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The base is nearly quiet when Jupiter finally snaps.
“Why,” she hisses, arms crossed, “does Mars let him talk to her like that?”
Across the hall, Mars is all red hair and sharp laughter as she boots up yet another of Charon’s ramshackle machines. The professor trails behind her with that nervous shuffle of his, muttering something about calibration and time constraints.
Jupiter scowls. “He’s ancient, he’s incompetent, and he smells like burnt wires. Yet she treats him like some . . . weird kindly uncle.”
Saturn doesn’t look up from his tablet.“Maybe she respects his scientific expertise.”
“Saturn, don’t be ridiculous. Mars respects chaos, not expertise.”
Mars and Charon bicker about voltage. Mars wins. Charon sighs and resets the dial with the kind of patience he never shows anyone else in the base.
Jupiter watches sharply. “See? That. He doesn’t yell at her. He doesn’t insult her. He actually listens. What does she have on him? Evidence? Blackmail?”
“. . . I don’t know,” Saturn admits reluctantly, which means it bothers him too.
As far as he knows, Mars doesn’t like Charon. Not really.
She finds him irritating - overly talkative, scatterbrained, slow.
But once in a while - once every dozen interactions - Mars lets him hover near her workstation. Usually long enough for him to correct some code or hand her a tool she doesn’t ask for.
As though tolerating him is a small concession she doesn’t mind making.
“I swear,” Jupiter says, “she acts like he’s . . . what? Harmless? Is that it?”
Saturn can’t say. He just watches as Mars shoves away from the console and stretches, red hair falling over her shoulder, Charon trailing behind her with his tablet like a nervous shadow.
Mars rolls her eyes at something he says but doesn’t dismiss him.
That mutuality is the strange part.
Saturn and Jupiter think about it for days.
.
Years ago, before Galactic, before the Red Chain, before Cyrus mockingly brands him with the alias Charon -
He was Choan, a rising academic teaching in Jubilife City with questionable ethics and even more questionable boundaries.
And then a Team Rocket Admin passed through Sinnoh on Rocket business.
Their entanglement was brief. Transactional. Forgettable.
Utilitarian.
Ariana never cared for Choan beyond a moment’s convenience.
He never cared for her, either.
But when he learned she left her newborn daughter in Sinnoh with nothing but a name and her fiery red hair, something in him stirred.
Not affection nor tenderness.
A cold, sharp curiosity for a child with his spark, his color, his potential - then something far more persistent.
He studied the child, Arisa, from afar, growing into a force the world didn't quite know what to do with. A little storm, forming on its own. He watched her navigate life with sharp instincts and unbreakable stubbornness - purely, he insisted to himself, to document her development.
She was data. And yet . . . she became something more than that.
A promising variable, an elegant equation.
But curiosity, something electric and bright, burned beneath her tiny scowl.
He went back again. And again. And somewhere between the second and tenth visit, curiosity calcified into something twisted and permanent.
Pride.
She had inherited him.
Arisa grew - quick, wild, brilliant - and Choan watched from alleys, rooftops, shadows. Never interfering. Always observing.
By the time she was old enough to choose her own path, Choan already knew she would choose something ambitious.
When Arisa joined Team Galactic, choosing the alias of Mars, Choan did not follow because of her. He joined out of scientific ambition - the promise of the Red Chain, of impossible energies, of groundbreaking discoveries. It was the obvious choice for a genius hungry for more.
But that Arisa, independently, had chosen the same path?
That delighted him.
Not like a father, but like a scientist whose greatest experiment was achieving its natural outcome.
He just didn’t expect her to choose Galactic.
Or Cyrus.
Something in him twists whenever he watches the way Arisa - or Mars - straighten when Master Cyrus enters the room, how she follows his orders without hesitation, how she speaks of him with borderline reverence, how her eyes brighten at Cyrus’s approval.
Cyrus she respects with a reverence Choan can never earn.
And if she barely tolerates Choan - well, he expects nothing more.
He expects irritation from her. He receives irritation.
He expects disdain. He receives disdain.
But the smallest scraps - the days she doesn't yell, the days she lets him stand too close without pushing him away - are enough to keep him orbiting with pride and morbid, scientific fascination.
And as for Cyrus . . .
It stings, though Charon buries it beneath equations and circuits.
.
The Veilstone base is quiet except for the hum of machinery and the occasional sharp zap from one of Charon’s “self-correcting” devices. Mars winces each time it goes off.
“Old man, your possessed TV is acting up again,” she snaps without looking up.
“It is not possessed,” Charon mutters, typing furiously. “It is entering a perfectly predictable state of spontaneous electro-sentience - hm, very reminiscent of autonomous Rotom behavior, actually - though that data is classified and should not - ”
Mars’s head snaps up. “That’s a Rotom?”
Charon freezes. Then, after a blink, he pushes up his glasses and gives an irritated huff.
“Forget I said anything. The research is far above your clearance.”
Above her clearance, her ass. Charon isn’t one of the original three commanders; he isn’t Master Cyrus’s chosen; he isn’t someone she respects.
Mars narrows her eyes. “So it is Rotom.”
“It is none of your concern,” Charon snaps, though his tone carries unmistakable pride. “And if you must know, Rotom only reacts violently to operators with poor electromagnetic discipline.”
Mars scoffs. “You’re saying I cause the sparks?”
“Yes. Obviously.” A beat. “Though the readings you activated earlier were . . . accurate.”
Mars’s eyes flick with interest - a rare moment, gone as soon as it appears.
From afar, Saturn feels the warmth flicker across his shoulders before he looks away too fast.
Jupiter notices. She raises an eyebrow, smirks, but says nothing. But later, she mutters, “Honestly, Saturn, I think you’re jealous.”
“Of Charon?” Saturn scoffs too quickly. “Don’t be absurd.”
Jupiter hums. But she smirks again.
None of it makes sense.
Until the night Saturn hears the shouting.
.
Saturn isn’t looking to eavesdrop - he is doing his nightly perimeter walk, same as always - when he hears Master Cyrus’s voice echo sharply from the restricted sector of the Veilstone base.
“Your preoccupation is becoming a liability. It is interfering with your efficiency.”
Cyrus’s voice - cold as the Mt. Coronet winds.
Saturn freezes instinctively.
Inside the restricted wing, Charon stands rigid beneath Cyrus’s glare.
“My accuracy is flawless,” Charon sputters, adjusting his glasses. “My calculations are - ”
“Your sentiment,” Master Cyrus interrupts, “is the problem.”
Charon gives a slow, stiff blink.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t taken . . . interest in Mars.”
Charon’s composure twitches. Barely.
But Saturn sees it.
Master Cyrus goes on.
“You joined Galactic for scientific ambition. That much is true. But do not insult me by acting as though you feel nothing toward her.”
“I don’t,” Charon says automatically.
Master Cyrus doesn’t buy it.
“Your attachment to her is obvious. Pathetic. And increasingly inconvenient.”
Charon goes sheet-white. “I simply think Mars shows accelerated potential - ”
“Of course she does,” Master Cyrus cuts in sharply. “Mars worships the mission. She reveres me. She is useful. But your - ”
A low exhale. Pure disdain.
“Your pride is becoming inconvenient.”
Pride.
Saturn blinks.
Charon - proud of Mars?
“She showed promise,” Charon snaps. “Exceptional promise!”
“Pride does not excuse interference,” Master Cyrus replies. “And I know that your pride in her clouds your judgment.”
There is a long, dangerous silence.
“You shadow Mars unnecessarily. You correct her errors. You excuse her recklessness. These are not professional decisions.”
Another pause.
Then Master Cyrus’s tone shifts - quiet, surgical.
“Surely you did not think I wouldn’t recognize your interest. She is your blood, is she not?”
Saturn’s breath catches. The floor seems to tilt.
“You . . . knew?” Charon whispers.
“I know everything,” Master Cyrus says. “I know Giovanni’s keep raised her son for influence. But the girl? Disposable. Ariana abandoned her. Left her behind like nothing.”
Saturn feels the air leave his lungs.
Mars - abandoned?
“And so Arisa was discarded. A child without a place. Without a future. Until I made her Mars. But I know you watched that child grow as if she were your private project.”
Charon’s fingers curl around his tablet.
Saturn feels sick. He knows Mars’s real name is Arisa - they spoke of it once, back when Cyrus gave Charon his new name - but he never knew that Charon has known her personally. And he suspects Mars has never known that either.
Cyrus steps closer - the icy footfalls unmistakable.
“You may have watched her since infancy. You may consider her some extension of yourself. But if your obsession disrupts the Red Chain project, I will remove you from your position.”
A softer, colder note.
“. . . Or remove her entirely.”
Charon does not crumble or plead.
But something behind his eyes flickers - a fault line forming, thin and sharp.
“Understood,” Charon says stiffly.
Cyrus observes him a moment longer.
“Your emotional indulgence is unbecoming for someone who holds the weakest command.”
“You are the lowest-ranked of the four commanders,” Cyrus continues. “I tolerate Saturn because he obeys without distraction. I tolerate incompetence from Jupiter because she compensates with results.”
A precise pause.
“You,” Cyrus says, “I tolerate because of your knowledge. Your value is narrow. If not for it, you would be unnecessary.”
Footsteps turn and approach.
Saturn backs silently into the shadows as his leader passes, expression unreadable.
When the footsteps fade, Saturn looks back toward the hall.
Charon remains frozen for a moment, then straightens sharply, pushing his glasses up with mechanical precision - sealing the crack, or pretending to.
His hands tremble.
Not with grief.
But with a twisted terror of losing the only chain he has ever quietly claimed.
.
The next morning, Mars barrels into the cafeteria, energetic despite the five hours of sleep.
“Saturn,” she says loudly, dropping into the seat beside him, “does Jupiter always hog the sugar dispenser? I swear, she thinks she’s the queen of breakfast.”
Before Saturn can reply, Charon shuffles into the room.
Mars brightens slightly - not warmly, not fondly, but with the vague recognition of someone whose routine includes the old man in small, tolerable doses.
“Hey - Charon,” she calls. “Bring the analyzer to the lab after breakfast. The readings stabilized.”
Charon perks up, almost too quickly.
And in that moment - brief and unguarded - he looks at her like she is something fragile and extraordinary all at once.
Saturn notices.
Mars doesn’t.
Mars respects Master Cyrus with her whole chest. She fears nothing except disappointing him.
She treats Charon like an occasional nuisance she tolerates out of habit.
And Charon -
Charon looks at her like he sees every version of her:
the infant he watches in alleyways,
the child who survives Sinnoh with no mother,
the commander she becomes without knowing whose blood runs in her veins.
Jupiter slides beside Saturn, a sugar shaker in hand.
“See? Weird dynamic. She barely tolerates him, and he follows her like she’s the comet and he’s the tail.”
Saturn watches Mars stride ahead, already talking about energy readings, Charon shuffling dutifully behind her.
Nothing has changed.
Saturn swallows a thousand unsaid truths.
“. . . Maybe it’s not so weird,” he finally says.
Jupiter side-eyes him. “Did you hit your head?”
Saturn watches them disappear from the cafeteria - the strange, twisted little constellation they form.
Some inherit power.
Some inherit rage.
Some inherit destiny.
And some inherit the love of a father they never knew they had.
He doesn’t respond.
Because somewhere deep down he knows:
Mars doesn’t know the story behind her shadow.
Charon will never tell her.
Master Cyrus will weaponize it only when necessary.
Jupiter will never understand it.
And Saturn - Saturn will carry it in silence.