Chapter Text
Names, numbers, codenames, recruitment dates--Emil skims through rows and columns of information as he walks.
Some of the information proves useful; some is far out of the scope of the task at hand, but his interest doesn't wane.
He particularly notes the dates. When weighed against other information, some seem borderline nonsensical; the papers allege that four years ago, Maxie pitched his plan to the first of his many subordinates. Apparently, despite his lack of a cohesive plan, the man agreed to join him.
Emil wonders what some people would agree to do for less. He considers that he may not be so exempt from the question himself.
Amidst his self-absorption, he recalls the task at hand--he's to assemble a few of his grunts, then have them look for Captain Stern. Conceptually, it seems simple, but two facts remain:
One, Emil knows just as little about this man as his grunts are going to. Two, he has no idea where the hell any of these people dispersed to following the speech.
He's forced to push past his disillusionment with the warp panels--Maxie has yet to hand him any sort of guide to navigating them. He stumbles on empty room upon empty room, upon every incorrect solution to his problems under the sun, upon failure after failure, before everything comes together and he finally hears it:
A cacophony of voices, the clamor of cue sticks colliding with billiards, darts flying into boards--the lights are dim, vaguely sourced from a replica of their emblem that hangs on the wall. The scene painted before him seems to defy any expectation he could have held as Emil steps in, puzzled.
He takes another step. He's met with abrupt silence; for a moment, it's as though time itself freezes.
Then, as if to resume its passage, a voice echoes throughout the walls they stand within.
"Hey! It's our new superior!"
What a shame, Emil thinks. Can a man not indulge in a quick game of darts without becoming the sun a group of people in a rec room revolve around?
Handshakes, greetings, salutes, even--he's cast to the whims of the entire rotation before he finally gets a word in.
"I'm surprised Maxie lets you keep this place."
"It was a group effort," one man says, "it took a lot of convincing, you know. He had to find a practical reason for it!"
"We haven't had a proper assignment in ages, yeah," a girl steps in, "Our poor leader has been super busy lately."
"Moron," yet another man interjects, "Some of us are arranging his quarters as we speak!"
"Shut it, Shawn."
"You first, Rachel!"
Emil notes the names--he then cross references them with the list he's holding. Apparently, they joined on the same day a year and a half ago.
"Sheesh... don't get your hopes up. I'm here to change that."
Rachel steps up. "Wait, really?"
He takes a moment to observe her appearance. Blonde hair that flows past middle length and contradictory blue lipstick; one could assume that, prior to being occupied here, she was a delinquent of sorts. Her friend, Shawn, proves to be quite the opposite--short, black hair, coupled with grey eyes and an intimidating expression that seems to set the tone of any conversation he's involved in.
Once he commits their faces to memory, Emil finally replies. "Yeah... from Maxie himself. You up for it?"
"Yeah!"
"Yes, sir!"
"That's Leader Maxie to you, sir!"
"Sheesh," Emil scratches his chin, "he's more an equal to me."
He sighs. "I'm going to need a few of you to scope out a guy that goes by the name of Stern... if you see him, don't engage. Contact one of your superiors. I hardly know him myself, but I figure he's a ship captain of sorts..."
His order, despite how little information seems to be attached to it, is absorbed without question. Within seconds, his grunts are sounding their approval.
"You can decide who among you goes and who stays... depart in an hour. Good luck."
Once again, no objections are raised--his job is as good as done.
"An hour, huh," Rachel remarks, "What do we do until then?"
"That's the only order you have. Pass the time however."
"Then..."
Rachel steps up to him, eyeing him curiously. "Do you know where the showers are? I'll show you."
"Eh?"
"You're a little ripe, Lovic, sir," she adds, without any regard for her own bluntness, "you must just be like, really new here, but..."
Emil, despite everything, does not give a shit that he's just been aired out to a dozen people. He does, however, give a semblance of a shit about the issue at hand.
"Yeah, you're right... I don't know where the hell anything is. Show me."
"Cool. Come with me."
Before he knows it, Emil is whisked away by the girl standing behind him. She practically pushes him into the exit panel, much to his dismay, and much to the objection of her own coworkers.
Regardless, he acquiesces.
They walk and talk. "You know, sir, you're not nearly as intimidating as your leader."
"I get the feeling I don't have to be."
"You totally don't! It'd be a little scary having two of you around."
"Wouldn't shock me if he went and struck the fear of Arceus into you lot already."
They step through another panel. "Now, now... he's not like that. The worst I got was two whole stacks of paperwork."
"And how'd that happen?"
"My Poochyena decided to chew on one of the warp panels."
"How'd it do that?"
"Those things only work on humans, apparently..."
"Makes sense."
They come upon another warp panel, and then another, until finally, they're greeted with white tile and several partitions.
"Well, I'm out. Go shower, smelly."
She leaves, and for a brief moment, he stands in utter confusion; of all things, of all first impressions, he was nonchalantly ushered out of the room to shower.
Emil sighs. It's not as though he's deliberately unhygienic in any sense--as he explained, it's largely due to his circumstances that he's here to begin with.
Thus, he's soon greeted by the warmth of water he hasn't felt in days. It's a quick excursion, despite the subtle comfort the downpour brings; soaps get applied, hair gets washed, and the story ends.
In the words of Oscar Duolingo, he has successfully taken a shower immediately.
He redresses, then makes his exit; seldom does he ever do anything with his own hair, hence the manner in which it generally tends to stick out--furthermore, he's yet to bring any of his belongings from home to use, anyway.
Before he knows it, he's set to return to Maxie's office; he assumes he's awaiting for a successful report as is. It would be unwise to keep him waiting any further, but as always, he has no idea how the hell to navigate any of the panels.
Fool a man once, shame on you. Fool a man twice, a shame on him. Fool him repeatedly with a labyrinth of panels and an endless maze, and suddenly, he has no idea where blame falls.
Of course, he doesn't end up in Maxie's office. He instead ends returning to the recreation room, as per his luck.
He takes a step. This time, however, he hardly commands silence.
"Lovic, sir!"
Another step. "How do you guys know what to call me?"
"Tropius guy got the word around."
"Tropius guy?"
"That's what we call him," Shawn chimes in, "His Tropius loses to half our Numels."
"Noted."
Rachel comes forward. "Oh, welcome back! You're not so smelly anymore."
"Thanks," Emil replies.
"No prob. Are you ready for your test now?"
Emil has to resist the urge to tilt his head. "What test?"
"Get the bottle, Cam."
Among the crowd of grunts that flock the room, Emil watches as the man in question makes his way to the back. He grabs an empty bottle of Fresh Water as commanded, then presents himself to his superior.
"Your bottle, sir."
He hands Emil the bottle. Emil is wholly convinced he's never been this out of the loop in his thirty two years.
"What's this for?"
"Stand in the back," Rachel instructs, "Then face the billiards."
He finds himself conforming to orders from a subordinate much sooner than he'd like to admit. He stands in the back, bottle in hand, dignity somewhere between the gutter and the stars.
"Now what?"
"Throw it."
"At what?"
"The table."
Emil sighs. One single, effortless backhand throw, and the bottle flits through the air, microscopic droplets scattering throughout by virtue of the lack of a lid.
The bottle makes a considerable thud as it lands.
"There's no way..."
"He did it first try!"
Suddenly, and without explanation, he's being cheered for, saluted, yelled at, the entire mix--all the while, he stands in silence, expression flat, perplexity coursing through his very being.
"Wow, sir," Rachel chirps, "You passed. You're really one of us."
"The hell did I do?"
"It landed when you threw it."
"Cool. Now what?"
"I'm giving you a customary makeover."
"Excuse me?"
As Emil steps back, he sounds the closest to afraid he probably ever will in his life. He decides that next time, he'd prefer a warning before he's thrown to the wolves.
"Relax, Lovic, sir," Rachel insists, "If a man is afraid of some makeup, he is one cowardly man."
"None of us are cowards!"
"We've been made to survive the most grueling of instances, sir!"
Yet again, he backs down--for conflict is a universal agitator, a precious waste of seconds, an ill-advised investment; Emil knows which strategy to deploy, no matter the circumstance.
"Sure. Whatever."
"Great! Get the eyeshadow, Shawn."
Rachel rushes over to him, and in the same manner Sisyphus attempted to push a boulder up a mountain, she begins to push at his back like he's a five-foot-ten rock. He reluctantly stumbles forward, each step driving him further down the road of existentialism.
He's forced into a nearby seat. His grunts surround him like vultures, some holding cases of makeup, others watching as though they've recently procured tickets to a circus.
Then, the room's demagogue steps forward, armed solely with a brush and dubious intent.
First comes the foundation. Rachel turns to the man standing to her left for assistance, then raises the brush to Emil's face.
For a moment, he instinctually braces himself--he briefly expects the brush to be rough in texture, like being swiped repeatedly with sand paper--it proves to be the opposite, though, as it softly courses across his face.
Perhaps more grueling, Emil thinks, is the idea that someone is so close to his face to begin with. Not a moment passes where he isn't tensing up, eyes closed, dreams shattered.
Then comes the eyeshadow. Shutting his eyes seems to work to his advantage, at least; dealing with his eyes to begin with puts him in an awkward position, but his silver lining is that the brush is about as soft as it was prior.
"How is it so far, guys?"
"Excellent!"
"He looks great!"
Emil sighs a sigh of heavy discontent.
Eyeliner, mascara, lipstick--all follow the same formula. The crowd watches, Rachel works, and Emil truly questions his will to live.
He believes he's known true suffering, what with the events he's lived through, his change in career path, and now this; however, the worst is yet to come.
Rachel takes out a larger brush. "Hand me the blush!"
Oh, Arceus.
She's promptly handed a palette--powder scatters through the air as she aggressively coats a larger brush with a mixed amalgamation of pinks.
She dramatically extends the brush, as though she's a world renowned artist, the blush is her paint, and a thirty-two year old man is her canvas.
Under her normal order of operations, she'd coat the man's entire face in makeup. However, there stands a fork in her equation, a change of plans:
Sudden, repetitive footsteps are heard behind them--they get louder in volume as they recur, and the group quickly scatters. Makeup is dropped. A line is formed. Emil is left vulnerable in the spotlight.
"Leader Maxie, sir!"
Maxie clears his throat. "And here I was wondering where my administrator had gone to complete one simple task."
"Oh, God, Maxie... am I free to go?"
"I'm afraid not, Emil."
He raises up, startled. "What?"
"For what is a man who cannot endure the trials he faces?"
"Don't tell me..."
"I have undergone the very same process. It is painful to recount."
The group watches with escelated interest. Maxie continues.
"I was tied down, you know. Your subordinates here simply would not let me go until I'd been given a 'makeover,' as they call it."
"And you hired these people?"
Maxie nods. "Of course. They are skilled, competent individuals, all in their own rights."
"At the very least, I did what you asked of me... told them to depart in an hour."
Maxie seems satisifed. "That is acceptable, yes. In that case, about five minutes remain."
"Finally..."
"We will reconvene once they depart... and after you've cleaned yourself up, of course."
"Sure."
Without another word, Maxie steps out of the room. Then, with far more regard for their time restraints than any interruption they've faced (Or, perhaps, Emil's sanity), Rachel coats his entire face in blush.
Another grunt holds a mirror up to him. Emil physically recoils.
"Well? How is it?"
"Great... thanks. I'm off to work."
"No prob! One more stop, though."
Emil sighs. "Where?"
"Your quarters, obviously," Rachel replies, "I just got word from a friend that they're finished."
Emil has to ponder the ramifications of this--it stands to reason, finally, that only eleven people were in the room when he first entered.
"Hope there's a sink in there. I've got a crime scene to clean up."
"Of course there is, dummy," she retorts, "What the hell is a bedroom without a bathroom in it?"
"You must've lived the dream," Shawn chides.
"What? Was yours not like that?"
"Mine was on the other side of the house, dipshit."
"So that's why you're the way you are..."
"Enough... I'm short on time. Lead me to 'em."
"Yes, sir!"
"That is, unless you're on the recon squad," Emil adds, "Hope you've decided who's who by now."
"We totally talked it over while you were gone," Rachel replies. "I'm staying, he's going... so on, so on..."
Emil nods. "Guess I'm following you again."
"You totally are. Have fun."
They exit the rec room straight away, leaving the rest to their own devices; the time has come where Emil has to hope sincerely that those beneath him can follow basic orders.
Where there is the addition of a new room, there must be the addition of a new warp panel. He's walked through the halls yet again, then led to the hideout's newest addition. The last thing the place needs, he thinks, is more of them, but he finds himself vacillating between his disdain and the objective truth of the matter: it was unfortunately necessary.
He warps into his quarters. The first room he sees is complete solely with a desk, alongside his own work computer. He needs that, at least.
"Ta-da! Thousands of Pokédollars worth of money, all right there."
"Who paid for it?"
Rachel takes a wild guess. "Umm... Leader Maxie, probably."
"Shit... I owe him all that."
"Sure, you might. He, like, won't take the money, though..."
"I'll force him," Emil insists, ignoring his own tendency to flee at the first sight of conflict.
"Sure. Go look at your room!"
He opens the door to his left. The bedroom is equally sparse, containing only a bed, a dresser on the wall beside it, and a television stand on the opposite wall. The stand is, of course, equipped with its own television.
Be tbat as it may, Emil quickly identifies one outlier: a Skitty doll inexplicably lies upon his dark grey bedsheets.
He reaches out to it, as if confounded by its presence. "And what's this?"
"Oh, that was my idea," Rachel swiftly replies, "Um, no offense, but..."
She trails off. Emil withstands the silence.
"Lovic, sir, you look kind of miserable."
Her proclamation, to him, is nearly unheard of--he leaves the Skitty on the bed, and raises an eyebrow.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. People, like, die when they don't sleep, you know. You look like you got hit by a bus."
"Well, as Maxie says... duly noted."
"Cool."
Emil fails to suppress a cruelly timed yawn. "Where'd you get it?"
"Oh... I buy and give those to Shawn when he pisses me off. He hates it."
"Interesting."
"You didn't piss me off, though. You just look miserable."
"Cool."
Mentally, Emil has already checked out of the conversation at hand--despite her warnings, he repeatedly reminds himself that he has more work to do.
"Thanks for the doll... I've got to get to Maxie's office."
"Wait, wait..."
"Yeah?"
"Did you see it?"
"What?"
"The warp panel," Rachel points to a corner behind the television stand, "It, like, leads you straight to there... since he kept going on about how bad you are with those."
More shocking--and much more pressing--than the shortcut he's been provided is Rachel's latter statement. Emil gives it the utmost priority; his flat expression seems to turn sour, if only slightly.
"You're serious?"
"About what?"
"He went on about all that?"
"Yep. Totally sorry."
"Cool... I've got work to do. Thanks for getting me here."
"Okay! See you around."
Rachel leaves, and Emil recalls the one remaining step he must undergo before he leaves. He does not want to imagine what his face looks like. He has gone to every length to burn the image that permeates in his mind. The worst conclusion he seems to arrive at is that, without the copious amounts of blush she applied, he wouldn't have anything to complain about.
Yet again, he sighs. He toils into the bathroom, and makes it to the sink.
Ignoring his own reflection in the mirror proves to be an arduous task; he persists nonetheless as he digs into his own skin, soap in tow, clueless in regards to the actual process he's supposed to follow.
It comes off eventually.
He knows his next destination; for once, he is grateful for the presence of a simple warp panel, for it shaves a significant amount of time he'd otherwise be spending aimlessly navigating hallways that are only vaguely familiar to him.
"There you are. You're welcome to sit."
Emil obliges. "That was a nice waste of an hour."
"Getting to know your subordinates is a part of your work. You've wasted little."
"Cool. Any progress?"
"Yes... I believe we can make the recon squad you've assembled relevant on later occasions."
"Such as?"
"Tracking down the Red Orb, for one," Maxie explains, "alongside other excursions we may commit to."
"Right... the orb."
"In the meantime, I've decided to dig through several research libraries for information regarding the super-ancient Pokémon... would you care to join me?"
"Sure... physical or digital?"
"Digital will suffice for now. Let us attempt it, at least."
"Sure... I'll be back."
He stands to make a quick trip to his newly built office, then straight back, laptop in hand. Maxie waits patiently. It takes him less than a minute.
He sits back down, then unfolds it. "You think we'll find anything?"
"Unless documents are deliberately being kept discreet, then I posit that we will."
"And what are the odds of that?"
"Yet to be determined."
Publications of outdated manuscripts, unsourced, unverified information, documents locked behind highly specific access conditions--they discover it all, slowly and laboriously. Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes turn to hours. As the clock spins, all hope seems to diminish.
One source humorously asserts that the legend they seek is, in all actuality, shaped like a worm. Another source avows that there is no legend to begin with. It takes two hours before they finally find a source that claims that the Pokémon in question possesses dinosaur-like qualities, followed by a shred of feasible evidence. It lies among the sacred few they uncover.
"I feel like I've seen it all today," Emil says, followed by a yawn.
"Truly... some secrecy was well within my expectations, but I feel a line is being crossed."
"It's a legend. Chances are, the majority of these people will never see it in their lifetimes."
"I suppose... at the very least, we did confirm the existence of the other Pokémon she spoke of."
Another yawn--Emil makes a considerable effort to keep his head upright. "She said they clashed for some sort of energy, right?"
"Correct."
"And that must've been... whatever the hell Primal Reversion is."
"Yes... you seem to follow."
"Why don't we look for that?"
"I assume we'll reap similar results, but we can attempt it. Pessimism harms productivity, after all."
"Sure. Maybe after..."
His head falls to the top of the chair he sits in; clearly, Rachel's piece about lacking sleep had some merit to it.
Maxie looks on with a certain reluctance, but ultimately decides that depriving oneself of rest harms productivity to an equal extent.
"Rest for a while. I'll handle things from here."
"Sure... I'll be back."
Emil is out within minutes. Maxie continues with his research.
The minutes slip by, and the room remains unchanged. Amidst the typical clacking of a keyboard, there remains a man in a desk chair, sound asleep.
Emil generally predicates that to dream is to view a manifestation of one's own inner mind. Every vision he's provided leaves him fighting the conclusion, but the fact remains that he is not exempt.
Today is no different.
For what feels like the hundredth time, he's in his own home. Papers are scattered across the desk he sits at, each detailing hours worth of pharmaceutical research.
Unlike with most other things, he's committed it to memory. He's just wrapped up his assignments for the day; next comes his routine housekeeping, which he always completes for himself.
Tired yet determined, he closes the lid of his laptop, then exits his room.
"Hey. I'm finished for today."
The words roam the air, as if looking for a recipient. Through all their valiant attempts, they find none.
He continues. "What's for dinner?"
There is no answer. His mind seems to conjure one for him.
It gives him the strength to continue. He finds himself in the kitchen, thoughts just as empty as the space around him. A fridge door opens. He proceeds with his duties.
Then, with considerable delay, something finally seems to call out to him. Despite being the target of its cries, they go largely ignored; he has a routine to follow, a person to take care of.
It calls again. "Emil."
Subsequent attempts also fall on deaf ears. Echoes of repitition leave him shaken, then finally stirred.
He finds himself mumbling. "Yeah...?"
"Morning, Emil. I'm pleased to report that Captain Stern has been located."