled chase, until he was left bereft and tired on the top landing. 

Stumbling forward, Sid pried on the third floor’s door; but just like the others, it’d been electronically locked. From within the main office, Colm intently listened to his prey’s final struggle. The panting, the sighs, the cries for help. It tickled him. 

“Let me in!” the Snivy cried. His reddened fists banged uselessly on the steel exterior. And from behind, the monster crept; one little foot in front of the other, slinking up the stairs, clinging to the railing, staring intently at Sid. Grinning. 

“She’s really taken a liking to you,” Colm mocked. 

Tired and terrified, Sid placed his back against the door, stared at the oncoming assailant. He had a better view of her now; that grotesque fur melding with itself in layers, melted, striated with rows of pale human flesh. Vines trailed behind her limply, dragging along the stairs, as she lifted her finger, pointed it at Sid, and said: “Baby. Baby.”

“I–I’m not your baby,” Sid choked. His eyes wide, rimmed with tears, he backed himself against the cold steel. With trembling arms, he then upheld the scalpel, pointed it toward the beast. Breath stuck in his throat, threatened to choke him; and through clenched teeth, he hissed: “Get away from me. Get the fuck away from me.” 

But the Raichu only stared. That same blank, cheerful expression. Undulating quietly upon her lips, as if she whispered an inaudible prayer. One misshapen leg dragging along the floor, her foot sideways, while the other crept forward. A wet, slithering sound emanated from her torn flesh as her vines slowly retracted, bulging along her moist, pitted skin. 

One step, two. Her bulbous stomach folded over itself as she bent forward, extending her paws. Waddling. That rasped word falling from her chapped lips again and again: “Baby. Baby. Baby.” 

And then, Sid broke. 

The next few moments were a blur. Filled with fear and rage, he lunged toward the creature, swung his scalpel wildly. A great roar erupted from his sore throat, a terrified grimace plastered across his cheeks. 

“Shut up!” 

As soon as those words flew from Sid’s lips, the poor monster jumped in surprise. Her arms flew up in the air, as if in surrender, as she let out a frightened yelp. The scalpel flew only an inch from her outstretched paw, cold air swishing against her scant fur. She then backed away, teetering on that final step, her face morphing into a cloven frown. 

But Sid didn’t pursue her. Having fended her off, he then doubled back, pressing himself against the door once more, watching helplessly as the beast twitched and sputtered. 

The attack had frightened her. The Raichu’s arms shot up to her contorted face, covering it, as a distressed wail vomited from her throat. She then began to beat at her forehead, hanging it low, hammering away with her clenched fists. 

With a look of horrified confusion, Sid watched as the monster cried. Sniveling like a child, her ears folded back in submission, she sloppily wiped tears. And then, turning away, the Raichu threw her head down onto the metal railing. Hard. Sid nearly jumped up to help, only to be stunned into silence as she crashed her skull into it again, again, again. Sobbing. 

Then, Sid felt something. A sort of low vibration, a tingling, flowing through his entire body, growing. A high-pitched whine grated on his ears. His leaves uncontrollably fluffed, stuck out from his body. The lights above flickered, rumbled, and swung. Tiny, orange-yellow sparks flew from the Raichu’s fingers, clenched tightly around the railing, surging in-time with her sobs, the bloody collisions of her skull. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“H–hey,” Sid breathed. His eyes were wide, his voice drowned out by the whirr of errant electricity. He lowered his scalpel, stepped forward, and cooed: “H–hey. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

Then, the electricity surged. A burst of white-hot light shot from the Raichu’s body, infiltrating Sid’s flesh, causing his entire body to seize. His posture shot up, his spine suddenly straight, as his arms shook. His legs then quickly gave out, his tiny body collapsing onto the concrete floor with a dry thump. And there, with wide, wet eyes, his jaw twitching and yammering, he withstood the now-waning electric pulse.

The sobbing, however, remained. Even as that shrill whirr quieted into a low hum, and the Raichu’s grip on the railing grew loose, she remained inconsolable. Just the sight of a scalpel had reduced her to anguish. Like a hatchling’s tantrum, the monster threw herself on the floor, arms splayed, face-down, and suffered. 

Sid struggled to sit himself upright; and then, he struggled to stand. He let his scalpel fall to the floor as he braced himself against the wall, taking deep breaths. Shocked and confused, he watched as the Raichu’s back rose and fell, her second face quietly crying and sputtering. Making a sort of repetitive “Buh” sound with her malformed lips.

Without knowing why, Sid glanced down at her shaking body, and said: “I’m sorry.” He gave a furtive glance toward the scalpel, ignored the impulse to brandish it once more, and echoed: “I–I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I didn’t know.” 

But his words provided no comfort. As if he weren’t there at all, the monster drowned herself in panicked tears. For just a moment, Sid wondered whether Colm was still listening. 

Colm.

Snapping his head backward, Sid was met with a welcome sight. The door to the third floor, hitherto hydraulically locked, was now sprung open. Evidently, that electric surge had tampered with the mechanism. 

With a manic laugh, Sid immediately got to work. So he unsheathed his vines, wrapped them around the handle, and tugged. Five seconds of metal screeching, mixed with wet-nosed crying. Sid passed through the doorway with no fanfare; and, having glanced back at the monster once more, he closed the door behind himself. He was only left with silence, and the swish-swish of an office fan. 

The third floor, originally intended for records-keeping and administrative purposes, was by far the smallest. Sat atop the blocky concrete structure like a crown, this is where the headmaster would’ve gone about their daily business, arranging for experimentation, sipping coffee, reading newspapers… 

Nowadays, however, the office was stark. Neat rows of desks stretched on either side, each seat equipped with a dust-topped typewriter. Paperwork sloppily spread across each workstation, spilled onto the floor, and drowned the scratchy green carpet. Scant light spilled through the windows, heralding the sunrise, painting the beige walls orange-pink. 

	“Colm!” Sid called. He walked deeper into the space, toward a pair of ornate double-doors, and announced: “Colm! I know you’re in there.” 

But no one responded. Sid wondered whether Colm intended to simply lock himself inside the main office; but as he reached the doors, Sid was surprised to discover they weren’t even locked. The doors swung open with little resistance, revealing a clean, empty office. Red wallpaper peeled from the walls like tinsel, moldy and soaked. 

In the room’s center, a grand bureau. Oaken and stained and smooth, it seemed like the only untouched part of things. A metallic box sat atop, covered in tiny switches and white etchings. Coming closer, Sid noticed its pattern – three little maps, each corresponding to a floor, with lights and buttons and labels aside. 

The control panel. 

	With a manic grin, Sid stood atop the ornate reclining chair, where Colm had sat only minutes earlier. Swiveling his head around the room, he then noticed only a small pile of clothes in the room’s corner, neatly folded. Colm’s clothes.

	The sight of it made Sid stiffen. Somewhere on this floor, Colm was hiding. Camouflaged, perfectly invisible, as to be expected for a Kecleon. Watching and waiting.

 “I–I know you’re here,” the Snivy called. His heart raced in his chest, his voice garnering no response, as he mustered what remained of his machismo. “Come out! You want to fight, right? You want to kill me? Come fucking fight!”

	But the air was still. Dust swirled idly in the light of the desklamp, dancing in tune with Sid’s tinnitus. And then, having heard nothing, Sid set his sights upon the switchboard; his eyes glazed over every inch of it, cross-comparing it to his crumpled map, before he located the first floor’s controls. 

	There, located between two identical buttons, laid his friends’ freedom. So Sid looked around once more, sucking on his teeth, and pressed down. 

	Sid’s face was suddenly very hot. A red-white explosion erupted from the switchbox and wracked his vision, blasted him against the chair’s back, and he tumbled to the floor. And there, face-down in the dusty carpet, his vision swirled. Deep breaths permeated his quivering lungs. Smoke made them ache.

	“F–f…” The Snivy attempted to speak, but the explosion rendered him a sputtering mess. His stomach churning, Sid forced himself to his hands and knees, letting out a pathetic hum, trying to regain his bearings. But just as he lifted himself, a heavy whack pounded against the back of his skull. His face was shoved back onto the floor, bumping his sore nose against the ground, as Colm’s laugh resounded.

	But the Kecleon didn’t strike again. He simply watched, invisible, as the sniveling lizard floundered on the floor, struggling to speak. 

	This is so pathetic, Colm thought. He almost felt pity for the poor Pokémon. With a big smile, sauntering casually onto the main floor, he intently watched as Sid struggled to right himself. Fire plumed from the desk, filling the air with smoke, licking at the soles of Sid’s feet. 

	That pain spurred Sid forward. Stumbling and limp-legged, the Snivy threw himself out of the main office, closed the door behind himself, and circumspected. With wide eyes, he frantically looked around the cubicles for Colm, now aware of the Kecleon’s intent. 

	“So you want to fuck with me, huh?” Sid spat. He mustered as much strength as he could, his bravado wearing thin. “You could’ve killed me back there. Why didn’t you? Huh?” He spat onto the ground. “You fucking hit me? Like a schoolyard bully? Come out and show your face!” 

	Sid then scanned the office for movement, listening intently to the crackling of an electronic fire. Then, from his right, he spotted it – within one of the cubicles, a stapler was upraised, as if lifted by a poltergeist, before being lobbed directly at Sid’s head. The Snivy dodged just in time, nearly toppling himself, as the stapler instead collided with the wall. Tiny bits of concrete chipped from the resultant crater. 

	“Tell me,” Colm’s voice echoed. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, reverberating, folding back on itself in a hypnotic fuzz. “Why do you think I’m doing this, Sid?”

Sid spat back: “Because you’re a fucking psychopath.” 

“Wrong,” Colm retorted. The scent of burnt metal tickled his nose. “I’m doing this because I like you, Sid. I like having you around.” 

“Really?” the Snivy replied. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Colm shook his head, attempting to find the right words. The correct phrasing always escaped him in moments like this. So he simply said: “When I look at you, I see a survivor. I see someone who can, and will, do anything to live. Truthfully, I admire that.”

Sid wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Turning back, he watched as the office’s fire glowed a fierce orange, trailing out from under the door. And he said: “You’re keeping me alive for a reason.” 

“Somewhat,” Colm affirmed. His voice was playful, intent. “I just want to talk with you for a little longer. If you’ll forgive my dreadful manners, that is.” He smacked his lips. “I just think you ought to think about your future, Sid. Is it really worth pinning all your dreams on a ragtag group of invalids?” 

Another flicker of movement. To his left, Sid saw an office chair wiggle and sway, like someone had just sat upon it; and so, without thinking, he unsheathed his vines and swatted. His vines, however, only met air. No matter where Sid struck, no matter what he saw, Colm was always one step ahead. Moving silently from place-to-place, kiting the emaciated Snivy’s every attack. 

“You’re ugly,” Colm explained, “but it doesn’t have to be this way. You can have the life you’ve always dreamed of.” 

Pressing himself up against the wall, gritting his teeth, Sid yelled: “That life died with Grimm.”

And Colm calmly replied: “Well, better to have loved once than never at all.” A quiet chuckle. “I mean, seriously, Sid. Are you really going to sacrifice your life tonight? For a group of Pokémon you hardly know? Who even are these people to you? Be honest with me.” 

Sid, his eyes wild with rage, seethed: “They’re the only real friends I’ve ever had.” 

“Then you must have some terrible friends,” Colm mocked. His footfalls were soft, untraceable, but audible. “Friends should help each other get ahead, right? But all they’ve done is drag you down. Reduce you to a life on the run. Lead you right into a trap.” His eyes moved independently of one another, swiveling and invisible, taking in every little detail. “You’re tired of being a fugitive, right? I can offer you a whole new way of life. Technologies you’ve never dreamed of. Power you could hardly imagine.” 

“Shut up.”

“The truth is, I was feral too,” Colm admitted. He spoke quickly, as convincingly as he could. “But I wasn’t even born in Augusta. I was born in Peace of Mind. Ugly, and terrible. I deserved to die. But then, I saw my first and only real chance at beauty.” 

The fire rose to a crescendo as he spoke. Wooden doors burned and collapsed under their own weight. Colm’s voice boomed over the crackling: “My admissions papers are forged, Sid. I first entered the Department of Peace under false pretenses. And through sheer willpower, I made myself beautiful. As beautiful as I could.” The words dripped from his lips with masturbatory glee. He’d never shared these feelings before. They poured from him in a torrent, sucking up all the air.

With an invisible, perverted smile, Colm assured: “I could make you beautiful, Sid. You don’t have to die here. I could help you. We could build a whole new world together. What do you say?” 

The pair were silent for a moment. It was all so surreal; being offered power, riches, anything he wanted. All of the things Sid had always coveted, everything he’d always prayed for. But he couldn’t accept such an offer. Not anymore. Not without Grimm.

And so, sticking up his nose, the appalled Snivy replied: “I don’t want to be anything like you. Fucking freak.”

Those words made Colm freeze. The Kecleon, standing quietly in the room’s corner, looked the lizard up, then down. He maintained a neutral expression, his spine stiff. His lips flitted as a fleeting frown struggled to form. His fists balled; and then, narrowing his eyes, surrounded by thickening smoke, he said: “So, you’re… saying no?” 

“Yeah,” Sid replied. Despite his exhaustion, despite everything, he stood tall. “I’m saying no.”  

“You’re telling me no,” Colm repeated. His words betrayed no intonation, no emotion. “I’m offering you something any other Pokémon would kill for, and you’re telling me… no?”

Taking joy in his refusal, Sid affirmed: “Correct. I will never, ever, ever, stoop to your level. So do us both a favor and stop fucking asking.” 

Shocked silence. Colm couldn’t believe it. In a tender voice, as if he’d genuinely expected things to go differently, he breathed: “I opened my heart to you.” 

“Oh, please,” Sid snapped. “You don’t have a heart.”

For just a moment, Colm was in the forest. Traversing the Divide, coming across a gang of fugitive humans, smiling, laughing, sharing a drink… 

It was the happiest he’d ever been. 

Then, he alit. Righteous anger coursed through Colm’s body. His stomach felt like it was going to explode. His hands, balled and clenching, threatened to break free from his arms. And, his face morphing into an expression of disdain, the Kecleon spat: “Typical fucking feral. Outsider. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you.” 

Subtly, a desktop shook, as if someone had climbed onto it. Sid immediately launched his vines in its direction, but met only air. Then, the window shades; but this, too, was misleading. No matter how quickly Sid responded, he couldn’t land a blow. 

“Insane fucking ghoul,” Sid barked. Paranoid eyes darted to and fro. “You killed the love of my life. Did you expect me to forget about that?” 

Steeped in quiet rage, Colm hissed: “Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost something?”

By the time Sid saw the stapler being raised, it was too late. Flung from a nearby desk, it collided squarely with Sid’s cheek, snapping his bruised face backward. He briefly stumbled to the floor, his fingertips grazing the dirty carpet, as he panicked, hobbled toward the main office. 

Fuck, Sid thought. His head swam. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breaths shallow. If I keep going like this, I’m going to die.

Sid had hoped to retreat inside the main office; but as he opened the door, a waterfall of smoke poured out. Thick and dark, it pooled onto the floor below. And there, in the center of it all, was a roaring fire. Stray sparks flew from the once-ornate bureau, defiling the wood, staining the ceiling black. 

	The injured Snivy recoiled, turned his back to the fire; and there, staring out onto the floor, he waited. One hand clasped over his mouth, he intently watched the smoke spread out along the floor, covering the ground like a blanket. 

	There.

	Subtly, almost unnoticeable, were footprints. One after another, approaching Sid head-on. Closer, closer. Sid kept them in his vision’s corner, not looking at them head-on; but as soon as they came within striking distance, his vines swept the floor. 

	Alas, Colm had anticipated the attack. Sid only managed to graze his ankle as Colm then leapt into the air; four ashen pawprints then appeared on the wall, replicating, spreading along the ceiling, as the Kecleon ran. 

	“I’ve got you,” Sid breathed. And with trembling hands, he deftly formed one Energy Ball after another, launching it into Colm’s path. They crashed into the ceiling with a harsh buzz, leaving it pockmarked with little craters. As if he could sense them approaching, the Kecleon crawled in haphazard zig-zags, throwing himself toward the main staircase. 

	Sid gave chase. He sprinted past the little cubicles, red-eyed, tracking Colm’s prints. From behind, a loud crash rang out; Sid turned away only for a moment, only to notice that the switchbox had exploded. Whatever tampering Colm had performed, he must’ve done it sloppily. What was once a cold box of metal was now a raging inferno, engulfing the entire main office, spreading outward like a virus along the floor. 

	But just short of the stairwell, just before the closed door, Colm’s tracks disappeared off the ceiling. Somewhere, Colm hid. Stalking his prey before going in for the final strike. Somewhere, he laughed. 

	Sid was left with nothing to go on. Just as he did before, Sid backed himself against the hydraulic door, staring outward at destruction. The smoke had yet to billow so close; he couldn’t track Colm’s movements anymore. 

	The Kecleon, of course, took full advantage of this. Stuck to the wall like an insect, his eyes twitching, he watched as the tiny Snivy gradually choked. 

 	This was Colm’s life. A series of endless battles. A waiting game. A process of stalking and eating and consuming. Words hardly held any meaning to him anymore. The Pokémon around him were nothing more than extensions of himself. Tools to be used. 

	Why, then, had Colm revealed his deepest secret to Sid? To someone without political pedigree or goodwill? He himself didn’t know. Perhaps he wanted to be seen, just once. To be understood for what he really was. Not just an animal, clawing for his next meal. Not just a politician, or a sycophant. He was something more. 

	Colm squirmed. Just the thought of himself, debased, feral, was enough to drive him mad. It made his stomach curdle, his toes curl. And yet, he thought, that was just how Sid had treated him. Like an animal. Less-than. A monster. 

	The Kecleon then contorted himself, slowly crawling from the wall onto the floor. A deathly glint shone from his eye. And he approached; his jaw quivering, yearning for the opportunity to chomp into Sid’s prone neck. 

	And then, having approached Sid successfully, he raised his hands in the air, prepared to bring them down. And yet the Snivy still stood below, injured and shivering and oblivious. Such an easy target surely diminished the thrill of the hunt; but what else was Colm to do? Such a flagrant insult could not go unpunished. 

	Full-force, Colm brought his fists down upon Sid’s skull; the Snivy then fell to the floor with a sickening thud, his limbs squirming like a dying insect. Colm stooped over him, straddling his back, and dug his claws into the foliage, ripping the Snivy’s vines from their sheath, yanking them upward, tearing. Sid screamed.

	“Say you’re sorry,” Colm ordered. He shifted, kneeling upon Sid’s back, as he gripped the vines’ base. Their flesh shone a bruised purple, twitching under his clenched fingers. And the monster, bloodthirsty, repeated: “Say it. Say you’re sorry. Say it.”

	But Sid wouldn’t obey. Anger burned hot in his stomach, the pain throwing him into an unmitigated frenzy. So he threw his head back, breathing in the fire and fumes, and wailed: “Fuck you! Fuck! You!”

	And for the first time, true anger shone upon the Kecleon’s face. His mask of civility fell away, just for a moment, just long enough to finish it. And, with a tight-lipped scowl, gripping Sid tight, he crept down to his ear.

	Colm asked: “You think you’re better than me?”

His head pounding, Sid spat out a tooth. And he slurred: “I know I’m better than you. Y–you fucking freak.” 

Colm’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Holding Sid’s vines with one hand, the other crept over to Sid’s skull. Taking it in his hand, gripping tightly upon Sid’s leaves, he slammed the Snivy’s face into the floor. 

Thud.

“I offered you salvation.”

Thud.

“And you denied me.” 

Thud.

“Instead, you chose to die. Cold, hungry and alone.” 

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Sid tasted blood. Like a serpent, it snuck its way into his throat, his nose. Loose teeth wiggled and waved against his gashed lips, dancing in a waterfall of warm liquid. He coughed it onto the floor, little ringlets in the carpet dripping deep crimson.

Once more, Colm approached Sid’s ear. Suppressing his anger, his bloodlust, his sadness, the Kecleon breathed deep and whispered: “Last chance, Sid. Apologize to me. Say you’re sorry.”

But Sid didn’t speak. Only a agonized gurgle escaped his throat, desperate gasps of blood-tinged air. His eyes wide and red, his nose crooked, wet tears streaming uncontrollably from his face. And there, nestled within the growing inferno, was a dark, undulating shape. A smile, just like the one Sid used to know.

“G–Grimm,” Sid called. Each word perforated by a wet cough. His chest suddenly felt very light, like he could float away. “Gr–imm… Gimm…”

Colm narrowed his eyes, his tone terse, listening through the crackling of the fire, and replied: “What?”

“Gimm,” Sid echoed. His mouth wasn’t working right. Snot flowed from his broken nose like a sobbing child, his eyes wet and sunken. A little white tooth dripped from his lips in a thick glob of red-tinged mucus, stretched into an agonized smile. “Gimm. Gimm.” 

At this, Colm simply scoffed. Without warning, he let go of Sid’s head. It crashed to the floor, motionless. He then released Sid’s vines, watching them twitch for a moment, then going limp. A mess of bruised and bleeding skin.

Calmly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, Colm then stood, brushed himself off. He cast a glance toward the blistering inferno, which had now overcome half of the floor. Even from a distance, the heat burned his skin, made it raw.

There, in front of the stairway, was what Colm wanted – Sid’s scalpel. Without fanfare, Colm picked it up, cradled it in his hand. For just a moment, he saw himself in its reflection – a mess of color and shape, his skin’s pigmentation flowing and mixing like water. Red, green, violet. And yet his beady eyes remained totally blank.

“I lost my temper there,” Colm said. He was calm now, his words crisp. He looked away from himself with disdain, approached the prone Snivy with undue enthusiasm. And he continued: “I realize now that I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.” 

Colm gripped Sid’s head, held it back, and forced the scalpel to his throat. Sid didn’t resist, or speak; he saw only the melange of flames, the sound of Grimm’s hum. The shape was moving. 

The Kecleon, of course, paid no mind to this. He bent down, intent on Sid’s audience, looking into his unfocused eyes, and whispered: “At first, I really thought I saw myself in you. A feral, bound by circumstance. An intelligent man, down on his luck.” He scoffed. “That was my first mistake. I never should’ve assumed you’d cooperate. All of this… all of this was a complete and utter waste of time.” Begrudged emotion made his voice falter. “I thought I could prevent a modicum of suffering. I offered you my hand, and you refused it.” 

Sid didn’t respond. His stare was blank, empty, as Colm spoke. It frustrated him. Crossing over to Sid’s front, the Kecleon harshly gripped his jaw, stared at him head-on, as the knife indented his throat. 

“There isn’t any intelligence in this world. No kindness. No gratitude.” For just a moment, Colm was back there, on the night of his inauguration, a speech pressed into his quivering palms. Violated, he spat: “All that exists, all that matters, is power. Influence. It’s the only way to ensure true peace. My own kind… they’ve never understood that.” He pursed his lips, obsession making his eyes twitch. “I’d kill a million humans for peace. I’d kill a million Pokémon. I’d wipe out this entire fucking continent. For me, for you. For all the fucking Pokémon I protect who’ve never shown gratitude.” He grinned. “Soon, they’re all going to thank me.”

For one burning moment, the two stared at one another. One blank, one manic. Nothing around them but fire and steel and death. Complete and utter destruction.

And then, without even knowing why, Sid smiled. A great, big grin stretched across his broken and bloody face, his gaze traveling past Colm’s shoulder, as he gazed into the fire. He reached one tiny hand out, shivering and bloody, as his mouth struggled to form the word.

“G–Gimm.” 

	Enraged, Colm barked: “What?” 

	Sid didn’t stop. Writhing against himself, dragging his broken body across bloody carpet, he choked and sputtered and rocked. With an intent gaze, whispered. “Gimm. Gimm. Gimm.” 

	Then, Colm understood. Rising to his feet, still gripping the scalpel, he turned toward the fire; and there, camping within, was an oblong shadow. Watching. 

	Colm immediately readied himself. One foot behind the other, he adopted a fighting stance, brows narrowed. And with bated breath, he watched as the shape gradually emerged, limbs and all. Even before it emerged into the light, Colm smelled it – burning garbage. Feces.

	“Oh,” Colm breathed. His hackles fell, if only a little. “It’s you.”

	But the monster wasn’t content to watch. She stepped casually from the flames, like they didn’t hurt her at all, and approached. Flames danced in her pitch-black eyes, her stained teeth glowing a fierce orange. Smiling. 

	“Madeline,” Colm warned. As if chastising a child, he shook his head. “You’re not supposed to be here. Why don’t you go back to your room?” 

	But the monster disregarded his words. She closed the distance between them, her feet leaving ashen prints on the carpet. Three distended, burnt vines still trailed from her back, sloughing off like dead skin, burning up in the fire. She then pointed toward the moribund Snivy, ignoring the blaze licking at her fur, and echoed: “Baby.” 

	Colm shot a glance toward Sid, turned back, and lied: “Oh, him… he’ll be alright, Madeline. This is just… a little disagreement between adults, that’s all.” 

	But the Raichu was undeterred. With a concerned expression, she stepped forward, making a beeline for Sid’s body. Colm quickly intercepted her, putting himself between them. And with a wry smile, tilting his head, he said: “Hey. Madeline, look at me. You need to leave us alone.” And, motioning toward the stairwell, he ordered: “Your room. Go to your room. Now.” 

	With a crestfallen expression, Madeline met Colm’s stare. Her eyes were wide and wet, sad and lonely, two voices harmonizing as she began to mutter in protest: “Buh. Buh. Buh. Buh.”

	Colm gripped his scalpel tightly. Frustration arose in his gut, making him hunch over and huff, as he exclaimed: “By Arceus. I never know what you’re saying!” Smoke made him cough, his eyes red, his arms thrown in the air, as long-held vitriol spilled from his throat. “Are you even listening to me? Do you ever listen to me?”

	The beast’s breaths quivered in fear. “Buh. Buh. Buh…” 

“Arceus… I work my whole life away, and for what?” Colm yelled. He reached onto his skull, tearing at his flesh in frustration. “For this? To babysit a braindead idiot in the middle of nowhere? What the fuck am I doing?!” The heat snaked its way inside his lungs, the crackling filling his ears. Something broke. And with a mighty inhale, he bellowed: “Go to your room! Now! Now!”

	Madeline’s lips trembled, her limbs retracting. Fear made her freeze. Tears welled in her beady eyes, sniffles mounting on her nose. Staring down at the enraged Kecleon, holding back the urge to cry, as softly as she could, she uttered: “B–baby. I love you.” 

	And then, she moved. Lightly nudging Colm on the shoulder, she passed right by him, trudging her misshapen limbs toward Sid’s body. Her mouths contorted into concerned grimaces, her hands reaching to scoop him into her arms, her legs bending and snapping as she lowered herself to the ground. 

	“Goddammit!” Colm yelled. Grabbing the Raichu harshly by the shoulder, he flipped her around, raised her up, leveled with her face, and yelled: “He’s not! Your fucking! Baby!”

	Then, Madeline began to cry. Tears rolled down her faces like four little waterfalls. Her mouths contorted into grotesque, stinking holes, wailing, screaming in fear. Looking around at the fire, at the falling ceiling boards and blackened concrete, she saw her whole world collapse. 

	“You think this is a fucking joke?!” Colm yelled. His face was curdled, made monstrous with wrath. And, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he shoved Madeline away. Hard. The poor girl stumbled awkwardly, unable to coordinate herself, scratching herself on a nearby desk before overturning it, covering herself in a stack of smoldering papers. She screamed. 

	“Fucking abomination,” Colm huffed. He heaved deep, smoke-tainted breaths as he tired himself. “You should’ve died twenty years ago. But I guess I’ll have to finish this now.” 

	Then, Colm brandished his scalpel. With his brow furrowed, he approached her once more. Tugging Madeline into the air by her nape, the monster begrudgingly rose, swaying on unsteady feet. Her eyes glazed with pain and fear. And then, she saw it – the scalpel, sharp and glistening, pointed directly at her throat. 

	“Pokémon like you have no place in our world,” Colm said. His eyes were wide with perverted excitement. “And it’s my job to set things right.” 

	Sid couldn’t hear what those two said. He only saw what happened afterward.

	With a terrified scream, Madeline threw her head back. Hard. Her neck, now distended and bent, parallel with the ceiling, twisted and writhed. A great cracking noise then rang out, like tens of bones being snapped at once. Colm recoiled. 

	“What the fuck?” Colm muttered. Slowly, he backed away, holding the scalpel out in front of himself, lost in the din. The fire’s crackling was drowned out by two voices, wailing in unison. An expression of agony. Suffering. 

Little stumps then began to coalesce upon the beasts’ back, traveling under her skin like dislocated bones, before bursting from her bloody flesh. Viscera splashed there upon the carpet, burning up, as the flames approached them. And from these holes emerged arms, bloody and bare, covered in crimson; one after another, they piled out, prehensile, bending and scratching and gripping at the air. Three of them, then five, then ten. 

Colm was frozen in horror. His arm began to tremble, his grip on the scalpel loosening. Weakly, he demanded: “G–get back.” 

But Madeline ignored his pleas. Walking closer, stumbling, her head suddenly righted, nose and eyes and mouth dripping liquid flesh. No words; only gurgling. Only the shuffling of her feet, the bending and snapping of her limbs. 

Colm then lunged forward, cutting at the air, as he attempted to drive her back. But Madeline leaned into the blade, catching it between her ribs, grabbing at Colm’s lithe body. Catching his wrist, she pulled him closer, wailing. 

“Stop! Stop! Fucking stop!” Colm cried. For the first time in years, true fear burgeoned in his gut. His ego fell away, his unreadable mien, replaced by utter and complete panic. As quickly as he could, he plunged the scalpel into the monster’s flesh, stabbing at her face, her arms, her stomach. But Madeline didn’t flinch. Thick, red blood oozed from her wounds. 

	His eyes ablaze with rage, Colm let loose one final jab. The scalpel sunk into Madeline’s eye with a squish, sank deep within her skull. She didn’t flinch. Like a mouth, Madeline’s eye socket chewed and convulsed, sucking the scalpel deeper, until only the barest sliver of its handle shone. A spout of festering black liquid then spurted from the socket, soaking Colm’s eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, causing him to choke and sputter. The beast’s mouth still hanging open, emitting that same ear-splitting wail. 

	“No,” Colm sobbed. His voice was terrified, infantile, as his little hands battered at Madeline’s body. Outstretched fingers, coated in blood and ooze and ash, swiping uselessly at the Raichu’s fur. The fire burned and coiled around their feet, entwining them, as their gazes met. 

	“Please,” Colm choked. He watched as the hands loomed over his body, stretching their distended fingers, coming closer to his scalp. Deep, violet bruises formed upon his shoulders, depressed by Madeline’s ironclad grip. And all the while, he cried: “I–I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

	But Madeline didn’t stop. Four hands arched over her shoulders, grabbed at Colm’s thin scalp; then two more emerged, grabbed at his jaw, hooking their disintegrating fingers around his molars. 

	For most people, final words are embarrassing things. Very rarely is a Pokémon afforded the opportunity to foresee their own death. And yet, Chairman Colm certainly did; and so, in those few final moments, terrified and shivering, realizing the utter and complete futility of himself, of half-truths and realpolitik and suffering, he thought: Is this really all there is? 

	And, as if to answer him, the cyclops stared back. 

	You missed the blooms of the spring, and the hearth in the winter. Never did a kiss grace your tired lips. And now, in your final moments, you will taste the bitter fruits of your labor. 

	Colm frowned. A genuine, honest-to-Arceus frown. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt so genuinely. And, glancing over at his enemy’s battered body, near-dead and bleeding, his eyes blank and grieving, the Kecleon spoke:

	“Sid…I–” 

 Then, Madeline did it. Two more hands clamored from her sides, wrenched upon Colm’s jaw, stretching it wide. A gurgling, horrified scream emanated from the Kecleon’s strained throat, his flesh dancing with every color in the rainbow. His fingers spasmed, his chest heaved, his feet kicked and danced against the flames. 

His jaw ripped slowly; tearing one tendon at a time, she peeled him. One succinct scream was rendered a gargling, choking mess. Snap, snap, snap. His skull snapped and broke. The monster’s fingertips pressed into his forehead, cracking their way through, fingering his soft, hot brain. And, with one final rip, his jawbone tore fully from his body. Unhanded, Colm’s still-warm corpse twitched and spun, spurting a fountain of crimson blood across the carpet, the walls, streaking across Madeline’s black-splotched face. 

	Colm stumbled toward Sid, grasping at the space where his jaw used to be, and fell. His exposed trachea collided into the carpet with a soft crack. His eyes, already glazed-over, stared intently into Sid’s. A small puff of air exited Colm’s throat, as if relieved to have it all be over; and then, he quieted. 

	Sid could hardly keep his eyes open; even now, he hardly understood what was happening. The smoke, the beatings, the flames. Every sensation bled into one another, rendering him completely immobile, completely empty. 

	Madeline then turned. With one eye, she gazed upon her baby, her lips quivering. Those arms, coated in blood and bone and filth, wiggled and contorted. 

	“Grimm,” Sid breathed. Madeline was a shadow against the fire; moving closer, she stooped down to Sid’s level, black bile oozing from her slashed mouth. It drizzled like chocolate syrup over Colm’s skull.

	“My baby,” Madeline slurred. As gently as she could, cupping ten hands, she wrapped her arms around the prone Snivy’s body. Sid was pulled snugly against her breast, his head bobbing and swaying. The heat of the flames warmed him like a blanket, carrying him from the smoke and ash and destruction. 

Colm’s corpse burned alone.

	Maestro asked: “Do you smell smoke?” 

	And Rubrum, still cradling the Key, replied: “No, I don’t think so.”

	“No, I definitely smell it.” Another sniff. “Wait… maybe it’s gone.” 

	Four soldiers sat on a cold tile floor, bathed in awkward silence. Maestro tilted his mask upward, sniffing fervently at the air. Rubrum watched anxiously. 

	“How much longer are we going to wait?” Asher asked. He hadn’t spoken for a while, his voice hoarse. Fey sat to his side, gingerly holding his burnt hand. “Sid might be in real trouble. I could still melt the doors, if you think it’d...” 

Exhaustedly, he trailed off. He knew no one would listen. 

	Predictably disinterested, Maestro muttered: “Oh, it definitely smells like smoke. You smell that?” 

	Fey screwed up his face. He said: “Really?”

	“It could be the campfire outside,” Rubrum posited. “But yeah, I smell it too.” 

	More silence. More waiting. No one moved, or talked. Fey could only smell his own anxious sweat, beading under his arms, his neck. For minutes, he listened intently to the vents, waiting for a voice, movement, anything.

	Then, they heard it. Footsteps, heavy ones, emanating from the first floor’s main hallway. They approached, stopped just short of the hydraulic door; and then, a grand metallic screech rang out. Flesh-on-steel, and the flesh was winning. 

	Maestro, Rubrum, and Fey quickly adopted battle stances, staring intently at bulging steel. In shocked silence, they watched as an indent began to form, the shape of a hand pressing through the plating. Then another, and another, until the entire doorframe began to quake and rustle. 

	With wide eyes, Maestro muttered: “What the fuck…?”

	These feelings of confusion would not soon be assuaged; because as soon as the door fell, they were met with a horrifying sight. An undulating mass of bloodied and burnt fur, touting the widest smile, walked right through the door. And in its arms was Sid, moribund and unconscious. 

	Under any other circumstance, the rebels would’ve attacked on-sight. But the absolute horror of it made them hesitate. Frozen in-place, jaws agape, stomachs sinking, they watched as the monster calmly approached, pushed past them, and set its hands upon the entrance’s hydraulics. 

	No one quite knew what to say. Rubrum pinched his nose, gagging as the intruder passed by; Maestro mustered a frightened smile; Fey rested a paw upon Asher, dissuading him from going closer. 

	Ten arms, skinny and fat, fleshy and furred, arose from the creature’s back, cracked and bent, and pressed into the steel. The door’s surface bent like taffy, contorted and snapped and fell apart. The rebels had never seen anything like it. And then, having cleared the path, it trudged forward, preparing to do the same to the sanitarium’s entrance. The rest tepidly followed behind.

	“What the fuck is this?” Maestro asked. His voice was a hushed whisper. “Is that a… Raichu? Why is it holding Sid like that?” 

	Rubrum shot back: “I don’t know. But it doesn’t seem aggressive.” 

	Indeed, even Asher was frightened by the monster’s fortitude. No regular Pokémon had the strength to tear those doors apart. He doubted even his superheated palms could make a dent in the beast’s hide. Embarrassedly, as if ashamed of his own lack of agency, he said: “Just… let that thing go. It doesn’t look like it’s hurting Sid.” Pause. “It looks like it’s helping him.” 

	The front door collapsed without resistance. Dust and metal shavings clouded the air in the Raichu’s wake; and then, having done its job, it turned. Looking right at Rubrum. Those eyes still blank, black. Its lips still twitching. Its arms undulating. 

	Rubrum froze, watched in horror as the creature approached. Every cell in his body screamed for him to run; but he didn’t. It took all his bravery to stand his ground, to not betray his fear. 

It stopped in front of him, extended its hands. Instinctively, Rubrum outheld his; and into them, the monster placed Sid’s bloodied body. 

The two shared a momentary bond. Gazing into Rubrum’s wide eyes, her hands briefly rubbing against his, she uttered only five words.

“My. Baby.” Pause. “I. Love. You.” 

Then, she left. Trudging her misshapen feet across the tiled floor, she delved into the depths of the sanitarium. Lights dimmed as she past, plunging her path into darkness; evidently, she did not want the others to follow. 

The rebels were left with nothing but a bloodied body, and a Key. They looked at one another, as if trying to formulate a response. Something to say, something to do, anything, to make sense of this situation. But no one had the words. 

They fled into the woods. This place held no more secrets.