Uranus simply sat, limp and miserable within the metal armrests that enclosed him. His eyes, usually a shining, shimmering Platinum were nothing more than a dingy and lackluster grey as they bore into the floor beside the young officer’s shoes. He felt disconnected, far more tentative with his thoughts where the images of tall, shadowing figures seemed to trap him at every angle. First there were screams—familiar tear-stained faces suddenly faded to dust a figure with a crooked-tooth smile faded into view. He pictured himself turning and confidently reach into a coat pocket for his badge—only to watch the metal mark of pride also fade into dust, taken by a wind. A loud booming voice come over this thoughts, the familiar roar of the superior and his Arceus-forsaken old, wrinkled face as his large hand slams on the desk that suddenly faded into thought and shrills into the tiny being "Don’t. Come. Back." He pictured himself reaching into his pants pocket, clawing, trying to find whatever was left of his vanishing wallet—money, cards, identification, all just dust growing lost in the wind.
It is gone… He could hear himself, weak and stranded in the vast world. Everything is… is gone…
No, not everything, however. Uranus felt himself reenter reality and the situation around him as a rough hand of his traveled down towards his belt, aiming for the crisp, smooth metallic of the singular Pokeball that lay clutched to his person. Not everything…
"…It is… not your fault, I am sure.” He began, his voice evident in weakness; an uncharacteristic side of the great commander, as shown by the faces of the Grunts among them. “It is certainly not your fault I have lost those dear to me. I take the blame for that. I was not quick enough in my duties. The room quickly filled with sympathies and soft murmurs from the Grunts as acts of encouragement. It was clear to see that they were in no shape of seeing their newest leader in such a distraught state. The commander continued, “Likewise… it is not your personal fault for the carelessness and the inconsiderateness of the International Police. You are but a mere drone there; a second pair of eyes, for a lack of better words… Just as I once was…. No, I will never forgive those who lead and take control of such a selfish organization.”
Following his words, that lost spark of rage was quick to ignite, bringing the scrap metal hue in his eyes back to a clean, polished silver. The Grunts, as usual, reacted according, offering their shouts of support and encouragement to the dark haired gentleman as he shifted in his seat, bringing himself further more upright than previously.
That moment of weakness had vanished… for now.
Hulda’s next words were quick to numb the room down into a complete and utter silence, “"…A better world won’t bring back your family,"
Commander Uranus felt his heart stop for a fraction of a second, eyes wide and frozen in the calamity of what he just heard. As the young officer continued on in her words, the commander felt himself begin to feel desperate; in a panic, almost as if the world was crumbling around him in an earthquake and he had no where to turn. Alone for a lack of better words.
"…N-No…" He muttered, leaning closer in his seat as she carried on. Something swelled within him. Not anger, not sadness, not even confusion… perhaps, denial? The elder began to open his mouth, beaten to the punch by more of Hulda’s words. I… I am aware of that… H-However… No. There was no however. Nothing. They weren’t coming back and this secret agent confirmed it with the most serious look upon her face.
"W-What… would they t-think of me…?" Uranus could only echo the very same question back. Words were failing the ever charismatic commander now in his second state of weakness. He wasn’t sure what to say, or even, how to feel at the time being. Where ever they were now… were his beloved wife and daughter proud of him? Surely they would be… right? He was a hardworking man who did anything and everything for them both. Surely Cyrus’ “better world” would be the perfect euphemism to those struggle just as they all were… right?
"S-Sir!" A sudden voice boomed from the hallway behind the still distraught commander. A grunt, slightly older and perhaps more experienced than a typical newbie, saluted in formal fashion, "Commander Charon wishes to speak with you and the other commanders in the laboratory now about his developments with the Red Chain, sir!"
Uranus was sluggish to react, his thoughts still logged back by the idea of his perfect little family and picturing them welcoming him home with hugs and kisses after a long, arduous day of planning attack routes, leading Grunts and training newcomers on tactical hand to hand combat. All the work he’d done previously in life was for them… what made now—this “better world” he’d be promised—any different?
"…Y-Yes…" Uranus finally responded to his messenger, his eyes still firmly locked on Hulda before him. "…She is not to leave this room. Watch her," He spoke, nearly deadpan in tone as he nodded, clearly referring to the captive. It was clear as day to tell that he’d been shaken up from the whole conversation. His last word was barely a whisper under his breath before he turned and left, "…Please."
