Chương 75: Interlude - Thunderhead

Scythe stalked the hospital's halls with complete confidence. Skulking next to him, the source of his current invulnerability made a little whine of warning. He stopped short, keeping his eyes tight on the intersection ahead of them. After a few seconds, an orderly went by, on what would have been a crash course with the former Rocket operative. For its trouble, Scythe's tool got a nod and a click of the remote.

The device triggered the tool's collar, releasing a small chemical reward into the creature's bloodstream. His former associates in Rocket were always too fond of the stick, in Scythe's opinion. Punishments had their place, but they had to be accompanied by some sort of reward, lest the victim feel they had nothing to live for. Down that route lay rebellion, which was unacceptable for a 'trainer' of Scythe's caliber.

No, you had to keep your tools functional somehow, and his whetstone of choice were carefully dosed administrations of personalized compounds. Part performance-enhancer, part amphetamine, his little cocktail was highly effective. And highly addictive, just as he needed it. Another warning, another passing member of the hospital's staff, another carefully-dosed reward. The need for stealth was galling, but the functional invisibility his tool granted him took much of the sting out of the skulking.

And besides, he'd put up with a lot to get to fulfill today's goal. The light above the operating door was lit, and Scythe knew from prior snooping that there was currently emergency treatment going on for a feral instrument injured in a confrontation with some souped up monster, out in the wilds. Normally, he'd have little care for such a thing, but the creature's current state, plus his tool's suite of abilities (with the help of a little extra surprise) presented an enticing opportunity.

A chance to strip another layer of defenses away from the tough little nut he'd spent the last month and change trying to crack. Scythe was a realist at heart, so he could admit when he was wrong. He'd expected the Madaka heir to be a simple puzzle once he'd sharpened his new acquisition. Just injure or kill her little rat, and she'd have no choice but to crawl back into her family's clutches.

Instead, the troublesome pair had an almost preternatural sense of caution, avoiding the myriad of subtle accidents he'd used his tool to arrange. And now there was a presence about them. Scythe was an experienced hunter, which meant he knew when he was being hunted in-turn. He'd only caught fleeting glimpses of this elusive stalker over the last couple weeks of observation, but he had a good hint as to their identity.

Some sort of Unovan agent in all likelihood, here in this backwater to retrieve or dispose of their lost tool. Too bad for them, Scythe had no intention of surrendering his new toy. And he'd deal with the foreign actor in time, but he had little doubt that their eventual blowup wouldn't be subtle. Which meant he needed to make sure that when he did go loud to reclaim his employer's lost asset, no one who mattered would be in a position to complain about it.

Scythe gripped his other new toy in his free hand, opening a small connection to his tool for a moment, just long enough to give a more complicated order. He let go of the button, turning off his heavily modified PSS. Horrendous name aside, the foreign device was proving surprisingly useful for imprinting his will on his newest acquisition. He just had to make sure to swap out the glowing stone powering the device every once in a while, before the blasted thing turned fully orange.

Following his orders, the tool pushed the operating room door open, while muffling the sight and sounds of it doing so. The pair crept into the room, watching the frenzy of activity as the nurses, doctors, and singular Pokémon in the room tried to treat the massive Mudsdale laid out on the table. The creature was missing huge patches of hide, and several deep gouges had been drawn from its flesh.

Scythe would have liked to watch the battle that inflicted such wounds, it must have been quite the spectacle, but he had little time for leisure these days. Establishing himself in a new region was hard work. He quietly shut off the supply of gas keeping the feral creature unconscious, and stepped around the busy physicians to reach the monster's head.

He pried open the Mudsdale's mouth, confident his tool would keep his actions hidden, and stabbed one of the spent, mostly-orange stones that powered his PSS into the creature's tongue. Another use of the AR device to give his tool a more complicated order, and they were on their way, slipping out of the room and carefully barring the door behind them. He would have stayed to watch the results of his machinations, but really, he was just so, so busy these days.

He did indulge himself with a jaunty whistle, as the screaming started up from the locked operating theater. It was a good thing he enjoyed his work so much. -"You've found the 'skeletons' and our whistleblower?" Purson asked the agent, holding his other office phone close to his face (not the one he used for calls to the board).

"I've got both," came back the woman's confident reply.

"Enough rope to hang their entire org. chart, and the perfect patsy to go with it. You'd love this guy, plausibly intelligent, plausibly high in RealTech's hierarchy, and best of all, an actual, moral, upstanding human being. Once I get the data into his hands, he'll play right into ours."

"You're sure about this Dahlia?" he made sure to use the agent's pseudonym, even on this secure line.

"We paid a premium to get you inside RealTech, and we need them out of the way." That felt like an understatement. Years of planning, all his long hours of work and preparation, and this Techne upstart was poised to ruin it all!

"The price you fronted will be well worth it, I promise," she reassured him. Stifled chittering from the line spoke to the woman's partner, having a laugh at something on the other end. Purson felt some curiosity at what the tiny, sadistic electric-type was enjoying so thoroughly. Maybe she'd enjoy talking shop with Purson's own resident tormentress?

"RealTech is into some deep shit. Deeper than you, if you can believe it." The agent's voice broke Purson free from his idle thoughts. He found her assertion unlikely, considering his ambitions, but the pieces hardly needed to know the player's ultimate plans.

"Enlighten me," he instructed dryly, and the agent complied with gusto. By the end of her story, Purson could feel a grin trying to form on his face, in stark contrast to the brooding snarl he'd been wearing the last six weeks. Things had been– difficult, since RealTech had exploded into the scene, cornering the same markets Frontline had long been courting. The rangers, city-security, private military. Their plan was rather elegant, actually.

He was willing to say that because, in many ways, it mirrored his own machinations. Create a groundbreaking AR technology, prove its utility to the players who really matter, become the sole supplier of the tools needed to police and rule the region, make enormous profits. It was a good idea, but one marred, perverted in RealTech's hands by three key factors. The first was the rampant foreign interference rife in their organizational structure.

Close ties to shell corps and front operations for some very nasty foreign actors were buried in RealTech's closet, as well as proof of some extremely suspect transactions for staggering amounts of Poké Gold. The evidence of outside interference in Ferrum's halls of power was completely unacceptable. The fact that foreigners could visit Ferrum at all was an aberration, and letting them gain even greater sway was anathema. And that wasn't even to mention the international scrutiny these organizations would draw.

Rocket, Cipher, Phobos, criminal gangs and terrorist groups. Miscreants and malcontents, useful tools but horrible influences, and RealTech was well and truly influenced based on what Dahlia was telling him. Shipments of 'crystallized malice' to Orre, advanced computing and barrier technology to Kanto, and other paper trails that made Purson's lip curl up in a malicious grin. The second mark against RealTech's coup-in-the-making was that they hadn't been patient enough.

Unwilling to wait for the requisite incidents to occur to build their influence, they'd chosen to create their own problems. Putting the knowledge of how to jailbreak their own device out on the black market? Sure.

'Losing' several shipments in Neo's gang-infested fifth district? Why not? Stirring up agitators and fanning several protests into riots? Planned and executed. Unfortunately for them, those sorts of activities inevitably left evidence. Evidence that rivals could uncover, and then give to hapless patsies. And then there was the third problem. Which was of course that RealTech's plans didn't go far enough! Monopolize the market? Make record profits? Those were chump goals.

Uninspired drivel that made Purson want to spit and sneer. Money wasn't power, in spite of so many fools conflating the two. You could have as much money as you wanted, it wouldn't give you real strength, real influence in Ferrum. For that, you needed something more. You needed control. Control of four very specific places. Under the Sacred Lake. In the heart of Neos City. Buried in the Iode Hills. Lost in the Argoth Forest.

Grand gaia spots, the places where the earth's power gushed forth, and could be harnessed to extraordinary ends. Each was owned by the real players in Ferrum's game of power, the true movers and shakers that dictated what happened in the region. The dynasty families (along with, by extension, the Ferrum League). The FSBC and its hangar of media conglomerates. The Ferrum Power Commission– which should have long ago been privatized. And those pesky, pesky Plantsa.

Those were the real enemies Purson was contending with, the true titans that needed to be brought low to make way for his own ascension. And once their carefully-chosen whistleblower brought the hammers of those behemoths down on RealTech, the way would be clear for Frontline to take the upstart's place. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. And then? Then, the game could truly begin. And already there was a chink in his true foe's armor. More wrongdoing to uncover.

And soon, the time would be right to strike. -"Stability decreased to eighty percent." One part of the Hero heard the announcement, the other checked the small device on their carapace. Ten kilometers. Eighty percent was halfway to the lowest acceptable range, but it was within projections, and it represented a new record for both distance and signal strength.

"Whatever you did doc, I think it's a breakthrough. Hell, put us on a train, I bet I could keep this going all the way to Neos!" The Hero's human half said boisterously from their Frontline pod.

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves Brent, one record at a time," Doctor Feldhar replied mirthfully.

"I like your enthusiasm, but you know how bad the snapback is when the connection breaks unexpectedly. Let's not have any nosebleeds today, yes?"

"Fine," the Hero pouted, "but we could go another couple of kilometers, at least. Let's really push this thing today!"

"Fine, fine," the aging scientist said with a laugh.

"But carefully now, don't send Mask haring off too quickly. Safety is our priority."

"Like always," the Hero replied with an eyeroll, but they aligned with Doctor Feldhar's request, jumping from building to building at a good clip, but nowhere near the maximum pace they could set if they really cut loose. Every few hundred meters lost them another percentage point, decremented their strength just a little bit, but the Hero could hardly bring themselves to care. The differences were minute, and more than made up for by the ability to synchronize with each other at all, at such an extreme distance.

In the Hero's mind, the Frontline pod was ready for sale, but he could respect Frontline's attempts to make sure the technology was as mature as possible before they went to market. Especially since one of their competitors had supplied such a clear perspective on the dangers inherent in launching preemptively. No one at Frontline wanted their product to become the next BattleFieldGo, the Hero included. If that meant more rigorous tests and longer hours? Well, that was a sacrifice they were all willing to make.

Their current target was ninety percent stability at fifteen kilometers, and not even the most money-grubbing suits were willing to begrudge the research team their goal. After all, what they were working on would change the region. And it would be for the better, unlike with the BFG. No risk of volatile synergy crystals out in the wild, no danger from portable barriers and unregulated battling. And best of all, no risk to the squishy trainers who made up half of every battling pair.

No, with a Frontline pod, law enforcement, rangers, and corporate security would be able to safely make sure their most durable operators could take to the field in their best condition, without needing to worry about protecting an immobile vulnerability. And Golems knew, that sort of security was much needed right now, of which the Hero was about to receive a rather unpleasant reminder. A distinctive sound brought them up short, caught by the partner's tympanal organs.

It carried on the wind, through the concrete jungle of Techne's urban heart. Screaming, howling desperation, a plea for aid.

"Doctor, Mask is hearing something. It sounds like screaming. We're moving to investigate," the partner relayed his findings back to the scientist.

"What? Belay that!" the man ordered severely.

"Tell us the address and we can call city-security, but don't put yourselves at risk!"

"Sorry doctor, but someone out there needs help, and if we can give it, nothing's gonna stop us," the trainer informed him, as the partner tore off across the rooftops, honing in on the source of the disturbance.

"Shit, fine! Team, we've got a potential impromptu field test. Get all the instruments online and running full-strength! I want readings down to the millisecond!"

"Thanks doc!" the Hero said as they skidded to a halt outside a tall building. The structure was part of a complex, and the ambulance bay outside told the Hero that the source of the screaming was a hospital of all places. And the cause of the disturbance made no hesitation about revealing itself. Before their eyes, a rampaging Pokémon covered in a corona of black energy came tearing out of the building's lobby, circumventing the door, and deigning instead to crash through one of the building's concrete walls.

The culprit was a Mudsdale, the massive Ground-type throwing his head back and forth in a frenzy. His thick hide covered in half-healed wounds, and his eyes had a frantic look about them. Worse still, his lips were pulled back in a rictus snarl, revealing a pulsating orange stone trapped between his teeth. Even before the Hero's eyes, the crystal seemed to be spreading, slowly welding the poor creature's jaws shut. Behind the rampaging Pokémon lay a trail of destruction.

The hospital's lobby was thrashed, delicate equipment and austere furniture shattered and crushed. People and Pokémon peeked out from where they'd taken cover, or groaned from where they lay wounded. Cracks splintered through the hard tile floor, and waves of bubbling mud created impromptu sinkholes in the shattered ground.

"I'm at a hospital. I think it's Techne General? I'm not sure though," the human half of the Hero relayed what he was saying to the scientists and engineers in the testing chamber, even as the Pokémon half of their partnership waved one back leg in a cruel Taunt in an attempt to draw the Mudsdale's attention.

"There's one of those weird Pokémon here, like in the news. There are black shadows all around them, and orange crystals growing out of their mouth."

"Guardians," one of the researchers cursed.

"Brent, you and Mask are at eighty percent stability. That's almost half-power! You need to get him out of there."

"Negative on that," the Hero replied grimly, as their compound eyes witnessed a thousand tales of threat and suffering.

"Someone's gotta stop this Pokémon, or a lot of people are going to get hurt even more than they already are."

"Leave that for security, Brent!" another researcher pleaded.

"This is dangerous!" But the words were lost on the Hero. They were already engaged in the dance of death with their half-mad foe, frantic hoofbeats and thrashing limbs resounding through the hospital's shattered parking lot. It was… different. It would have been nice to say it wasn't, but the truth was, seeing the battle with only half of their eyes, pulling their connection thin against the distance separating them, it made the Hero's job harder.

"Stability down to seventy-seven percent, and dropping, " a frantic voice said.

"We're going to lose it at this rate!" Mas– no, the partner leapt over a roiling wave of concrete and earth, turning an evasive frontflip into a Lunge that smashed their rear legs into the rampaging Mudsdale. The frenzied Pokémon reared up, trying to catch the Hero with a High Horsepower and they were barely able to dodge out of the way, skittering along their foe's back and leaping free, only to have to avoid a spray of mud from the Mudsdale's rear hooves.

They dove underneath the Pokémon, before pushing off the ground with all six of their limbs and crashing into the Ground-type's undercarriage. They felt the wind compress out of the equine Pokémon's lungs, and the human half of the Hero sent a little bit more energy over their bond to give them the necessary strength to parlay their opening into a combo.

"Seventy-five percent! At this rate, we only have about five minutes before we lose the connection entirely!" Bre– the Hero tuned out the panicked words. Only one thing mattered right now, and that was keeping this rampaging Pokémon from hurting anyone else. They Bounced off their opponent like a rubber ball, hurtling into the ground, only to spring up off the cracked pavement once more, pushing off and slamming into the Mudsdale again.

One attack, two, three, four, each Bounce accelerating them as they ping-ponged between the ground and their foe's body. On the final hit of the chain, they oriented their rear legs up, sending them screaming towards the Ground-type in a brutal Axe Kick. Only to have their assault stymied by an explosion of energy that sent them tumbling, an outpouring of malice and hate that caused the crystals growing from the rampaging Pokémon's mouth to grow and subsume, covering more of the Mudsdale's jaw.

The corona of shadowy energy increased, like some sort of horrendously warped synergy burst. And then the foe was on them, a whirling storm of mud and muscle, trying to trample them underfoot in an indiscriminate rampage that totaled any cars in the parking lot and cracked the facades of nearby buildings. They ducked and dodged desperately, trying to outlast this outpouring of strength, but the Mudsdale showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, they seemed to be growing stronger, somehow, as the minutes passed.

The Hero's whole world became frantic dodging and opportunistic retaliation, but the dangerous Pokémon shrugged off every Sucker Punch, every Feint and Lunge. And worse yet, they found themselves unable to avoid every blow, forced to waste energy on brief Protects and desperate substitutes.

"Sixty-three percent! Brent, you have to get out of there, you're about to lose it!" How long had they been fighting? Minutes? Hours? It was impossible to tell. There was only the next blow to avoid, the next chance to attack. Mas– no, the Hero, thought about retreating, gave it serious consideration. Why were they even fighting here? They'd just been meant to test the Frontline Pod. Wasn't this a job for City-security? Or those new sub-contractors? And then, something pierced their haze of concentration.

A scream of fear. The Hero's head snapped up, tracking a projectile vehicle, sent flying by an errant Mega Kick. The car was arcing up, and their head tracked it to the end of its path, revealing a young boy, gazing at the incoming projectile. A woman stood behind him, mid run, screaming at him to get out of the way. Her hand was reached out, trying to rescue the child, but the Hero could already see how this would end. Neither of them were going to be able to move in time. The world seemed to slow.

The car was already five meters away and at the edge of its flight. It was descending, and would crush the boy in a second, maybe two. That… couldn't happen.

"Sixty-five! It's going up!" The Hero moved, any sense of hesitation or doubt banished. Normally, entering synergy burst required a burst declare, an expenditure of energy to get the state started, like an engine sputtering to life. The Hero went from zero to five-hundred in the space between moments. A corona of energy surrounded them, and their Aerial Ace would make an Alakazam's teleport look slow.

They appeared between the projectile and its destination, smashing the car with a kick that obliterated the vehicle and spiked it to the pavement below.

"Seventy-three! It's jumping now!" They landed on the concrete below and brought their head up. Their eyes flashing as they gazed at their rampaging foe, even as shame flooded their twin bodies. Their moment of weakness had almost cost a bystander their life. How could they have even considered fleeing? Because this was hard? Because they could get hurt? Because this wasn't their job? What did a hero care about such things?

"Seventy-nine! Eight-four! This is incredible!" As long as there were people in danger, people to help within their sight, how could there be any hesitation or doubt? Energy suffused their frame. Their determination, their pledge, their justice. When they moved, the pavement cracked beneath their legs. The Mudsdale met their charge in an impact that sent shockwaves roiling out across the concrete as if it were water.

"Eighty-nine percent! Ninety-five!" They were a flurry of motion, all six limbs crashing into their foe in a frenetic whirlwind. Their assault was unceasing, uncompromising. Every blow was met and matched, every attempt to burst declare weathered and absorbed. The Hero's compound eyes fixed on the growing crystal, the malignant, pulsing orange minerals grown to cover the Mudsdale's entire mouth.

"They've– they've done it. One-hundred percent stabilization," said a voice, hushed with awe. Two were one, as they'd never been before, two hearts and minds perfectly aligned. And their strike was similarly perfect, a full-force, double rear legged Axe Kick right on the pulsating crystals. With a crack that sounded like screams, the crystal growths shattered, allowing the rampaging Ground-type to finally open their jaws in a wordless scream.

Something glimmered there, stabbed into the rampaging Pokémon's lolling tongue. It glowed and roiled, pustulant orange infesting the wild Ground-type's skull. The Hero lashed out, their kick precisely aimed and powerful enough to pierce steel. The blow caught the pulsating crystal, and for the briefest instant, sheer hatred, slithering malice of the darkest kind brushed their mind. And then, with a sickening squelch, the contact was lost.

The pulsating crystal went flying, along with most of the poor Mudsdale's tongue, still stuck fast to the cruel interloper. The Ground-type dropped like a puppet with strings cut, and immediately began bleeding from a dozen wounds. The Hero landed heavily next on the pavement, spiracles running overtime to get more oxygen coursing through their body. All was silent for a few moments, before the sounds of sirens and screams reasserted themselves.

The hospital boiled over with activity, like a lidded pot finally uncovered. Nurses, doctors, and Pokémon sprinted forth, attending to the fallen, checking on bystanders, and doing all they could to save those for whom salvation was still possible. And somewhere, fifteen kilometers away, Brent smiled, before losing consciousness, completely whited out, leaving poor Mask all alone in the hospital parking lot to try to explain what he could to the now-arriving first responders.

As medical personnel pulled him free from the pod, a lab full of scientists marveled at the data they'd gathered. It was everything they could need and more to make sure that the Frontline Pod would be fully operational, ahead of the most optimistic expectations. The researchers weren't sure that the cost of their data was worth it. Their boss was positive it was. Truly, manufacturing your own incidents was for fools, Purson confirmed to himself once again.

Just as he'd always known, those with patience would be the ones left standing, in the end.