ouroboros | two | steps backwards
Matori walks quickly to her car, her key stuck between fingers, her body shivering from the cold. Bang. Bang. A scream — — Celadon has gone to the dogs, she thinks bitterly. x "So tell me about yourself, Miss, uh..." "Ueno. Matori Ueno." The man (Mr. Milo Bossard, managing director of the Celadon Sun) before her nods his head thoughtfully and scribbles something down on the paper in front of him. "Daughter of Izuru?" "Yes," she tells him, throat tightening, fists clenching. "My condolences. He treated my wife when she had caught that fever a few years ago," the man says in a way of explanation, setting the clipboard aside. "Saved her life, despite everything." Matori frowns and adjusts her glasses uncomfortably. This is how she is remembered — through her father. It's like she's not even her own person anymore. "Consider yourself hired, Miss Ueno. Does tomorrow sound—" No. She's a lot of things — in need of a job, definitely, but she doesn't take charity. How demeaning. "Sir, if you let me," she starts, holding up her hand to stop him before he goes where she knows he will go. "I graduated summa cum laude at the Kanto Pokétech School of Liberal Arts, with a emphasis on journalistic writing and a minor in sociology. I was the Chief Editor of the school newspaper for two years and until my father passed, I interned at the Sinnoh Times and was already well on my way in getting a job there until I was occupied with other obligations. These are my qualifications, and I earnestly believe that I will make a great addition to the paper." Mr. Bossard cocks an eyebrow at her. "You already have the job." "Because of my father," she tells him, breathless. "I now have the job because of my qualifications." A silence. This might be the third job offer she's ruined because of her rambling. "Well, Miss Ueno," the man says shortly, bringing the clipboard back to his lap. "Consider yourself promoted." She exhales in relief and gives her thanks. For once, it works out in her favor. x She works. She works. She works. It's probably just her trying to make something out of this, just her trying to push out all thoughts about MamaPapaGermanySakakiSakakiSakaki — she closes her eyes tight and closes her fist around her mug, knuckles white and her fingers hurting around the bend. The man in the cubicle next to hers — Samson, nineteen, sociable and doe-eyed and amber hair — clears his throat. "You okay, Matori?" "I'm fine," she says. She even flashes a smile for more effect. She works. She works. She works. x "You're literally going to kill yourself over this story," Samson tells her, voice wrought with concern. Matori blinks, once or twice. It doesn't even register that it's nearly closing time until she scans the room around her: all the desks and chairs are empty, save for the editors in the copy room and the two city reporters flirting by the fax machine. She drags her eyes away from them and towards the man talking to her — Samson, with the honey eyes and the amber hair, a year younger than her but yet is her superior, as strange as that is to think about. He fiddles nervously with his thrift-shop tie, then slings his blazer around him and tucks his metal briefcase under his arm. "Literally," she repeats, a smile drawing thin over her lips. "You're a copy editor, and yet use the word 'literally' incorrectly." He laughs. "Don't be nit-picky. That's my job." "A job I so want," she tells him, crossing her legs and bending over so that her elbows rest on her knees. "Should I tell Mr. Bossard that you have been using words incorrectly all this time? Maybe then I can secure that job for myself." Samson rests an arm on the dividing wall between his cubicle and hers, leaning forward to say in a low whisper, "Let's work together. I want Vandenberg's position, you want mine. We can take down the news section by storm." "You do realize this involves intricate planning," Matori says, a laugh bubbling out of her words. Samson nods his head towards the exit. Sticking out his hand, he says, "Let's discuss it over coffee. I know a place. Best Ethiopian brews." Matori grins and takes his offer quietly, moving past the copy room in silence, save for a few giggles after they observe the city reporters sneaking off to the supply closet together. x The coffee is pretty mediocre, actually, but Samson is cute and the conversation is better. Samson stares at her for a long time before saying, "Miss Ueno. Twenty-two and single, a very pretty girl — even if your glasses are slightly off-kilter. Very smart, too, I hear. What on Earth are you doing at the third-least read newspaper in the region?" Matori slinks into her seat, the coffee mug in her hands losing its heat in the cold of the night. "Boredom. It's something to do. Plus, it's off-the-radar. Low key — I need that, you know?" "Can't imagine my father's death on the news," he agrees, but the sympathy sounds off and it bothers her. "No, no, you really can't. I couldn't watch the news for months. And when it died down... it was worse, you know?" She shakes her head at that and exhales. "Whatever, Samson. I didn't come out here to talk about this. How's that plan to take over the News section?" "Horrendous. Bossard likes you much better," he grins, gesturing to her with his coffee. "You'll get promoted before I do." Matori laughs genuinely. "So what are you doing fraternizing with the enemy?" He shrugs, says, "The enemy needs a friend." "I'm not a charity case, Samson." "No, no, that's not what I mean, Matori," he says disapprovingly. "Come on. Look at it from my perspective — I've been with the paper since I was 17. Not much changed, staff has been the same, same shit three years later. It took me three weeks to get acquainted with everyone. But you've been with us for a year, right? And correct me if I'm wrong, but this is probably the most you've talked to anyone on the staff." There's not a really reason for it, but she tries to articulate one anyway. "I'm busy." It sounds as pathetic as it did in her head. "What, you got a boyfriend? Pokémon to train? Another job? None of those are real reasons, Matori. Look at me — I've got all three of those, and I'm rather sociable, if I do say so myself," Samson rambles on, a mirthless laugh rolling off his tongue. "A boyfriend?" she questions, eyebrows cocking. "Bisexual and proud," he deadpans, holding a fist up in the air. "Beside the point. I like you, Matori, really. I mean, you're funny, brilliant, one of the best staff writers I've had the privilege to oversee. Come on — indulge me. Now that I've got a taste, I require a daily dose of Matori each day." Samson pokes at her leg with his foot. "Alright," she relents, poking him back. "I'll be more social." She rolls her eyes when Samson lets out an obnoxious guffaw of victory. This, she thinks, may or may not be a mistake. x It isn't a mistake. People like her here — they laugh at her jokes, compliment her on her diligence, mock jealousy whenever she dresses up particularly well. The women invite her over for hen's nights, bachelorette parties, baby showers. The men goad her (the only single woman in the office after the city reporters announce their relationship) to come along to bar nights, and some ask her out on dates, even though that's borderline incestual, in Samson's words. It's nice. It's family. For once, she feels like she's at home. x And then one day, Bossard calls them all to gather in the conference room for a meeting. "We've got a story. A good one — Ackerman says no other paper has got something like this." A murmur scatters the room. Matori glances at Samson, who smiles at her — "I got this," his expression says, "I can get promoted." Ackerman, the assignment editor, a stout old woman with a stern face, rises at this. She clears her throat and begins: "As you all know, crime has certainly skyrocketed in Celadon. Murder rates have gone exponentially up, arson has become of thing of the norm, and every store in the city has now been broken into. People blame this on the sudden influx of immigrants from Johto coming our way, but, well, that's xenophobia at best. A tip from the police department tells us that they think this is correlated to the new Pokemon Gym that has opened up down the street, but there's nothing they could necessarily do about it because the chief insists that there's nothing wrong with the gym. A payout, they say." "Wouldn't be a surprise," pipes in Samson from her side. "Chief Headly has many skeletons in the closet, just none we can't publish." "If we are able to discern a correlation, we can publish all his skeletons," Ackerman returns evenly. "I'm putting Samson and Matori on the story, but everyone keep their eyes and ears open. We're going to put this paper back on the radar." x Giovanni. The name floats around the city like a ghost — his presence lingers on and on in back alleys and casinos, red light districts and lowly taverns in the slums. Every place oozing with sin speaks his name in hushed whispers; he is a thing of palpable fear, the power of both God and the Devil incarnate — or so they say. Giovanni. Eyes like stone, hands like earthquakes rolling up his arms, face carved with an Apollonian likeness. And yet, they cannot pin an identity nor a location on him. An enigma, she thinks, in itself. x "I found him," Samson tells her. "Outside Celadon. Recent crime: gun smuggling into Kanto by way of Johto refugees." "We got him?" she asks lazily, drawing her head up from the desk. Samson holds his fingers close together. "Almost." x Many months go by, countless mediocre coffee cups emptied and repleted, and a story on its way to distribution — they celebrate. "Come on, Matori, one more drink. Celebrate. We've got the paper in the print, baby. One more—fucking Giovanni and his goddam Team Rocket can suck our fuckin' dicks, baby—" Samson holds her up by the waist and pushes another beer into her hands and she laughs, she laughs, she laughs. Promotion tastes like grocery store vodka and Samson's drunken kiss, square on her lips. It tastes like his regret and his partner's anger — ("His name is David, and God, God he is so great, Matori, I love him") — and her own sadness. x Success tastes like blood, incidentally. Matori is startled awake and finds herself in the staff lounge, laying on the couch with her legs slung over the edge. Samson wakes her, shakes her until she opens her eyes to find that he has already put her glasses on her face. He's covered in blood and she can't hear anything that's coming out of his mouth, a noiseless silence descending onto her ears. — "We gotta go, the fucking Team Rocket fucking cut the paper, killing everyone here, fuck, Matori," he growls her name under his breath, grabbing her roughly and throwing her off the couch. "Matori, wake the fuck up. We need to go." Panic thrums in her ears. She looks down and sees a bullet wound gaping in the middle of his stomach; Samson pulls her hand and says, "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a flesh wound, alright? Let's go." Bang. Bang. Samson, mouth still frozen in his assurance, collapses onto her, and she catches his body before it hits the floor. A sob rips from her mouth as she closes her eyes, burying her face into his still chest — just kill me now, make it quick. "Oy," a gruff voice says from the doorway. "Jared, look at this. A pretty one." The man speaking pulls her away from Samson's body, pinning her hands behind her back, swearing under his breath as she tries to kick away. "No, no," she screams, thrashing in his hold. She feels her skin afire, blood vessels bursting under his rugged fingers as he drags her into the light. "She's the one who wrote the article," one of them —of a group of them, she realizes — says. Faces seem to blur as tears fall freely. Her vision clouds red, and it's pure panic pulling her down under. "Please—" she begs, voice raw, ceasing her resist at last. A fist collides with her jaw, her teeth chattering together as the taste of blood leaks past her tongue. Her breaths come out in gasps, her lungs seemingly exploding under the panic. Another fist — another — another — another. Someone pulls her legs apart and another rips her skirt aside. Something delicate inside her breaks; she wonders if Samson would be alive had she reacted quicker than she had. "Stop." The voice is familiar, but she cannot discern who it is; her eyes are swollen and glasses lay broken by her side, and she cannot allow herself to lift her head and look. A man is pulled off of her before he can even begin, and she hears him stutter in fear and begin to defend his actions before — bang, bang. She hears his body thud to the ground, her own flinching with each bullet fired. The group of men are ordered to disperse, look for other survivors. Her heart beats faster as she feels a hand brush against her leg and this, this is it, nothing will change — until, she realizes, it only pulls her underwear back up. "Thank you," she whispers, throat burning, voice tired, though she's not sure for what anymore. She feels her body being scooped up into a pair of arms; her head rests haphazardly against his chest in this momentary reprieve, and she listens to the heartbeat below her ear, erratic and fitful, nothing calm or anything she expected. She tilts her head slightly. Pretends she can see him, though she knows she can't. "Sakaki...?" His hold on her tightens. This is the last she remembers of that night. x When Matori wakes, she is in a bed built for two, the covers drawn over her body and pillows barricading her on all sides. "Hello," a warm voice greets her, lilting and feminine and easy to listen to. She spins her head to the left to see a young woman about her age, long, red hair tied up in a loose ponytail, eyes brightly blue and her face softened at the edges. She leans forward to wring a towel over a bowl, then reaches for Matori's face. Gently, she rubs the corners of her eyes; it stings — fresh wounds, she remembers. "It's the afternoon, if you're wondering," the woman whispers. She smiles, wringing the towel once more. Matori watches the woman carefully. Her actions are deliberate, slow, as if she had been forewarned to not move too quickly. When the woman leans backwards, she reveals a protruding belly, rounded by motherhood, that tells her that she is far along. "I... Who are you?" Matori asks, finally finding her voice. "Ariana," the woman says, like that means anything to her. "Giovanni's wife." The Mafia Boss's wife — contempt surges through Matori, and instinctively, she flinches away from her touch. Her gratitude wanes, and she scowls when Ariana tries to touch her once more. "Where is he?" she spits out, sitting up to prepare herself for a fight. This time, she won't cry. She's sure of it. "Out. He's dealing with the gym issue that you so kindly put out for public information," Ariana says passively, a grimace sneaking onto her lips. "He treated you well for a woman who destroyed a business exploit. Saved you from imminent death and something worse." "I owe him nothing," Matori returns. "Never said you did," the other woman tuts. "He is a good man, though. You must recognize that." "He is causing misery throughout Celadon," Matori fires back, anger refueling as she lists off reasons why the faceless man is as bad as they come. "Rampant crime, building fires, bodies in the streets." "Merely highlighting the flaws in the system so that the mayor will not be reelected next year," she says coolly. Matori scoffs. "So that one weaker and compliant to his bidding will be in office? So that he rules Celadon by fear?" "Is that so wrong? Is that not better than the office we have now?" Ariana holds this with so much conviction that the towel in her hands is no longer soaking with water. She stands suddenly, eyes wild with passion. "An entire building of people died because of him," Matori says at last, voice thick with emotion. "Because of you." With that, she leaves, but Matori swears that she sees her cry. x She's able to stand soon enough, wobbling on her own two feet like they're new. Ariana hasn't come in today — or yesterday, or the day before, or this past week. Not that Matori cares, but she just wants to see a face that isn't hers. The door creaks open and an old woman slinks inside, her face austere despite the wrinkles that drag across her face. There isn't a smile on her face, nor is there a greeting that slips off her tongue; silently, she replaces Ariana's seat with another, and sits, her lips pursed tight. "Once you are healed, you will need to leave my house," the old woman says, voice gruff and biting. "We will have a one way ticket to Germany for you." Matori frowns. She thinks of her mother, wilting away in a tiresome country, non responsive, not even herself. It stings — so Matori says, "And if I choose to stay here?" "There is no such choice. My son has made it clear that you leave the premises as soon as possible." There's a finality in her words. The old woman gets up to leave when Matori does not respond, but the younger woman catches her by the wrist. "Don't touch me—" the old woman begins, appalled at the attempt. "Where is Sakaki?" The woman's face falls — slightly, but then her lips tighten back into a frown. "Sakaki? My son has not gone by that name in five years. Giovanni — that's who you're looking for." It's enough for Matori's hands to fall away back to her lap. "Oh? You didn't know? I would have thought that you would have realized that, writing that story and all," the old woman says, her words venomous. "I thought — Giovanni, I have never seen him," Matori whispers defeatedly, closing her eyes. "If you had known it was Sakaki, would you have done what you did?" No, she wants to say. No, never. But her voice fails her. The woman leaves, then, a cold rictus smile etched on her face. x Ariana visits, one last time. She takes a seat by Matori's bed, her hand resting on her swollen stomach, and a twinge of both envy and sorrow strikes somewhere within Matori. What could have been — what would have been, had he not left. It's almost maddening, the surfeit of possibilities that might have occurred if her father had not died, if her mother had not secluded herself away, if Sakaki had not become this. It angers her. Especially how she is at the mercy of the same man who she once believed she loved, who has killed all she has known. Matori turns on her side, her back facing the other woman; this, right now, is something she can't handle. "Giovanni told me about you," Ariana says, voice detached and her words empty. "He told me what you meant to him, when we met. How we were never meant to be serious, how it was always about you, right from the beginning." Matori curls further into her side. "Of course, things changed, you never went looking for him, and he didn't have time to worry about you. He was entirely convinced it was better that you had no idea. His mother wanted us together, so we married. It wasn't hard. We love each other — I want you to remember this. His former self may have been consumed by you, but he is not the same man anymore. It is not worth hurting yourself over him; Giovanni has changed since the day met him, Matori, and he is barely recognizable as it is. He isn't the same. I want you to remember this." A silence. Matori shifts so that she's flat on her back. Vaguely, she notices Ariana tightening her hold on her stomach. "Is there a reason why you're here?" Matori asks hoarsely. "I lost the baby." And just as quickly as she came, she leaves. x It's the first day she is allowed outside the room. The house is, as she expected, as grand and ceremonious as Sakaki made it out to be all those years ago. (She is slammed with the sadness of the past and the present — stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, stop.) She walks deliberately, her eyes scanning the the hallway around her. Paintings ages old line the red-and-black walls, and each shelf and table is topped with family heirlooms and antiques. It's old money, she realizes as she moves past the medieval decor. Behind her, a young Team Rocket agent trails her, gun pointed straight at her back. Any wrong move, and she's dead — just like that, just like Samson, she thinks. She glances over her shoulder and asks, "May I ask who gave me permission to leave the room?" "Giovanni, ma'am," the boy says shortly, adjusting the gun slightly. "Also ordered me to make sure you don't do anything rash." "Is the gun necessary?" she questions, reverting her eyes back to the grandeur of the halls. "The gun is protocol, yes." So that's how it is. Perhaps, Ariana was right. x "You will leave tomorrow," the old woman — Mrs. Rocketto, she's been told, Madam Boss, others hiss under their breath — tells her, her tone business-like, formal. Matori watches her. The old woman fiddles with her black sleeves and rubs her wrist slightly, slowly; she is dressed in mourning clothes — it must have been her grandchild's funeral. As if noticing her scrutiny, the old woman snaps her wrist back and runs her spidery fingers through her salt-and-pepper hair. "Alright," is all Matori says. The woman turns to leave, but before she does, she says, "My granddaughter will want to meet you. Humor her — her mother has been discharged on a suicide mission." And then the door clicks closed. x Madam Boss's granddaughter is a pretty thing, her hair in long red waves that frame her face and her eyes a piercing blue; she is taller than she should be for a five year old, and is with a certain attitude and resilience that only a Rocketto could hold. Her name is Musashi — a strong name fitting for a future Team Rocket matriarch, when all things are said and done. Musashi had found Matori without much trouble. She had approached the woman without much preamble, going as far as skipping up to her and yanking on her skirt, her voice like a lilt — soft, gentle, as if this is her native language: "Konnichiwa. Ogenki desu ka?" Matori offers a smile, her cheeks coloring at the child bowing before her. She bends forward to move closer to her, and says, "Genki desu. Eigo o hanashimasu ka?" To her surprise, the girl sighs in relief, straightening suddenly. "Yes, Miss. Thank God — Japanese is very hard to speak for very long." "I understand," Matori tells her, smiling wider. "I hated it when my dad made me talk in Japanese-only. But do you know what's worse?" "What?" "Speaking in German." The girl gasps, scandalized. "German?" "Ja," Matori affirms, mimicking her mother's accent. "That's really cool," Musashi says after awhile, then leans forward and grabs Matori's hand. "You know, you don't seem like most of Daddy's lady friends." Puzzled, Matori asks, "Why?" "Well — you're cooler, first of all," Musashi says, tugging the woman forward. "And you're pretty. And nice. And you're not crying in the morning — they're always crying in the morning, always mad at Daddy, saying bad stuff about him. I don't know. Uncle Giovanni says that Daddy isn't a nice person, that's why they cry, but Daddy never makes me cry." "That's because your Daddy probably loves you," Matori says but honestly, she has no idea. Musashi says nothing to this, only stares at her for a long time. The girl rubs her arm and shrugs, frowning a bit, looking a little dejected. Matori is about to say something — an apology, an assurance, anything to make the girl smile, but Musashi is already a step ahead. The girl steels and grips her hand tighter, and just pulls her further down the halls. Musashi's laughter bounces off the walls, and though she seems to not laugh at anything in particular, it's addicting. Matori stifles a giggle behind her lips and lets the little girl take her through the house, wholly surrendered to her will. They stop at two, huge wooden doors, carved with intricate designs dating back to the times of old and images of legendary pokemon, ones that are said to rule the world. Matori stares in awe, but with one jerk of the hand and Musashi has her attention once more. "I think you would be really good friends with my uncle," Musashi says in a low whisper. "This is his office, but I don't know if he's in a good mood or not." "Could you walk me in?" Matori says, feigning fear. The little girl beams, holds up a small hand, and then proceeds to walk into the office with every ounce of bravery that Matori never had to begin with. x "Ojisama," Musashi says eagerly, leading Matori into the office, "This is the lady I was telling you about." And there's no way to describe the way she feels upon seeing him. He's changed — like she's changed — but it's into something both better and worse; he wears his hair slicked back, and his suit (foreign made, she notes faintly) is tailored to fit his body perfectly, something she didn't realize before but now stands out so greatly. He looks regal. Like a king — but then she sees that his face is gaunt and the skin under his eyes are sallow, baggy; not a king, but a tyrant. And yet, something within her starts to rebuild, like a broken clock beginning to tick once more, like a puzzle being put back together. His eyes fall on hers, and for a split-second — like he's forgotten how to keep composure — they widen. But then they settle back to a duller blue, pitted with disinterest and apathy, and his words leak with contempt when he says, "Thank you, Musashi, I will see you at dinner." The girl bows and leaves and it's just them, for the first time in over five years. Her breathing hitches and it's glaringly obvious and damn her lungs and nerves. He glances at her and smirks slightly, and it's almost like old times, she swears. "I had hoped that I would make the full two weeks without seeing you," he says, as if this a proper way of explaining his absence. "But yet here you are, the day before your flight." "Sakaki—" she starts, voice failing. "Sakaki is a dead man's name," he says cryptically, returning to his seat behind his desk. "I go by Giovanni, now. You might be more familiar with that, since you've written all about me in that lovely piece of yours." A mistake, she wants to say. You are weak, a part of her screams. Shut up. "The story was warranted," she rebuts. "Your actions were not inconspicuous. Anyone with eyes and a good amount of common sense could see what you were doing; I just made that more accessible to the public." "How mighty of you. And how did that work out for you?" he asks, folding his hands on his desk. "Did you get what you wanted?" She flinches — and remembers: a cacophony of gunshots, Samson's body, a group of men, two strong arms, a building afire. Closing her eyes, she whispers, "No." "I see," he murmurs. A silence. She wrestles her eyes back open, forcing herself to look at the man who ruined her life in more ways than one. He watches her warily, like she might attack at any moment — how strong does he think she is? Doesn't he remember? She trudges closer, feet like lead. "But I don't see why I have to leave." He sighs, tired, listless. She searches his face for something real, something that tells her that it's still him, it's still Sakaki — she finds nothing, nothing at all. "I can't go back to my mother," she tells him, and even to her it sounds like she's begging for her life. "You saw the way she was. You saw her, Sa—Giovanni, you know how bad she was. Is. My everything is in Kanto, and I can't just uproot it so easily." "Your everything? Everything?" he says incredulously, his voice edged with anger. "Your job went up in flames. Your friends are dead. Your coworkers are dead. Any family you had left in Japan are dead. There's nothing here for you anymore, Matori." Her name sounds rough and lost on his tongue, like he hasn't said it in years, like she was already a ghost. It hurts. She backtracks and bites her lip, tearing her eyes away from his. Still, she must persist. "There's you." A deadly silence fills the room and it feels like someone is scraping along the inside of her skin with a rusted knife and a motive to kill. She wishes, then, that she never said anything at all. He drags his eyes to hers — like he means it, she observes. "Like I said," he murmurs, lips against a closed fist, "There's nothing for you here." Her heart drops. (But she forgets.) "Then I'll join." He grins, but it isn't lopsided or goofy or anything remotely like before. It's rancid and it's meant to hurt, and it does, oh God it does. "Do you realize how ridiculous you sound right now? You'll die before you can even make a difference," he scoffs, turning his chair around so that he faces the shelves of books behind him. "Please. Even I do not wish you dead." "Then I'll do something else," Matori says hurriedly, stepping forward to grip his desk. "I'll cook — I'll clean — whatever! I just don't want to leave. Not when everything has been going so great for me. Not now." Not when I just found you again. "Your tenacity is quite inspiring." The way he says it. Like it burns his tongue. Like he doesn't mean for it to be kind. He swivels back to face her, expression tight with consideration. "I have an opening in the secretarial department, seeing as I... laid off the other one for embezzling money from my mother," he trails off, his face dropping slightly. "You will start office work tomorrow morning and training at night." "Training?" "I can't have you dying on me," he says simply. "Thank you," she begins, turning to walk out, heart thudding in her chest. "Thank you." "Matori," he calls after her, "I have no idea what you're thanking me for." She doesn't, either.