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The emergency lights in the Mossdeep Space Center spun in a frantic, sickening red, casting across the white walls with every rotation. A window at the end of the hall had shattered under the atmospheric pressure and the wind shrieked through the gap, spraying a fine mist of seawater and grit across the floor.
Steven leaned his weight against a structural pillar, his posture more reminiscent of a cornered brawler than the champion of the league or heir of the Devon Corporation. His hair was wind-blasted, his tie was shoved into his pocket, and there was a smudge of grease across his cheekbone.
"Watch the glass," he said precisely, even as a ceiling tile crashed down three feet away. "The structural integrity of this wing is... well, it’s a shambles, frankly."
May kicked a piece of debris out of her way. Her breathing was heavy, her chest tight with the kind of adrenaline that makes your teeth ache.
"Is everyone out?"
"The researchers are in the basement. Safest place for them," Steven muttered. He checked his watch, a habit of a man used to billable hours, now tracking the seconds until the world ended. "The Magma grunts are tearing through the second floor. They’re desperate. Desperate people are messy, May. Don't expect a clean fight."
A massive shudder rocked the building. The sound was a deep, grinding groan of steel meeting its limit. May stumbled, her hand catching a jagged edge of a metal desk.
"Easy," Steven said, catching her elbow. His grip was firm, grounded—the strength of a man who climbed mountains for hobbyism. He didn't offer a 'flowery' comfort. He just held her steady until the floor stopped vibrating. "You’re bleeding."
May looked down at her palm. A thin red line.
"It’s fine. It’s just a scratch." She strugged
"It’s an infection hazard in a humid climate," he corrected dryly, pulling a clean, silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wrapped it around her hand with the efficiency of someone who had patched up rugby injuries in university. "There. Try not to ruin the silk; it’s hand-woven."
May looked at the expensive fabric now soaked in her sweat and a bit of blood. She gave a short, laugh.
"You’re still worried about your clothes?"
"If I stop worrying about the small things, I have to acknowledge the fact that two prehistoric deities are currently terraforming our continent into a graveyard," Steven said, as his eyes meet hers. For a second, he looked tired, bone-weary. "I’d rather focus on the silk, May."
Another explosion rocked the floor above. Dust rained down like grey snow.
"Steven," May said, dropping her voice "What if we can't stop it?"
Steven reached for a Pokéball at his belt, the cold, heavy weight of Metagross. He didn't give her a speech about the power of friendship. He just looked at the crumbling ceiling.
"Then we’ll be the most well-dressed casualties in the history of the region," he said, a glint returning to his eyes, though it didn't reach his white-knuckled grip on his weapon. "But I have a very expensive wine collection waiting for me in Rustboro. I’d hate to see it go to waste. Shall we?"
He stepped over a fallen beam, offering her his hand—not to lead her, but as an equal partner stepping into the dark.