As time ticked on and the moment approached when the unofficial holiday of harvest season would give way to the true-blue Harvest Day, Hoshi Mutsu slumbered fitfully. If anyone had thought to shine a light on his face they would have seen it slick with sweat, a tinge of sadness and dread marring the stern expression that was his default even dead asleep.

  Then the invisible threshold was crossed, and in the very first second of October 31st Hoshi came awake with a strangled shiver – the ghost of a proper jolt, killed by his instinctive care for the bed's other occupant. His eyes, wide and a touch wet, took in the swirling darkness of the midnight room as the image of his father, disappointed beyond measure, gradually faded. I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry. The words were detached, severed from the dreamscape that had birthed them – the lucid him had no idea what he was meant to be sorry for. Joining Rocket? Bob's death? Or maybe the opposite – maybe he was apologising for taking so long to finally get his ass in gear. How many years, the last stubborn threads of the clinging nightmare asked, how many years could I have already been a trainer, if I'd even tried?

  Unable to think straight with the fear still heavy behind his brow, Hoshi lay still for long seconds. Then he calmed, and with gentle movements carefully extricated himself from the bedding. Casca didn't stir, and his attention was briefly captured by the kitchen area – but no, it was far too early for even a light snack. But I won't be able to get back to sleep. Not a chance…

  And so, slowly and with thick-feeling tears dying on his cheeks, Hoshi made his way first to his collection of suitcases and bags, and then to the bathroom.

  Changing and shaving took a long time, and not just because he was trying to stay absolutely quiet; no, mostly it was because every few seconds the former construction worker couldn't resist zoning out at the sight of his own reflection. Ugh, that dream really got to me. The exact details weren't sensical, but the gist of his imagination's work had been a… family gathering of sorts.

  But not one of the living; not even Tsuyu had been there, despite the mass of guilt he still felt towards the woman. It had been a reunion of the dead, filled to capacity by the previous generation of Mutsu; the one that had borne the heavier load where the war was concerned. Most of the faces had been shadows, if even that, vague non-memories of relatives Hoshi had never met. Old photographs, or charcoal lines trapped under clear wax – people he could only mourn by proxy, great uncles and aunts, cousins steps removed from the main family line. But in the centre, there had been a figure bright and clear: Shenja Mutsu. The Champ, young and muscular, his fingers hiding subtle dexterity and a keen mind sitting behind heavy features.

  He had said things… maybe. Or maybe he'd only looked his son's way, eyes full of grief – again, the nightmare was already gone.

  But the emotion behind it wasn't, not even close. And so even as he cleared the last of the scruff from his face, Hoshi continued to stare into the reflected scene in the mirror. Still looks like a stranger… or no, not quite a stranger. The brown-haired man in the mirror could have been any of those three-steps-removed cousins, a nameless casualty in the endless battle against the enemy to Kanto's west. A necessary sacrifice.

  But was it? Can we really call it that when we lost? When we were forced to stop fighting before it was over? When Kanto's Champion is a fucking Johtonian?

  What had his father’s dream said – or rather, what would he say, the real one, if he were alive? If he were to look at the Hoshi Mutsu his son had become, the mirror-creature who’d covered up the proud Mutsu purple, who wore a not-quite-skintight jumpsuit with a bright red R displayed proudly on the chest, whose arm was in a cast and whose belt held seven Pokéballs… what would he say?

  Would he be proud of me?

  The sleepy question from earlier returned; what if he'd done things the normal way? It filled his head – and then, in the illusive world of what he supposed was now his fourth eye – not any psychic magic, but simply his imagination – the reflection began to change. If I'd started right after Dad died, if I hadn't been so disgusted with everything… The mirror-Hoshi’s hair shortened and regained its proper colour. If I hadn't- hadn't believed, all the way down, that I wasn’t good enough to do it the right way… If I'd accepted Bob's offers of shelter, studied instead of taking crappy job after crappy job… His expression changed from dull frustration to something self-assured, maybe even cocky. The black outfit with white accents rippled, replaced with bulky travelling clothes, reds and yellows and blues vivid to scream out I'm dangerous to every wild Pokémon that cared to look. An ideal me… The scarring on his knuckles was traded for a smattering of less concentrated marks across his face, trophies of the wilds and other trainers, of standing just a little too close to battle after raging battle. His oft-broken nose changed shape just slightly, and his eyebrows became bushy once more. Nothing about the reflection’s eyes changed, not physically, but behind them? How does he think, this other me? Is he brighter? Happier?

  Brighter, maybe… but I can't imagine it's because he's cheerful. That was a step too far, even for his currently overactive imagination. Brighter because he's burning hotter, then. Yeah, that sounds like me… hah.

  The man in the mirror stared back, equally foreign as the real article. Was he the better of the two men? Would the world be a more… a more solid place if they traded lives, if Hoshi climbed up onto the sink and let himself slide into the silver-backed glass? If this stupid ego looped around my neck had tugged me in just a slightly different direction…

  A last moment of staring into the mirror, and then Hoshi blinked. The illusion was gone, leaving only the living present.

  No. No, it's just as much a stupid dream as the one that made me think it up. It was easy to look back and say he'd fucked up, but he hadn't, not more than any other person did in this big stupid world. Hoshi Mutsu had clawed, and scraped, and taken too many hits to count – but he was real. And that imaginary version of myself that lives in my head… he isn't. What if I'd become a trainer when I was eighteen? I might as well ask what if I was Genji the Transformer, hah. What if I could bring back the dead, what if I could snap my fingers and fix everything in the world, what if all this Deoxys shit made a lick of sense…

  Slowly, very slowly, Hoshi's reflection smiled. It wasn't a very happy expression – it was probably closer to vicious than anything – but it was real.

  “And how is the long-range version coming along? Do you require the Doctor's help?”

  As Senior Executive Kidd’s Kantonese words put themselves in order within his head – something that wasn't quite automatic, despite his having spoken the language for years – Arlo Aiki was forced to suppress a snarl. As if! “No, Executive,” was what he said instead. “It is essentially complete. Testing has shown positive results; the break rate is under five percent.”

  James frowned. “One in twenty? That’s definitely going to cut into-”

  “Under five percent,” Mokusen reinforced from below, his voice a touch laboured from the weight of his broadcaster, and Arlo felt a slight stab of envy from the fact that if he had interrupted the blue-haired man the consequences would be rather foul.

  Not so for the Rocket Professor; James only nodded, distracted by the contents of his own head. They continued in silence for the span of a hall, and when the next comment came it was from below again – though the speaker couldn't have been more different.

  “Incom-mpatible?” Meowth asked, and as the feline’s tortured syllables sounded out the younger executive’s grimace finally bloomed.

  “I am afraid so… sir.” His tone bid the cat to turn his way, and Arlo could see the smugness in its eyes. Meowth knew he loathed referring to a Pokémon as though it were a superior, and the fact that the interaction was plainly obvious only served to induce greater frustration. “My Shadow Pokémon have been unable to further empower themselves using either of my colleagues’ efforts. If Mega Evolution or enhanced moves are possible, it will be through a different angle of research.” As if they need it anyhow – the typeless attacks I've already uncovered have no weaknesses!

  “It's not possible,” Mokusen again reinforced. “Everything the Doctor and I are doing involves… opening an aperture, one could say. But the Shadow Pokémon are barred shut, condensed. Diamonds, rather than sponges.”

  James nodded thoughtfully, and things fell silent once again. That lack of chatter was slightly more tolerable, and Arlo felt himself calm as they approached their destination – then it tipped over into glee as he imagined the coming vengeance. The ‘reward’ for Mutsu’s swift rise sat heavy in the right-hand pocket of his vest, warm and very nearly alive. A second heart… ahh, what an apt metaphor.

  The heart was the body's greatest weak point, after all.

  “The nature of your ascension is mysterious, my protégé… and so, in order to comprehend the new limits of your abilities, certain extreme methods must-”

  “Pass,” Hoshi interrupted, and the Psychic Hunter’s mouth hung open for a moment before his early-morning ecstasy seamlessly transmuted into annoyance.

  “But- Enforcer, think of the power you might wield! How will we plumb your hidden depths while remaining in the shallows?”

  With as much emphasis as it was possible to cram into the motion, Hoshi raised his right arm and rotated the mass of white plaster covering his hand, wrist, and forearm. “Kiribo, I am injured. The last time I ‘plumbed the depths’ I turned a good chunk of my skeleton into powder. And I'm ninety percent sure that whatever the instructors have cooked up is gonna be strenuous, so that's another reason not to wreck each other with our brains.”

  “But..!”

  Hoshi shook his head lightly as he turned away. “I'm fine with… carefully feeling around for the edges of stuff, but that's all. And if you even think of drawing that sword, I'm out.” While Kiribo was definitely leagues more competent than the junior Rocket’s first impression had implied, he still remained startlingly… immature wasn't quite the word, but it was the closest description the latter could think of. I'm sure he can hold his own in a fight, but I still don't want him waving a sharpened chunk of steel around in my direction – with or without psychic powers being involved. Hoshi may have jumpstarted his newly heightened abilities by essentially getting his shit kicked in, but he wasn't willing to let history repeat itself.

  So he allowed his attention to wander away from the despondent Psychic Hunter – who’d better get over not being given leave to chop me up real quick – in favour of his girlfriend and their Pokémon.

  Guts and Crow were playing tag with Candy in a throwback to the very first group training session they'd ever had, while Venus, Champ, and a reluctant Junior were engaged in something of a dance competition with Squeegee the ludicolo and the vileplume whose nickname the enforcer was drawing a blank on. Casca told me yesterday when we swapped teams, but I never actually used the thing. Something a little more sensible..?

  The smallest flex of his psychic muscles, and he remembered: Cloud! There we go. Not a weird name in itself, but not something I'd associate with a grass type. But even as he nodded to himself, something caught Hoshi's eye. “Hey Sunshine, you alright?”

  Casca turned a subtly displeased look his way. “Hm? Oh, no, it's nothing. It's just that there's totally an innuendo there, but I can't find it. Like, the pieces are so obvious – plumbing depths, your wrist, the instructors joining in…” She threw her hands up. “But it isn't coming together! Isn't that just the most frustrating thing?”

  With an immense expenditure of effort Hoshi was able to keep from snorting for a full three seconds, which he was pretty proud of. “Snrk. Damnit, Casca,” he said with a smile. “This is supposed to be serious training. Look, Quake’s barely trying.”

  A raised brow as she looked to where her dugtrio was lazily evading Moony and Rivet’s attempts to catch the mole monster. “That's because she doesn't need to try, stud. That bear of yours is-”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He lost the rest of his girlfriend's sentence as something way too big holy fuck entered the awareness of his third eye. Hoshi whirled, expecting to see Sabrina bearing down on him with glowing eyes and fingers like talons – but when he saw the actual culprit he wasn't surprised despite being completely wrong. Kiribo’s alakazam, who may or may not have had a name, finished coalescing complete with the usual cowboy outfit.

  “My friend!” the human behind the Pokémon bellowed, perfectly visible in reality even as a solid column of multicoloured granite took up the entire field of Hoshi's empathetic view. “I am afraid I cannot be content with your answer! Both my pride as an esoteric warrior and the great challenges arrayed against us in the coming days demand excellence. And so!” A gesture, hands out and fingers splayed, and despite the palpable menace of the alakazam Kiribo still managed to somehow appear more silly than intimidating – at least until the pose ended, and he grasped the sword under his coat.

  “Wait,” Hoshi attempted. “Waitwaitwait-”

  “Even before this apparent awakening, you were supposedly my superior in terms of raw ability…” With an ominous and deceptively soft sound the steel left its green-painted prison. “But you are untrained! Unskilled! Like a tank being crewed by rank amateurs, your current strength is far below its potential!”

  Oh Arcus above, fuck this..! That Pokémon's power has a horizon, how did I not notice even before the breakthrough?! “C-Casca? Little help here?”

  The woman's eyes moved between him, Hoshi, the love of her life, and the fat swordsman with his bored-looking psychic type. “Hmm…”

  “Casca!”

  To his despair, she shrugged. “Sorry stud, he makes a good argument. You really do need to get a handle on this shit – don't think I haven't noticed the mood swings, and you're cranky as fuck from the constant headaches.”

  The Rocket Hunter lunged, his speed ridiculous given the shape of his body, and Hoshi yelped. “Gah!” How- fast?! “Guts, Scary Face!”

  Whatever it was the peons were engaging themselves with, it was audible from a long way off. The fetid underground tunnels were as competent at masking sound as they were radiation, one of the reasons the location had been chosen, and yet Arlo’s ears had begun picking up the muted cries and screams a solid minute ago – and they were only growing louder. “Pardon, Executive, what was the enforcer's punishment again?”

  James frowned. “Re-educating the not-quite-no-hopers. But he has the day off for this – and to train with the Psychic Hunter.”

  “Who?”

  Mokusen grunted. “Kimigawa’s grand nephew. The one who failed to kill Jitsu.”

  “Ah, that character.” So Mutsu's friends with the one at blame for the foul weather. Yet another example of the incompetents around me huddling for warmth, as though I needed further evidence of their inferiority…

  The din escalated as they crossed the final few hallways, to the point exact words could be discerned; “Damn it! You fat fuck!”

  “Excellent, my squire, excellent!”

  “Samurai don't have squires! Now you're just fucking with my heritage!”

  Victory’s Flame, they do prattle on. Very soon the group of three – and the persian – turned the final corner, revealing-

  What is..? It was difficult to parse; the lighting of the tunnel was about the same quality as the structural integrity of the wall panels – that being decidedly muddy. Then there were the Pokémon prancing about, and the woman blowing a nonsensical amount of smoke into the air by way of an oversized cigar. But, blinking, Arlo put the more important elements together – and then he very nearly dismissed the resulting scene as a hallucination, because there was no way in hell that such a tubby sack of lard could move so fast.

  “You can only flee for so long, Enforcer!”

  “Great – hah – point! Drop the sword and we can fight it out like men!”

  But no, even when he blinked again the situation remained: the man Arlo vaguely recognised as the previously-discussed Kimigawa was chasing Hoshi Mutsu around at ludicrous speed – and the stick-thin man was matching the former's pace. How fast are they..?

  His battle-proven intellect clocked them at a blistering ten metres per second as they zig-zagged from wall to wall, but again that was simply impossible. Even if I accept the ridiculous theory that Mutsu has suddenly become a second Jujuba, it doesn't add up; the level of force needed to run that fast would be more than enough to-

  As if reacting to the executive's thoughts Hoshi turned, flicking his left arm out – a gesture that caused Kiribo to shoot to the side. The Psychic Hunter hit the wall, but neither he nor the fragile ancient wood broke. Instead, in a manoeuvre that didn't entirely make physical sense even if one were to assign him arbitrarily high strength and dexterity, the fat man bounded up the vertical surface, flipped, and came down sword-first.

  Mutsu let out a strangled growl, gesturing again, but the apparent telekinesis failed to land. He tripped as Kimigawa fell atop him, the heavier man burying his blade nearly to the hilt in soft wood as his feet did much the same with Mutsu's midsection.

  “Point for Kiribo,” the woman said between puffs, and the named man crowed.

  “Ho hoh, magnificent! That is six to one, is it not? Of course-!”

  “I must agree!” Senior Executive Kidd interrupted with a clap, startling just about everyone. “It is magnificent to see you all training so hard! But I'm afraid I'll have to put a pause on things; our proactive Professor here has a little something to give Hunter Kimigawa. If you would?”

  Mokusen grunted as he stepped forward, and Arlo followed just behind. They advanced into the improvised training ground – and to the Rocket Admin's surprise the woman’s cigar smoke was actually halfway pleasant to inhale. Hmm, is that a Kiloude Cloud Fountain? I suppose even a peasant can have a spot of good taste…

  Kimigawa stepped off the enforcer's belly, his eyes – sharper than I'd have expected; much more than his relative – darting to Mokusen, then Arlo, then the executive behind them. “Mi’lord,” he began, causing the genius’s steps to stutter. “Might I assume that this is..?”

  “It is,” the professor took over. Mokusen’s hand shook as he reached into a pocket, but as he withdrew it the limb’s motion was smooth. The object clutched between thin fingers was familiar; softly-colored crystal shaped into a hexagonal slab, its surface bearing a sharply layered appearance despite being only slightly less than entirely smooth. The backside was rougher, with a square grain not unlike bismuth, and tapered to a blunted point.

  Kimigawa reached for the Sync Stone – but before he could lay his hand on it, something else beat him to the punch. An alakazam, previously concealed by the crowd of monsters and low visibility, appeared silently and snatched the stone from Mokusen's hand. Then there came a voice, telepathy – but not the alien calculations Arlo would have expected from the species.

  [Not a Mega Stone?] the Pokémon asked in a deep and human voice, causing the diminutive scientist to scowl harder.

  “Given the strength of you and the Hunter’s…”

  “Warrior spirit!”

  “…Bond, a Sync Stone is the better option. I can't produce an infinite amount of Alakazamite; every pair that can use a Sync Stone is one more for my own monsters.”

  Hoshi took the lull as a well-deserved opportunity to catch his breath. Damn, I know he's been doing this a heck of a lot longer than me, but… Kiribo really has this telekinetic movement thing locked down.

  Where the Psychic Hunter could glide at high speed with barely any effort, Hoshi was forced to make do with just wrenching himself around like he'd done with Tsuyu. And while Kiribo had been right in that the enforcer's fuel tank seemed to be a lot bigger, he also burned that fuel a lot faster – Hoshi was a lumbering steamroller to his ‘mentor’s’ ultra-lightweight motorbike. Not the most elegant of metaphors, but it does the job…

  Dabi and the alakazam were still conversing as he finally got some wind back in his sails. Or at least that's my assumption; apparently I don't warrant being let in on the telepathy side of things. But whatever, he was willing to wait his turn. So the enforcer turned away from the tiny pack-toting scientist and absurdly-dressed Pokémon, and spent a second examining the others. Another old-fashioned suit on Meowth today. Don't know what this one is called, but the colour is… unique, I guess.

  The persian was sporting a thick garment of salmon-pink fabric, the tone not at all fitting against his greying cream fur. The hat was more standard, a black bowler, and overall he looked a bit less harried than they'd all been on the way to Vermilion. James, too, looked a bit more contented; if his bullet wound was hurting him, it wasn't enough to show on his face.

  And actually… Going back to Dabi, he actually looked a touch better as well. His hair was still grey and thin, but the lines reaching out from under his opaque glasses had been reduced. And he's carrying that metal box pretty well. Or maybe it's just my imagination? Hmm…

  Putting the matter aside, Hoshi moved to where Casca was stubbing out her smoke. “Did you really have to help him keep track of the points?”

  “Well, it kept you motivated didn't it?”

  The half-smoked cigar – he'd thought she'd smoked all of them months ago, but apparently some had been squirreled away – went back into its packaging, and she continued with an amused tone. “And besides, it looked good for the audience… right?”

  A small glance back confirmed that Kiribo and his partner were still conversing with Dabi while James, Meowth, and that Unovan poser Arlo Aiki looked on. I'm not sure how getting stomped on could ever translate to impressive, but I guess I'll accept it to spare my ego. He sent a sour nod his girlfriend's way, checked that their Pokémon were still training, and then Hoshi turned to the task of attempting to understand what was going on with only half the context.

  Dabi, the surly fuck, didn't make it easy either. “No… That’s closer… It should be comparatively trivial… For your information he hasn't, mainly due to your buffoon of a creator.” Oh come on, you were talking in nice full paragraphs earlier…

  Unfortunately his frustration must have shown on his face, because the rest of the peanut gallery switched targets. “Mutsu,” the junior executive purred, his pleased tone immediately setting off multiple sirens in Hoshi's head. “Someone finally forced you to wear the uniform, Hmm?”

  Rich, coming from someone who- actually, do executives even have a uniform? A lot of the ones he'd seen had just been in normal suits with the R badge – and some not even that. Which means that I can't call him on it… Just as well, I guess; seeing Arlo trying to pull off James's number would probably make me puke. So all the enforcer could do was reply with a tepid “Yeah, hard to get this thing on over the cast. But that's the price of being the boots on the ground, isn't it?”

  The jibe failed to land; Arlo’s thin smile only sharpened a touch as he sauntered Hoshi's way, the ephemeral colours of his mood holding steady. “Indeed. You are a loyal soldier, aren't you?”

  It was said with a coating of contempt, and only Casca’s light touch on his good wrist kept Hoshi from doing something stupid. Can't punch him again, even metaphorically; with the alakazam freaking out right over there, I can't see shit. It really was uncomfortable; the Pokémon was even more psychically visible than Sabrina – probably not stronger, but with a massive emotional footprint than made the novice psychic's third eye sting.

  “Yes!” James agreed with his customary enthusiasm, also turning away from Dabi’s laconic explanation. He, at least, was completely sincere – again, with the caveat that my empathy is looking at him backlit by the fucking sun. “Usually I would advocate for doing things with the proper gravitas, but given that the Professor looks to be caught up for a while…”

  Arlo's continuing smugness was really setting Hoshi's teeth on edge, and the feeling only redoubled as the overweight foreigner moved to draw something from one of the pockets of his heavy battler’s jacket.

  But then the alarm was blown away.

  He had never actually seen a Mega Stone up close. Only through a TV screen, glinting off jewellery worn by the contestants of Hoenn's Seastone Circuit or Kalos’s Round Table Conference or whatever it was Alola called its childish attempts at a serious tournament. And yet, it was unmistakable; perfectly round, and an almost exact match for a shrunken Pokéball size-wise, it didn't look dangerous – but then, neither did a primed electrode.

  It caught the scant light of the hallway, showing off a translucent sheen – and, buried inside, a double-twist of pitch black and earthen brown. “This is a Mega Stone,” Arlo explained to the benefit of no-one. “An artificial, man-made version of something that has never been found in nature…” Raticatite. “Raticatite. Though it pains to use such a precious resource on so common a Pokémon, it would be improper for a Rocket Enforcer to be left out.”

  “Indubitably!” James exclaimed. “Some small speed-bumps aside, you've shown yourself to be quite competent. Accept this gift, from Team Rocket to you!”

  “Meow.”

  Arlo held out the stone, and despite his misgivings concerning the man Hoshi reached for it eagerly. It didn't feel like anything special – the Water Stone had seemed more mysterious, more magical – but still he felt a tingle as the Raticatite rested between his fingers. This- I hope I never have to use it, even if it's supposed to be safer, but Arcus fuck it feels…

  Significant.

  “As with a natural stone it will need to be paired with a Key Stone to facilitate the energy transfer, as well as certain radio frequencies – the latter of which can be provided by a modified radio transmitter. This improved version is free from the defect that caused Professor Mokusen's…” Arlo fished for a word, his eyes sliding back towards where an increasingly-frustrated Kiribo was trying to wrestle the Sync Stone from his partner's hard-shelled grasp as Dabi looked on tiredly, but even after a significant pause the executive failed to find one. “…Well, that.”

  “Completely safe!” James assured, and Meowth backed it up as well.

  “More tiring than real thing. But worth it – for you es-special-ly.”

  Seconds passed, and as Casca’s grip on his hip tightened Hoshi realised he'd been zoning out, caught fast by the twisting helix of black and brown. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled before shaking off the cobwebs. “Is there also a Key Stone?”

  It was James who answered. “In a moment, Enforcer Mutsu; the good Professor should give an explanation of-”

  “Brother!” came an interrupting yell from the Psychic Hunter. “Enough questions! The greatest teacher is experience – so let us simply use the thing!”