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Small, minuscule things within this world, blind by the eyes of the mortal unless searched for, can certainly point to the direction of a lost person. A single fiber of follicle, a chip of a nail, a monthly subscription to a magazine company, a man whose lips refused to part: these could all be prime evidence to pave a path to this mystery person. What would it take to find this missing? Intrusion of a higher good, of course.

"Ma'am," came the voice from behind, causing the quavering woman to pirouette on her heel come the full appearance of the man.

"Sir," followed next and a burly man stepped forward in to the above lamplight.

"What is it, have you found her?" cried the woman in a guttural bawl. "Please, tell me you found her!"

Hulking as he may appear, the man stretched a hand over the woman's declined shoulders and patted them in a slow, soothing tap. He sighed deeply and returned his beady gaze to the man. From the twist of his mouth, one could tell he wished to hear more no matter how painful it was.

"Have they found her body?" he muttered and wasn't the least bit surprised when the woman turned to weeping into his chest.

The other cleared his throat with the tug of his collar and looked over the files in hand. "We have not. However, we mi-"

"Than what the hell are you waiting for!" interjected the sobbing woman.

"Please, ma'am, let me finish." the collared throat replied and seemed a bit relieved when she turned back to shedding tears on the man's crisp, white V-neck.

"We have some leads to where the body might be. Well, I shouldn't say body. There has been one report of use of this name within the last four years, stemming from a small region to the South."

"So you mean . . . ?"

"Yes. Your daughter might still be alive."

The burly man gasped in complete astonishment and rapture but had his smile do a flop downwards when the woman within his arms broke free and stomped towards the man.

"It is always might, might, might!" she wailed through watery eyes and a weeping nose. "Never, "Yes, she is alive!" no, "She is dead."! Can't you give us a straight ********' answer! How do we know this is not some . . . some faker usin' her name?"

Collared throat took a step back and cleared himself with a shifty squawk. "Ma'am." he repeated. "Calm down. We figured no one would steal an identity this elaborate . . . All thorough searches on the name basically bring up many reports of a clean slate, one devoid of all criminal acts. Not many desperadoes of this modern time are interested in such things. Makes them easier to track by computer filters. It's basic common sense for someone interested in that field of crime to at least pick out someone who has done a little wrong in their life to less likely be suspected."

The woman seemed content with the answer and returned to the man. He wrapped his arms about her once again and hugged her tight. Even with such consolation, she broke down again.

"What was the once piece of evidence you found?" asked the man.

Shifting through some papers within the manila folder, he pointed to one single, highlighted in pink message across a list of others.

"The name was used to subscribe to a magazine subscription titled, "Lady's Book Club Monthly" a year ago. However, here, shows that is was canceled a year ago, not started. Due to this, we can't give a just estimation just on how long she's been there."

"Who cares about that?" commented the woman. "Just find my daughter!"

"Yes, ma'am, we are trying our hardest. However, showing you a single report with the use of the name once isn't enough to track her down. We wished not to give you false hope either; there is always still a chance she is gone and . . . this might be the work of one case of identity theft using her name. The real reason for calling you here is to simply ask: who was or were the last person or people she talked to before disappearing for such a long time?"

A nostalgic flash of months ago flickered hazily in the man's mind like a lit candle on a stormy night. The first crack of lightning made him recall her smile, the boom of thunder her attire. Violent taps of rain to roof above made each symbol become true. It was not long until her words formed, slowly, through broken memory: "I . . . wi . . . be bac . . . I am . . . goin . . . to see . . . So . . . friend!"

The man sighed and slowly broke himself away from his wife. "Vamoose Delleville." he answered and shifted his head down. "If I remember correctly, he was her brother's best friend before he too disappeared. He might know . . . where our children have disappeared to. What was that region anyway?"

The collared throat scribbled down the names onto the back of the manila folder, the gleam of a breast badge flickering over the hardly legible script.

"Kodo." the man replied. "That's where, Kodo."

[ Message temporarily off-line ]

After Volcano Villainy



Love.

"I hate him." she spat as she made her way to the room she suddenly began to frequent most, a janitorial keep untouched by TR's cleaning crew. Cleansers always remained full, rags always undisturbed, pails and dread head mops always dry. It seemed to be a backup closet when those essentials became missing or needed. It was a genius plan but a poor place to seek solace. She had grown attached to it though, like a child to a mother's arms, and refused to let go whenever she needed its comfort and warmth.

"I hate him."

Lies.

The three worded statement became a repetitive mantra spoke both by mind and mouth. She didn't want to forget her hate but as time went by, that once feelings to rid what was always desired diminished. She wanted Sorano to live. She wanted Sorano to live. She wanted Sorano to live.

"I hate him. I hate him. I hate him."

The slam of the gunmetal door caused the many items upon the shelves to clink and clank like the workings of a mechanical article. Silence returned but momentarily afterward until Lennyka hastily stamped her way to a corner. The metallic sounds twinkled again until she slid into place, causing the silence to resume.

"I hate him."

Discomfiture.

"I hate him."

Doubt.

"I don't hate him, do I?"

Tears swelled at the corners of her mouth. What she felt was not hate, but longing. She was lying to herself. I was always lying to myself. She wanted the old to return back as new. I want what we had in the past! She hates the truth. I hate myself!

She wept as she had wept before, the rivers of a briny tang dampening her face as it had for those three, long, agonizing weeks. Arceus had forgotten her. You abandoned me. All she had was herself. Men are their own gods. She was tired all the crying. I must lock away these feelings. Only than will she find solace. Only than will I find solace.

But how? Why?

She fingered the treated wound under her vestment. Did she dare? Psychological studies were always her favorite. Too many cases she has read of individuals finding sangfroid in self mutilation. But how, why? She never understood. Why inflict the internal to the external? She didn't understand until she tried, so she did.

The idea was a terrible one but it soothed her. She tore away the bandages, broke the newly flaked over flesh from that gash inflicted from the legendary avian . . . and bled. She bled away her hate, her angst, her hope, her will, the truth, her love. She felt no better than a fool striving for attention. Yet, it cooled her. When she figured it was enough, she cleaned what she could and chose to retreat. No evidence of her exploits could be uncovered. It was amazing what bleach and a loose tissue could do to a tiled floor.

Love.

Yes. One truth she had avoided. One that decided to stay. What she truly felt. One she couldn't deny. By the eyes of the unholy, she has a spawn.

It had always existed, yes?

By a swivel of her heel, she returned to the closet. She had to rid herself of this truth, scrub it away with bleach and tissue. She'd get rid of it . . . no matter how many scars it might take.

She had to keep her damn promise. Arceus, why, out of all men, did it have to be him?

"Mhmm . . . " she was awakened by the gliding of a familiar touch along her ribcage, occasionally dipping down to her navel in a tickle. She raised her vision to chain with familiar mulberry eyes, as her own glittered with the tears of sleep.

"Ah, Willis." she wiggled. "Willis, that tickles."

"I'm sorry." apologized the unknown man, removing his hand from her side. "I just didn't know how to wake you."

She twisted up her mouth than. "You could have just let me sleep." A pout formed on the crease of her lip and without hesitation, he bent to twine his with hers. She responded fully to his gesture, the curl of his hair bushing and concealing her forehead.

"I have to return to Kanto soon, Len." he breathed. "You've finished your part of the bargain, anyway." He made no motion to rise however; playfully clasping his arms around her instead. "I don't want to leave though. Can't you come back to Cinnabar Island? Come with me? If not, I could get that woman to, you know . . . transfer you back or something."

"Not until Sorano agrees first, Moose." she sighed. That was to never happen. "I'll come back when he wants to."

"Arceus . . . " Vamoose Willis Burgess rolled away from her and sat to the edge of the bed, the familiar scent of cheap motel rugs licking the undersides of his nostrils as he breathed. "So, I'm gonna get goin-"

He had risen to his feet than, but finely manicured fingers clutched his palm. She rose from the depths of sheets like a mer-maiden from alabaster foam. Teal hair fell in straight streams against her derma, concealing the bareness of her naked form.

"Don't go yet, Willis." she uttered sensually. "I don't want you to leave just yet."

She pressed her body to his than. He wasn't going to leave yet, not when she was searching for more answers. Kissing along the curve of his neck, her mouth reveled in the feel of rugged chin hair not made for a woman. He cradled her by the hips here, one hand running down the length of her spine.

"Len . . . " Sorrel eyes peeked to his and marveled in the flames of desire dancing through them. Did he really lust for her? It was quite pathetic what a woman had to do just to persuade such a man who's only convincing was a night in bed. Yet, she came to the understanding she'd have to offer her throat to the wolf with the red roses. Become the libertine he was, than she would obtain her favored knowledge.

"Moose-" How terrible and lewd her voice sounded, it shutting quickly when his lips met hers again.

Men finds themselves so jaded to the world. Yet, I know their buttons . . .

"One more night." she offered. "One more night and you'll tell me all I need to know."

In some sort of sedated trance, he nodded. "Of course." A lustrous smile curved her lips as she pulled him back to the springy bed.

There was more to mother Sorano had not known. She wanted to know everything.

Everything.

"Ya always 'iked tha ocean, yet yer a fire user. Why so, Len?"

When he asked questions, they always had some kind of depth to them. True, she always loved the ocean. It was why they were out there, just staring at it. But she also loved fire too. Both her equally destructive, but why? Why, why, why?

"I don't know." she replied. "I really don't know, Sorano."

A murmured silence split them once again. He reached a hand to touch her forearm and she made no move to object.

"Len." he said. "Len, d'ya have a complex?"

"Huh?" she said with hesitation. He was talking again.

"Y'know, a brother complex?"

"What?"

"Y'know, a complex?"

She sighed.

"Humanity is complex, Sorano. Even I know that. Why would you ask such a question?"

"I'm only 'uman, Len."

"You're also an idiot," she sighed again. "But no, I do not have a 'brother complex'. You were my brother, once in my heart, but not anymore. You mean nothing, now."

He was confused. Always confused. He wasn't confused as she was though. "Len, please . . . jus' tell me why . . . ?"

She was confused too, confused on how to answer.

"You were just another heartbeat, Sorano." Thump. "And . . . every heartbeat is past and gone."

Than she turned to walk away. She missed the ocean now. Yet there was an unlikely chance she'd turn back around.

"Yea, alright. Mmhm. I'll be back tomorrow, evening. Stop, goodness! Haha, yes. I'm going. Bye."

There are terribly more things more frightening in the world than seeing a pasty, pale face in the middle of darkness, such as: falling off a large building, explosions, that certain hairy mole on your mother-in-law's neck the size of your thumbprint and shaped like Sinnoh, actually dying. Yet, when Lennyka Dinkley softly clicked that door shut and turned upon the flicker her periphery towards the face, she screamed louder than a Venusaur sitting on a bagpipe. A short silence fell upon her and the sudden squint eyed face and it was here she exhaled in embarrassment. Oh. It was just Sorano.

"What?" Len asked testily as she skid passed him with an air of bothered annoyance.

"When d'ya git yerself a boyfriend?" he asked, trailing after her with hands comfortably in the pockets of his plaid pajama pantaloons.

Len hesitated from step and turned a squirmed eyebrow towards him. "I was just visiting a friend from the offices. Just promoted. That's all." All lies. "Why is it of your concern anyway? I thought we agreed to part ways after I became Agent."

"Yea, yea. Congrats fer bein' promoted. Jus' . . . shaddup, man. Jus' cut tha' crap. I'm 'ere ta be yer brother, not yer flippin' flipped off . . . what's that word . . . ugh!"

"Thrash?"

"Arceus damn it, ya! Len, c'mon. Can' ya drop tha' fake attitude?"

She turned on her heel, the shiver of her shoulder a definite sign she was taken aback by his interjection. Fallow eyes behind an equally brown frame flickered under the little light from above when she turned to him once more. Half lidded eyes stared to the tiling before arching towards him again, stern.

"How can you do it . . . ?" she murmured, pursing her lips.

"What?" asked Sorano.

"How . . . can you do it?" she repeated.

Here, Sorano shoved an ear towards her cupped with a hand. "What?"

"I said, how the hell do you do it!" she bellowed. "You read me like a damn book Sorano. You, who holds no education in even the simplest of psychology reads me like a any flier whipping in the wind! How do you do it? I-I can never figure out . . . "

"It's 'cause we're connected to 'ere, Len." A hand slid against his torso to the partly left. "We be bro an' sis, man. We share a soul an' all tha' jazz, 'kay? 'Cause of tha'-"

"Sorano, cut the crap. Please." A smile crept across her lips. "I don't even remember why I was even mad at you now . . . " Lies. "So, all's good now?"

"Crystal."

"What?"

"Uh, yea." He grinned like his typical idiot self and tugged her braid playfully. Ah, she missed that so much. "So." The tip of his voice darkened tenfold. "When d'ya git yerself a boyfriend?"

Len shriveled up, turned on her heel, and frolicked away. "I told you-"

"Len."

Two hands fell upon her hips, and she tilted her head casually as if she was a mentor addressing their pupil, going to relay some kind of great wisdom. "Sorano, I've learned to live. Let me live, alright? I've grown up."

A hand combed against his layered frolicles. "Ah, goodness." . . . "Alright."

Team Rocket Headquarters: it was damn larger than he had expected it to be. For a p***k growing up in a Kanto den holding no more than a hundred individuals at a time, this was like the entire region packed into one enclosure. A tumbled sigh befell the blond's lips. It felt so oddly nostalgic to walk in the crimson uniform once more, strutting about the place with another handful of underlings under underlings under even more underlings. Lowest of the low, foolish of the fools, that piece of unwanted spinach captured in the spaces of your pearly whites: that is what the Trainees were. And that is what Adrian Moose, or more desirably: Vamoose, felt like when teal eyes gazed upon his new residence. He had only been there a few hours and he was already given a friendly tour and a shower of spittle from a dandy Elite. The women were like hot iron poles with ice cold shoulders and the dudes were as hardened as calluses on a hard working member's thumb. This wasn't home: this was a level almost caressing the bowels of the Inferno.

It had only been an hour and a quarter and his thoughts were already defined, "You've got to be ******** kidding me."

Vamoose's mind had been so concentrated on the many smudges of his new crib he had not taken a glance at the gems encrusted too. At once, he paused from his assigned duty to mop the floors and let his face gleam with brimming contentment. Sorano. His buddy. Sorano. His brother. Sorano. His ******** till the end of Arceus' reigning days. His greatest chum was somewhere within the walls of TRHQ and so was his whipped little sister. Man, he wanted to see that fine piece o' a** again. She had given herself to him once, maybe he could tap that again if he worked his ways right? A hand fell to combing the back of his curled hair. Would Sorano recognize him though? He had gotten a trim since being recruited into Kodo's base, hoping to bring about the birth of a newer good looking Adrian Moose. His locks fell keenly to his back once upon a time but now was only brushing against his neck's hackles. Maybe he'd get lucky-

"Moose?" A familiar tone echoed the fabrics of TRHQ's metal clad corridor. The blond spun forth towards the voice, teal eyes agape. "Moose, is tha' ya?"

A squishy sound was met as Moose trampled over the mop and tapped the bucket like a domino, spilling lemon scented murk all over the tiled floors. "Holy s**t, Sorano, is that you?"

It was than someone popped the shoujo syrup and drizzled it over the scene, spilling sparkly twinkles and fuzzy, soft bubbles everywhere. Vamoose charged towards Sorano in a slow-paced run, the faint scene of a grassy field permeating the area between the two. Sorano "Squidward fell" in a luminescent ballet towards his companion, fallow eyes alight and three times the size of his head, even putting Sailor Moon to shame. Before the two could pardon a wondrous hug unlike any other, Pandora opened the box to release pain and misery upon Vamoose's world as a lovely punch fell across his face from an intersecting corridor. Suddenly, the sparkles and bubbles vanished, the grass field blew away to barren, and the only slow motion that remained was the fluid curve of Lennyka Dinkley's fist greeting Adrian Moose's cheek. Palkia coughed, rubbing his throat from his unusual chest cold, and resumed time once again to have the Dinkley sister land lightly upon her feet and Moose to clatter to the floor into a pile of ouch.

"I've been wanting to do that in forever." she murmured casually as she rubbed her gloved knuckles, working the sting of the punch away. "Felt damn good though and you well deserve it, you a*****e."

Sorano flickered his shoujo eyelashes a few times and let his mouth fall to a moist tunnel, choking back the want to scream. His best friend mumbled a degree of incoherent and undecipherable words, rubbing the size of his tender cheek. Holy s**t.

"Holy s**t." Was that Len? "Was that Len?"

Sorano nodded his head and turned a spiteful expression to his dearly departing sis. Vamoose scowled and clawed a land to the floor, pushing his new uniform to the puddle of lemon stench and soaking it dearly.

"Isn't it just sad when an inanimate object has power over one given the opportunity to move and speak? A good book can become such an unrelenting source to an avid reader; drawing them to their binds when it is placed down for one moment as the reader takes two for a toast and tea." A sigh and a glance to the cover of Lofty Spirit, Murder of the Study of Hermeneutic Medicine. She tossed it aside without a care and brought the tea's saucer closer to her and marveled at the smell.

"I hate being human." she muttered.

"Than would would you rather be, Madam?" Inquired the voice behind her.

"A pair of ragged of claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas."

A short silence.

"J. Alfred Prufrock?" He asked.

"No, T.S. Elliot." A short silence. "Having you been going through my books?"

"I'm sorry, Madam."

A dull cloud cast shadow over her features. "It's alright." she murmured. "It's quite alright."

Only surprise marked the features of the Mewtwo as he twirled and left.