Chapter Text
Steven is four blocks away from the Oceanic Museum when something starts to feel off.
It’s his sixth sense, as Tate and Liza like to joke when Steven attempts to predict the outcomes of Gym Leader challenge matches on nothing more than a gut feeling. Not unlike those times, it starts in the pit of his stomach; however, he’d hesitate to call this intuition. There doesn’t seem to be much logic to it, simply that heavy feeling of dread that usually means he’s being watched.
His job is a spectator's sport. He’s used to being flagged down when running errands for a spare word of advice or photo evidence of having met him. The difference in those circumstances is the loud announcement of having spotted him: a gasp, a waving of the hand, the not-so-hushed whispering of girls trying to goad their bravest friend into approaching him on their behalf. He took a back route to his destination this time to avoid that exact scenario.
When he looks over his shoulder now, he doesn’t see anyone trailing behind him. A few merchants are closing up shop for the day, heat-exhausted and dehydrated, hair frizzy from the humidity. A teenage worker is retrieving the sandwich board promoting the lunch special, whistling to himself as the wooden legs are kicked out from underneath for easy transport. The side street is otherwise devoid of people, many of whom are likely on their way home, if not there already. Only insurance and bookkeeping services, now closed for the day, occupy the next leg of the stretch.
Even as the few people fade into the distance, the feeling is not going away. His right hand slides down the side of his messenger bag to press it close, the flank of it now slapping against his thigh as he quickens his pace. His other arm slips under his blazer to rest on the Poké Balls fastened to his waist, thumbing past Skarmory to give priority to Aggron, who’s second in the queue.
He looks back again, hoping it’s yet another case of his paranoia getting the better of him lately. There is no one there to give a face to his nervousness. The museum is not far, but only alleyways and dead ends line the spaces between the residences and establishments here. The closest connection to the more densely populated main road is further ahead, where the road to the docks splits through. This summer’s decorations, rows of small, colourful kites tied onto stretched rope connected to roofs of buildings on either end of the street, prevent him from travelling the remaining distance by Fly.
His pace is just short of a hustle now, giving full credence to his instinct which has rarely, if ever, been wrong. The spire of the Museum looms in the distance, its shadow from the late afternoon sun just out of reach. The Hoenn flag, hoisted up top like a north star, snaps in the gusts of wind.
It’s when he begins to suspect a false alarm, something read too far into by his subconscious, that he hears the smack of a boot’s heel on cobblestone from directly behind him, what sounds distantly like his name through the pulsing in his ears and the breeze of a hand missing the back of his neck. Something in his periphery, dark and snake-like, moves.
Impulse spurs him into a run without a second thought, immediately justified by the jostle of noise as the other person engages in pursuit. Both his hands strangle the length of his bag’s strap, preventing it from wildly swinging out of control as he tucks his head down and lunges ahead as fast as his legs will allow. The world around him loses all detail, becoming a narrow corridor that stretches as far as the eye can see. The finish line, the mural wrapping around the back of the museum, is visible but so far in the distance that the colourful school of fish Pokémon can barely be made out.
As the steady rhythm of boots gains on him, he makes a split-second decision to pivot down the nearest side road. It branches toward the water, offering the hope of escaping by Skarmory. It’s no wider than a couple of meters, and he swerves between the bins left out by homeowners, releasing his bag strap to fumble for a Poké Ball as the light of the open sea grows steadily brighter. The Wingulls dozing on the windowsills flutter away noisily from the commotion of him barreling ahead.
A hand fastens around the collar of his shirt and pulls. Steven is strangled by the force of his momentum, black stars bursting in his vision. He’s released immediately and the person says something, but Steven falters in the next step and loses his balance. The pavement rushes up to meet him and he thinks about the teeth ready to be knocked out of his mouth as the only evidence that will be left to show what happened to him.
He’s caught with only a few inches of clearance from the ground by an arm wrapping underneath his ribcage. He coughs, from both the exacting pressure of it and the burn at the back of his throat as he desperately gasps for air. From behind strands of dangling hair, Steven can just barely see the loop of black fabric responsible for holding him up, fitted like a harness. The person above makes a hushing sound, sharing as much in common with a hiss.
As soon as his feet are back on the ground, he swings his elbow back to nail his pursuer in the face. A hot flash of pain races up through the nerves. He hears a pained grunt, the arm around him laxing, retreating. Steven throws the flat of his shoe back to nail them in the shin, but misses. The second kick lands. They stagger, and the foot solidly on the ground pushes Steven in the direction of freedom.
His right forearm is gripped tight. He tries again to yank it free, but pulling away makes them squeeze harder, the force threatening to dislocate his shoulder. They have better positioning of their feet, able to pile drive themselves into place so that Steven can’t pull them along.
Steven turns on them, thumb tucked inside the curl of his index and middle fingers to form a fist. There’s red — red hair, red gushing from their nose — and they lock eyes. They arch, and Steven’s blow connects just beneath the collarbone. It doesn’t feel like it does anything except hurt himself.
His left wrist is gripped. “Stop!” they shout. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”
The familiarity stops Steven’s next kick from following through, because he knows his person and something’s not right—
He reflexively pulls back, and they refuse to give him even an inch. He thinks about shouting for help, a noise trying to warble from the back of his throat.
“Calm down and listen to me, Steven,” the man grits out through clenched teeth. The front two are pink from the smears of blood pearling at the top of his lip.
Something clicks with his name. He finally realizes who he’s looking at. It’s Lance. Lance from Johto, who sat opposed to him at the League Conference a few months back and entertained him with a few dry jokes between their keynote speakers. Here, in dark civilian clothes and bloodied from Steven’s attempts at escape, he's almost unrecognizable. He’s looking at Steven with a determination that scares him.
“Let me go,” Steven demands, trying to take his arms back.
“Stop moving. I need you to listen for a minute.”
His mind keeps tumbling forward. “Why are you here?”
“Breathe, before you pass out. You’re okay.”
He feels it too, the tell-tale fog rising to his brain. He takes a few pulls of air and it circulates through his lungs without any satisfaction or relief. The reality of what just happened catches up, and for a few moments the only thing existing in the space between them is the audible sound of his panic, louder than it should be but uncontrollable. Even when Hoenn threatened to be swallowed whole by the sea, Steven did not have such an intense reaction.
Throughout it, Lance patiently waits. He breathes with him. His touch on Steven’s bare skin is coarse from the gloves he’s wearing. The feeling is so odd that Steven can’t help but focus on the friction of the leather grain, more tactile and real than anything else his muddied senses can pick up on.
After a few more seconds, his vision finally stabilizes. The comedown has him shivering from the sweat cooling on his body, plastering his clothing down. He loses the sedative benefit of adrenaline pumping through his blood, and the parts of his body contorted and pushed begin to complain about their treatment.
Only then does Lance release him. He backs up by a single step, hands at either side and poised to grab Steven if he tries sprinting again. Not that it’s crossed Steven’s mind, who is relying on the wall behind him to remain standing.
“Why were you chasing me?” Steven asks, his question equally as much breath as it is words. He tries clearing his throat after to get the catch out of it, and the blistered, raw feeling makes him wince.
“I tried to get your attention and you broke out in a sprint.”
Steven shakes his head, reclining back against the unforgiving press of the brick. “You were following me — you’ve been following me for blocks. What else would I do?”
He closes his eyes. His elbow smarts from the impact that busted up Lance’s nose and he rubs the jut of bone, trying to massage away the dull thud.
“Did I hurt you?”
“I thought you were going to kill me.”
The words sit for a few moments. Steven cracks an eye open and sees Lance staring at his cradled arm. His expression could be described as blank, but his dark eyes hold a bit more when examined closely.
“I’m sorry,” Lance says. “I didn’t mean to hurt or scare you, just stop you from running.”
Having not got a satisfactory answer before, Steven repeats his first question. “Why were you chasing me?” With his free hand, wrist already aching, he shakily combs his hair back to clear his face.
Lance looks up from Steven’s arm, the loose tension in his face pulling taut once more as his eyebrows form a solid, unwavering line.
“I’m here to escort you to safety,” and before Steven can get a word in about that, “I was sent on behalf of the International Police. They’ve learned of a planned attack involving you this evening.”
Steven waits for more, but there is no elaboration. Maybe the recency of what he just experienced is too overwhelming, but he feels he ought to have a stronger reaction to the news than he does. Instead, it passes over him, barely touching on his mind.
“Someone is trying to attack me?”
“Kidnap you, we believe.”
“Why?”
“You have privileged information they want, and they’re determined to get it by any means necessary.”
“Who’s they?”
“I don’t know the exact details, just that they’ve been on the Police’s radar for some time. They intercepted logs about a plot just as it was about to execute and took immediate action. They thought you’d react better to someone you already knew, so they asked Johto’s League to get involved.”
“You—”
Lance holds a hand up. “I know, it didn’t go according to plan. I was hoping to get your attention and pull you aside before anyone noticed. When you took off, I had to make sure you didn’t inadvertently run into them. They were following you long before I was.”
It explains a few things. He’s never seen Lance so casually dressed — though the high-collared fashion immediately displaces him from other Hoennians. The drip of the blood now blotting the front of his shirt no longer gives him a sense of vindication. Noticing him looking, Lance drags the back of his hand across his cupid’s bow. A blotchy streak is left behind, replenished with a fresh seep from his inner nostril soon after.
He got one part of the plan right: no one noticed. Steven can’t help but shiver at the thought of it not being Lance on the other end of the chase. He had relied on self-defence instead of his Pokémon in blind panic. In another scenario, the ending would have played out very differently.
“So it wasn’t just you.”
“Likely. They’ve been tracking your location for some time.”
“What information are they hoping to get? None of Devon’s projects are that valuable. The League’s work is not confidential.”
Lance glances back in the direction from which they came. When his eyes return, it’s clear that whatever he’s about to say is to be kept between them. Steven finds himself leaning in to close the distance.
“They know about Mega Evolution,” he says, low.
The buzz in Steven’s ears grows louder.
“This is about Mega Evolution?” he asks at the same volume.
“They know it exists, and that you are one of the only people in the world who’s cracked it.”
He schools his face into the most neutral expression he can. “What? Who told you that?”
“You don’t need to downplay it; I’ve seen the info they had.”
The buzz travels to his fingertips, tiny pins and needles that make him subtly flex his hands. It should come as concerning news that Lance is telling him this, but Steven is still having difficulty coming to terms with the present situation as it is.
“I can explain more later.” Lance fixes his posture, taking away the shadow blocking Steven. “Right now, I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“Johto.”
His eyes pinch. “Johto, why?”
“Your safety, for one. This is a large-scale effort with people on the inside giving them intel. They won’t quit for as long as they know you’re here.”
“Are other people in danger?”
“They could be. I’m told they had greater plans this evening if they weren’t able to get you alone before then, and I can’t think of many good reasons why they would be willing to abduct a Champion. That’s why we’re hoping to figure out what they may want before someone else gets hurt.”
“I don’t see why I need to go to Johto, though.”
“We’re assisting the Interpol with the investigation, so their operations are established there for the time being. It’s not for long, just until we make sense of what’s happening.” When it does not absolve Steven’s hesitation, he switches back to the quieter tone. “Your father is being escorted too. It’s not just you.”
“He is?”
“Right now, yes. You weren’t the only one they were after.”
“Is he okay?” The treble in his voice surprises even him.
“I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. You are my priority right now, though.” Steven feels his face being examined, Lance trying to find something that isn’t there. “So, are you coming?”
It’s extended as a question, but the choice has been made for him already. There isn’t another option presented other than to step under Lance’s protection in blind faith. His reservations only seem to multiply the more he thinks about it. He needs a minute, maybe two. His heart rate still hasn’t returned to a resting pulse.
Lance, more impatient than Steven is on a bad day, does not give him time to dwell. He keeps subtly inching closer as if magnetized.
“You will be okay,” he says. “You have my word, from one Champion to another. You can bring your Pokémon with you. It’s safe.”
“If other people are in danger, I shouldn’t be leaving.”
“It’s in the hands of experts. You can’t help anyone if you’re cornered at the wrong moment and taken hostage.”
“I know that wasn’t a good show, but I have my Pokémon with me. I’m not helpless.”
Lance could be cruel if he wanted to, but he does not even lift a brow in retort. “Of course not, but they’re moving in groups. They know who you are, and that means they’d come prepared.”
“Which means anyone else doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Everyone is safest if you’re not around to be used as a bargaining chip to hold over their heads. Your family and your League especially.”
Steven’s League can manage. His family can be counted on one finger. His father finding himself in the same situation is the only thing that gives him pause.
“At least give us the chance to explain what’s happening,” Lance says. “It’s easier if we’re all in one place and not huddling in an alley. Then we can plan for the next steps. You’d have valuable insights for us.”
To that, Steven finally relents. Not necessarily because it’s a compelling argument, but because he doesn’t see another way.
“Okay,” he says, more a question than an answer.
Lance nods. “Okay.” The affirmative, whether convincing or not, is all he’s looking for. He’s already walking in the direction of the open waters. “Let’s go out the way you were headed. We’ll take Dragonite.”
Steven lags behind, reaching under his blazer. “I can ride Skarmory.” He isn’t watching where he’s going, trying to tuck the freed tip of his belt back into his pant loops in an effort to compose himself, and almost trips on some scattered pieces of shipping crates.
“Not with these high winds,” Lance calls over his shoulder. “It’s a long flight, and we have to pass over the Whirl Islands.”
Lance’s Poké Ball snaps open from a long overhand throw, a surge of white light revealing the hulking shape of Dragonite. It takes form outside the narrow mouth of the alley at the thin patch of earth separating the townhouses from the ocean, dust puffing from the dry soil underneath its feet when it lands. After a moment’s orientation, it finds its trainer, then Steven.
It looks back at Lance, dishevelled and injured from the ensuing struggle. Almost invisible tendrils of smoke begin wafting from its nostrils, and Steven looks down at his shoes, afraid to be seen as a challenger. A few pale scuffs have appeared on the toe caps of his loafers as the token for resisting capture.
Lance clicks his tongue, and Dragonite makes a crooning noise, almost too loud for this private moment. When Steven glances back, Lance is hoisting himself onto Dragonite’s back with an ease indicative of many years’ practice. He pats the side of its neck, the sound forceful but the Pokémon leaning into it with half-closed eyes.
To Steven, he holds out a hand to take.
Steven pauses, both because of Dragonite’s posturing and the whiplash pace of the information he’s just received. He has a moment of questioning if this is even Lance, the story real or a fabrication to make away with him quickly. His failed escape was the domino effect of many acts of impulse cascading into each other, a mistake he does not want to make again.
He wants to ask for more. He does not want to follow in ignorance. Lance is not there to restrain him again if he refuses to play along just because he asked. They both come to the realization at the same time. Lance’s face, which had dropped all facades to convince him of his sincerity, becomes estranged again. He makes no move toward Steven, but his whole body is a tense line pulled up toward the sky. Dragonite, feeding from his energy, continues to hold Steven in threatening intrigue.
Lance is no stranger to appearing where he’s uncalled for, oftentimes with a story that could be make-believe. He is known, infamous even, for his espionage. He had wheedled his way into Magma and Aqua’s leagues when the powers that be found Hoenn’s response to the terrorist attacks too lacking and sent reinforcements from Johto. Steven remembers the callsign responsible for giving valuable coordinates for the base at Mt. Chimney on a cryptic message, at the time considered a slip-up on Magma’s part by an inexperienced grunt, in retrospect a deliberate attempt at help. It would have been received kinder if Steven had known Lance was there to begin with.
Lance is an enigma, but that much is known. It’s not out of the realm of plausibility for him to be here if what he’s saying is true. He’s always been two steps ahead of them both.
Slowly, Steven moves forward to take the offered hand.