It’s quarter to midnight when he hears the broadcast. There’s a burst of static followed by a voice he recognises all too well even with the distortion of a transmission sent miles away. He listens through the entire thing until it repeats itself.
And when they start to beg, he switches off the radio.Â
The next morning he makes his way back to Kanto. He leaves the radio behind.Â
The past has a way of ambushing a person when they’re least prepared for it. This is his sin, his legacy, come rearing its monstrous head, mouth full of broken teeth, searching for its creator. And that message tailor made for him that’s so personal and impersonal at the same time dredges up parts of himself that’s better left buried away. Like refuse rising through a putrid mire, an old thrill bubbles to the surface within his chest. An undeniable part of him wants to go back. To make his grand return to the only life he’s ever known.
He swallows it all down. Pushes it to a black pit that he refuses to see and puts distance between himself and the past. His footsteps take him through towns and cities and he learns piece by piece through local gossip of what had transpired a region away with his wayward children. Team Rocket is dead, they say. Something in that knowledge twists sharp like splintered glass in his belly. Once again it’d taken the efforts of children to right his w r o n g s.Â
He realises as he finds himself on a path he’s walked before just where his wandering footsteps have taken him. Route 12 and further north, if he continues on will be Lavender Town and its tower. Of course, he realises with a bitter smile. It’s all about the past and this has been a pilgrimage he’s meant to make for ages. And yet with all the freedom he’s had since that fateful battle in Viridian Gym, he’d never bothered.Â
A shadow passes him from overhead. He spares it a glance and sees only a massive winged creature as an outline against the grey sky. The sun’s hidden behind the clouds, but it’s still bright enough that he has to squint and shield his eyes to see. The creature wheels overhead, but he recognises its shape to know that it must be a Honchkrow. Likely a pokemon in transit, carrying its master on some unknown destination. Nothing to do with him.
Until the great bird circles back and makes a sharp descent as though some invisible hand is pulling it back to solid ground. He remains still, hands shoved into his pockets and thinks for a moment that perhaps he should leave. Take shelter in the nearby forest and DISAPPEARÂ before the bird and its passenger finally touches down. But the shadow starts to resolve itself into something recognizes and the person on its back becomes strikingly familiar.Â
The past and its ambushes.Â
He waits until the bird finally settles before he approaches and holds out a hand, like some gallant knight of ancient times offering to help a lady dismount. “I assume this is some happy accident unless I’ve grown careless somehow? Either way, since I have the opportunity now: that was reckless of you. I expected better. Proton and Petrel? Yes. But you and Archer? What were you thinking? What precisely were you going to do once the police arrived?”
Her heart fluttered for an instant, seeing him offer his hand to her like a lord to his lady. When Honchkrow reached the ground she reached for him, let her hand slide neatly into his bigger, coarser one, and felt her cheeks begin to burn. Her face reddened but it was, before all other things, a flush of anger.
Who was he, who had left on whim and impulse, to lecture her on recklessness? Who was he to scold her for her efforts when news of the dissolution of Team Rocket was delivered to her not by him but by the child who had bested him? What is this, if not smug ingratitude for her patience, her loyalty, and for Archer's all the more!
So there she stood, in one breath heaving with indignation, in the next overjoyed and overwhelmed by the sight of him, whole, alive, by her side with his hand resting warm in hers. She did not let go, holding on with the restraint of a duchess and the firmness of a hawk. At least in this immediate, physical sense, she would not let him slip away again. The placid numbness she felt before was gone, replaced by a different, alert, buzzing kind of numbness.
"The operation was carefully planned and executed," she said in a measured tone. Her eyes remained locked on his."Police intervention was expected. We only needed control of the public airwaves long enough to set the signal in motion. Once done, a clearing-out procedure was to begin immediately."
This was the truth, spoken with all due confidence. They had had nothing to fear from the official authorities. Archer had amply accounted for that. It was an infiltration that took them by surprise, a rogue child that had managed to overwhelm them. Surely Giovanni could relate.
Honchkrow had taken off into the scaley trees, weighed a branch down with her helft and began to spectate with mild interest. She had been a Murkrow when she last crossed paths with the boss man. Just like her, he'd gotten larger in their time apart.
Eventually Ariana released his hand. She began walking, slowly, because standing still felt wholly intolerable. Having answered his question she said nothing else, despite having much to say to him. His remark about carelessness was left undignified, purposefully left to his own conclusions. There was a knot in her heart, a mess of emotions she could not yet tackle. Dead leaves crunched under her boots, and she listened to the sound intently.Â
