Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The machine putters to life in a series of whirring sounds that clash discordantly, sparks offshooting from glowing tubes that meet in one conjunction in the middle of the ceiling. Power surges and flows, causing the lights to flicker on and off, but the computers and their tiny little screens stubbornly stay lit, just barely keeping the program afloat.

“Master Cyrus, the integrity of the Dimensional Traveller has been compromised,” says Saturn against the cacophony, eyes flitting across the slew of screens before him. 

Charon scoffs, tightening his grip on the desk. “Put some backbone into it, boy! The Dimensional Traveller has been programmed with utmost care, and if it malfunctions, it is most certainly the fault of the user, not the machine.” 

Saturn turns away, cursing the old man under his breath and jabbing at the keyboard with more force than necessary. 

At the middle of it all is Cyrus, who stares up at the ceiling where the tubes meet with an intensity specific only to himself. With a stare that could bore holes into steel, he waits for the inevitable to occur, as close to outwardly excited as the man could ever be. 

Mars and Jupiter stand at the edges of the room, equally tense as the whirring and power surging only seems to ramp up as time goes on. Eventually, Mars speaks, struggling to be heard. “Master Cyrus, perhaps we should—”

“There.” Cyrus’s singular word manages to carry over the din, such was the weight of his presence. Time slows to a stop as Cyrus beholds an otherworldly chasm opening at the juncture in the ceiling. A whirlwind-like force rips through the room as it expands, sucking papers from the desks into its event horizon and into the void. 

Saturn stares too, his face frozen in a mixture of abject horror and anger. “Charon, you senile old geezer, your stupid machine has just created a singularity! This malfunctioning piece of junk is going to get us all killed!”

“Why, you—! My machines would never malfunction on their own, it must have been your meddling that—”

“Silence!” Cyrus roars, his eyes never leaving the chasm once. 

And then there is silence from the five of them. Helpless to do anything but watch the growing singularity in the ceiling, the Galactic Commanders obediently wait for their leader's next command. 

The winds suddenly die down as something emerges from the depths of the chasm. Now the Commanders are staring with dumbfounded disbelief while the thing is forced out inch by inch until it becomes prevailingly clear that it is a hand. A human hand. 

With the hand out, the rest of the human comes easily, and all at once, the machine screeches deafeningly, the singularity shrinks and closes up on itself, and the human tumbles to the floor in a mess of limbs and crumpled paper. 

The room is silent. 

It’s the unexpected visitor that breaks the silence, groaning and shakily pushing themselves so that their face no longer is embedded in the cracked tile. “W-what,” the guest warbles. “What th’hell jus’ happened?”

“It’s a girl,” Saturn breathes. Not a mythical pokemon is unspoken, but felt by everyone in the room (except for their newest visitor, who seems too dazed to hold a coherent thought). Before the sting of failure can truly set in, Saturn is quick to snark, “Well, good work, Charon. Your Dimensional Traveller has brought us a real mythical creature, alright.” 

“All of this trouble for a colossal failure,” Jupiter grumbles menacingly, glaring daggers at the oldest man in the room. 

Cyrus pays no heed to his subordinates’ grief, stepping forward towards the girl, whose mussed hair still obscures half of her face. “You,” he says, staring directly into her eyes. “What is your name?” 

A few blinks later, the girl seems to have gathered her bearings enough to narrow her eyes suspiciously. “A-answer me first. Where am I?” 

Undeterred, Cyrus answers, “Veilstone City.” 

The mysterious girl is nonplussed. “I’m sorry, where?” 

Jupiter crosses her arms, scoffing. “Well, well. It looks like your little machine brought us a visitor all the way from out of Sinnoh, Charon.” 

Charon is silent, staring at the girl with something between morbid fascination and befuddlement. He approaches her, wringing his hands. “Young miss, where did you say you were from?” 

She shrinks into herself, pushing herself away from both Cyrus and Charon on her knees. “I-I didn’t. Am I still in Toronto?” 

“Toron...to?” Cyrus tests the foreign word curiously. “I’m afraid not. You are on the top floor of the Veilstone City Galactic Building.” 

Charon butts in before the girl can respond this time. “Miss, have you any connection to the mythical pokemon Dialga or Palkia?” 

“There he goes again, spilling confidential details to total bystanders,” Saturn murmurs. 

“Pokemo...oh, no.” In an act that catches everyone in the room by surprise, the girl throws her head back and laughs a tad hysterically. “Is this a prank? B-because if it is, it isn’t very funny. I have a flight to catch—”

“This is not a prank,” spits Mars, finally stepping away from the back wall. 

Calm as always, Cyrus continues, “You clearly aren’t what we were looking for, so we will book a flight to your home region as soon as possible. I apologize for the inconvenience.” 

“Home region—? No, I don’t think you understand.” The unknown girl flips through assorted papers on the floor, searching desperately for something. “I have a flight booked already, and it’s leaving in half an hour, so I really don’t have time for this, Mister…” 

“Cyrus,” the stoic man fills in. 

“Mister Cyrus,” she finishes. Suddenly, she freezes. “Oh, I get it. Cyrus, like Team Galactic Cyrus, right? This is—this is really well done for a—whatever this is, but I have to get going, so…” She manages to clamber to her feet, balancing herself against the windowsill as she reorganizes her belongings in a white tote bag. 

Cyrus frowns ever so slightly, but deigns to merely watch as the girl turns to look out the window and immediately drops the bottle of hand sanitizer she had been clutching. It clatters to the floor as she gapes. 

“U-um, is that a…” She trails off. 

Charon joins her at the window, following her stare to a trainer and his scyther taking a stroll near the Galactic building. “What’s the matter, Miss...?”

“Erin,” she breathes, too flabbergasted to remember to be on guard. “That’s a scyther?” She manages to laugh again, but it sounds slightly pained this time. “I mean, is that an animatronic? I-it’s pretty well-done. Wow.” 

“I don’t believe so,” Charon remarks. “Why haul around an animatronic when the real thing can be found easily in the wild?” 

“Oh,” she says numbly. “Of course.” 

“Miss Erin appears to be dazed from her sudden trip,” Cyrus comments. He tosses a pokeball up into the air, releasing the creature within. “Crobat, see our visitor out to the waiting room.” 

Erin turns around and balks at the purple bat, her eyes wide enough to pop out of her sockets. “I’m dreaming,” she says, right before her eyes roll back into her head and she tumbles face first into the floor once again. 

Now, it’s Saturn’s turn to frown, eyeing the unconscious girl warily. “What on earth has your invention done, Charon?”

When Erin wakes up, there are two people with identical teal bowlcuts staring down at her. The sight alone is enough to shock her into full lucidity, her legs kicking out instinctively and contacting whatever is unlucky enough to be near her foot. Whatever it is emits a very human yelp of pain, but Erin simply isn’t in the headspace to give a shit at the moment. 

“Easy, there,” one bowlcut says. This one seems to be a lady, sporting an odd dress and carefully-maintained teal nails. “You’ve sustained some bruising on your head and knees, so you ought to be a bit more careful…” 

The other bowlcut passes a container of ointment to Lady Bowlcut, who takes it and dabs some on a tender spot on Erin’s forehead. 

“Ow,” Erin hisses. “What the hell am I doing here? Who are you?” 

“That’s what we should be asking you.” 

Immediately, the two bowlcuts by her sides stand at attention in a militant fashion. “Master Cyrus, sir!” 

A blue-haired man strides into the room, followed by two ladies and an old man that Erin vaguely recognizes from...somewhere. The man, Cyrus, turns to someone next to Lady Bowlcut and says, “Saturn, how is she healthwise?” 

“Healthy enough to kick, clearly,” retorts another man that steps out into Erin’s field of view. The strange crescent shape of his blue hair is an absurd enough sight that Erin would normally laugh at, but right now, she just feels strangely hollow. “It appears that her head trauma is mostly superficial and no cause for concern. Nothing beyond a few bruises, so she should be in her right mind. There’s no telling what Charon’s blasted machine might have done to her internally, though.” 

“My machine has done nothing to her,” says the old man resentfully, stepping ahead of the crowd at the door and joining Erin at her bedside. “Miss...Erin, was it? I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.” He seems to interpret her lack of response as approval, so he carries on. “Where exactly did you come from?”

Erin eyes the man critically, from his receding hairline to the deep grimace lines in his face to the round spectacles perched on his nose. It doesn’t seem likely the old man will hurt her at this point, seeing as she’s just been given medical attention. “I was just in Toronto,” she starts unsurely. “Toronto, Canada, that is. I was supposed to board a flight back home, but on my way to the airport I…” 

“Yes?” Charon urges. 

“I fell,” Erin finishes simply. “And now I’m here.” She notices the bowlcuts near her exchange strange looks, as well as the two ladies near the door starting to murmur something to Cyrus. 

“Now, Miss Erin, can you explain to me why you had such an intense reaction to seeing Master Cyrus’s crobat?” 

And all at once, the memories of what had happened before waking up came back to her, and her heart skidded to a stop. “Because I’ve never seen a pokemon before,” she manages to squeak. “Because pokemon aren’t real. Am I dreaming?” 

“Master Cyrus, the fall must have hurt her head more than we expected,” insists the purple-haired lady on Cyrus’s left. “Ugh, this is going to be an insurance nightmare.” 

“Quiet, Jupiter.” Charon looks anything but dismayed in that moment, his eyes gleaming with a look that sets Erin on edge. “You say pokemon aren’t real?” 

“Of course not. I mean, there’re video games,” Erin blabbers before her mind can catch up with her mouth. “And they made comics too, I think. And some movies. But none of it is—is real, so I have no idea what I’m doing here.” Her voice shrinks by the word until she is scarcely audible. 

Now the redhead speaks, muttering to herself with a deep scowl. “I hate to agree with Jupiter, but it appears that this girl really is crazy. Perhaps we should get her to a hospital.” 

“No! No need for that.” Charon turns away from Erin, his old wrinkled face contorted in glee. “My Dimensional Traveller was a success.” 

“What!?”

“I searched through the girl’s bag as she slept,” Charon continues. “And she seems to be telling the truth—in her bag I found a passport from a place called Canada, along with a plane ticket with a destination unheard of in any known region. Her electronic devices are of brands with no traceable history or presence. Think—we know there are countless arrays of alternate dimensions out there, dwarving our own world in the vast fabric of reality. Is it really so hard to believe that the reality she describes could be one of them? Do you see now!? My experiment was a resounding success!” 

“Success, my foot,” bites out the man at the end of Erin’s bed snidely. “Our goal was to summon the mythical pokemon, not some lost girl.”

“You seem to know who I am,” Cyrus says, staring directly at Erin over Charon’s head. Erin gulps at the sudden attention. “How would that be?”

“I, uh, played a few Pokemon games when I was a kid,” she stammers. “I watched some of the cartoons and movies, too. Team Galactic was in them. As fictional characters. So I recognize you, Cyrus, and, er…I think there was a Mars?” She looks to the redhead, who raises her eyebrows in surprise. “And Jupiter, and…” Erin comes up short when she looks at the blue moon-head man at the foot of her bed. “Sorry, I don’t remember you,” she admits sheepishly. He has the decency to look slightly offended. 

“Simply incredible,” Charon mutters reverently. “A true dimensional traveller.” 

Erin shifts so she’s sitting up. “S-so, can I go…?”

Cyrus stares her down calculatingly. “Mars, prepare a room for Miss Erin. She will be staying with us for a while.” 

“Master Cyrus!” both ladies at his sides protest in unison. 

“What? No! I want to go home!” Erin cries, struggling to slide off of the bed, but the bowlcuts hold her back. 

The Galactic boss strolls to the side of her bed, giving Charon a meaningful look. Charon clears his throat and explains, “Yes, well, I decided to tinker with the Dimensional Traveller afterwards, see if I could send something back to the dimension from which you came now that I know the coordinates have a valid destination. However...it was unsuccessful. It seems that your dimension is located ‘upstream’ of ours, so to say, and the Dimensional Traveller lacks the power to defy the current. Why, the only beings I can think of that would have such power are the legendary pokemon Dialga and Palkia themselves.”

“So your piece of junk has a weakness after all,” retorts Jupiter. “Lovely.” 

Erin shoots Cyrus a wide-eyed look of panic as the information sinks in. “So I can’t go home?” 

“I believe there’s much to be learned from you, Miss Erin,” Cyrus says in lieu of a proper response. “Much that could aid our cause. Therefore, we will provide you with food and shelter for the time being.” 

Erin struggles against the two bowlcuts one last time, then sags. Her mind spins with panic and confusion, birthing a throbbing pain behind her temples. 

Cyrus nods towards the redhead. “Mars.” 

“Yes, Master Cyrus.” Mars turns on her heel and walks towards the door, then casts a look over her shoulder at Erin. Erin feels a chill travel down her spine at the crimson-eyed glower. “Follow me.” 

The grip on her arms lessens as the bowlcut grunts retreat. Erin hesitates, the many eyes on her immobilizing her, but one more glare from Mars gets her moving and stumbling in the other girl’s footsteps. 

“W-what about my stuff?” Erin asks once they’re in the hallway. “My passport—my ID is in there…” 

“Charon will probably hold onto it,” Mars barks without looking at her. “Crazy old coot.”

The thought of the strange old man putting his paws all over her things isn’t a pleasant one, but Erin shoves it to the back of her mind. 

She casts a cursory glance around the hallway and lets her eyes linger on the stylized G emblems hanging on the walls. Erin is familiar with Team Galactic, alright—the Pokemon Diamond and Pearl games were her first, and even if it’s been years, decades since she last played it, she can recall enough to know that Team Galactic is very much a villainous team. One hellbent on the destruction of the universe, too, if she remembers correctly. A chill runs from the base of her neck all the way down to her tailbone. Cyrus may have seemed civil before, but is she really in safe hands here?

The same chill grips her throat as she finds herself asking, “Are you guys going to kill me?” 

Mars doesn’t even flinch, even though it feels to Erin as though the walls may just close in on her any second now. “Not while you’re still of use to us.” 

Her blood runs cold. 

Just for how long will she be of use to them?

And... 

...What will happen to her after that? 

Chapter Text

Thunk. 

Thunk.

Thunk…

The ball rolls towards her toes uselessly. Erin picks it up and holds it between her thumb and index finger, examining the faded pokeball design with dull resignation. 

A night has passed since her sudden landing in this world, and if this really is a dream, it refuses to release her from its clutches. She spent the night sleeplessly tossing, turning, and pinching herself in an effort to make sense of her situation, but to no avail. Now, the sun peeks in through the prison cell-like bars on the window, and a distant staravia makes its morning rounds in the sky. 

Of course, she’s considered the possibility that she’s dead, too. That a fateful tumble at the YYZ cut her life short at the mere age of 20, taking with it all of her (nonexistent) hopes and (undecided) dreams. 

Before Erin can start another cycle of self-pity, the door lock clicks and swings open for the first time since she was led here by Mars. Erin drops the bouncy ball, stumbling to her feet, but feels her shoulders droop with disappointment when she’s met only with the faces of the two bowlcuts that accosted her on the medical bench yesterday. “Oh...it’s just you guys.” 

“We come bearing gifts,” the man sing-songs. “Well, not really. Just a change of clothes and breakfast, graciously provided by Master Cyrus.”

Bowlcut Lady offers her a bundle of clothing with a pleasant smile. Erin takes the offering instinctively, watching the strange grunts carefully as she does so. To her relief, the clothes are not a Galactic-branded spaceman suit like she’d assumed, but rather a regular black top and pants. Bowlcut Lady smiles sadly, as if in pity, and says, “This was all we had left, unfortunately.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Erin sighs. “It’s better than nothing.” And definitely better than those spaceman suits. 

Behind her, Bowlcut Man has gotten to work on neatening the sheets, and Bowlcut Lady moves to set a small tray of food down on the only other item of furniture in the room—a small side table. They’re strangely chipper for grunts. Erin doesn’t remember the Galactic grunts she encountered in-game being this personable. 

“You guys are awfully cheerful for your...positions,” she points out carefully. “Er, I thought gruntwork was the worst of the worst.” 

“Nonsense!” The girl grunt gives her a determined smile. “This is the most important task Master Cyrus has ever assigned to us newbies, and it’s nothing short of an honour!” 

“Is that so,” Erin muses. A quick once-over of each of them tells her they’re as nonthreatening as they come—she doesn’t even see pokeballs strapped to their waists, but there was no telling what they could be hiding. “Can I get your names, at least? It’s getting tiring calling you two bowlheads A and B in my head.” 

“I am Grunt E-1407,” the lady grunt chirps. “This guy here is P-6822. We just joined Team Galactic last month!” 

“E-14…?” Erin tries. “That’s still a mouthful...don’t you guys have real names?”

They look oddly surprised by her innocuous question. “Well, yes, but…” The female grunt looks unsure. 

“It’s alright if you don’t feel like sharing,” Erin dismisses, hiding the embarrassment of overstepping her boundaries like the untactful dolt she is. Why does it matter what their names are, anyway? They’re holding her hostage. The very stiff and uncomfortable mattress she sits on creaks as if to remind her of this fact. 

“It’s Europa.” Grunt E-1407 beams at her in a very non-villainous way. 

“You can call me Pan. At your service, Miss Erin,” the man adds. 

Erin sticks her hands up in surrender. “Uh, just Erin is fine.”

“Nonsense, you’re an honoured guest!” 

“I dunno, I’m getting real mixed signals about all of this,” Erin remarks bitterly. “First you guys throw me in a jail cell, then you shower me with room service and pleasantries? Aren’t I your prisoner?” 

Europa clasps her hands, eyebrows drawing together. “Of course not!”

“Then will you let me go now?” 

The two grunts exchange a worried look, cowed into uncomfortable silence. 

Erin sighs again, lying down on the stiff mattress. “Thought so.” 

“B-but do not despair, Miss Erin,” Europa says. “The Commanders will be back soon to do some check-ups on you, so you won’t be alone for long.” 

“Joy of joys,” she grumbles, staring up at the ceiling. “And it’s just Erin.”

The grunts depart shortly after, leaving behind a lukewarm breakfast and a growing sense of unease. Erin decides she doesn’t want anything to do with these creeps, Mars’s words still ringing in her ears warningly.

Not while you’re still of use to us.

She shudders, turning her gaze to the circling staravia in the sky. If she’s really stuck here for the time being, then she’s better off with the good guys, right? Cynthia, Professor Rowan—names from her childhood flit back into her head with surprising ease. Would they be willing to help her? But how would she get to them?

One thing is predominantly obvious, though. There is nothing she can do while she is trapped here in this wretched cell. 

True to Europa’s word, the Commanders and their colourful heads of strange hairstyles waltz into her cell not long after. Cyrus leads them, looking as stone-faced as ever. 

“I trust that your first night here was uneventful?” Cyrus drones in lieu of a greeting. “You can relax, Miss Erin. We, Team Galactic, are not mannerless thugs—we remain true to our word. We do not wish for the pain of others. In fact, it is the very thing we rally against.” 

“I know perfectly well who you guys are,” Erin bites out with guts she isn’t aware she has. She regrets her outburst not one second later when the collective glares of four Galactic Commanders hone in on her.

“And that’s precisely why we’re here.” Unbothered as usual, Cyrus merely moves on. “Well, then. Let’s not delay any longer. Charon?” 

“Yes, Master Cyrus.” Charon scurries to her bedside, taking out a clipboard and pen. “Miss Erin, can you tell me what you know about the mythical pokemon Dialga and Palkia?”

Erin instantly recalls the strife that went into her catching Dialga when she was six. She also remembers naming it something incredibly uncreative— Diamond , though she doubts any of this information would get her out of this mess. “Why are you asking me this?” 

“Charon believes that because you successfully crossed dimensions, you may hold a connection to the only other beings capable of doing so,” Cyrus explains calmly. “Do impart with us whatever you can. Anything you could share with us will only help our cause.”

“Your cause?” Erin inches away from Charon, backing up against the wall from atop her bed. “I-I know exactly what your cause is, Cyrus. You want to destroy the universe. Why would I ever assist a cause like that?”

“It seems that you were telling the truth yesterday after all,” the man notes. “You truly do know of us. More than any outsider of this world could possibly know, though not without…inaccuracies.” 

“S-so what?” Erin pointedly looks only at Cyrus, trying to block out the almost predatory glares surrounding her. 

“Then you must have information pertaining to Dialga and Palkia that no one else in this world would know.” For the first time, Erin sees a spark in Cyrus’s cold, dark eyes, and it terrifies her. 

Her motormouth runs off despite herself, the stress of the situation getting to her. “I-I know they’re legendaries. One controls time. One controls space. Steel dragon. Water dragon. What else could I possibly tell you?”

She tries to play it off as casually as possible, reciting the most benign facts she can think of, but Cyrus’s eyes widen in an alarming fashion anyway. “You’ve already told me enough.” 

“H-huh?” 

The other man, the one Erin remembers from being at the foot of her bed yesterday, finally speaks up, a strange intrigue taking the place of the malice he’d previously regarded her with. “In none of the historical texts we’ve managed to recover have the exact typings of the mythical beasts ever been described.” 

“It appears there most certainly is value in keeping you close after all, Miss Erin. Don’t worry—as long as you’re with Team Galactic, you’ll be kept safe.” Cyrus tucks his arms behind his back, his face returning to its closed-off expressionlessness. “I’d love to continue this discussion, but we’ve got field research to attend to. Grunts E-1407 and P-6822 will return later with your lunch.” Without so much as a farewell, Cyrus and the commanders file out of the room, closing the door and clicking the lock shut behind them. 

Idiot idiot. Stupid idiot. Erin could just nail her coffin shut herself. She should have kept her mouth shut. But how was she to know that such an obvious and basic detail about the stupid version mascots was of such significance? That admission may have just cost her her freedom. 

Or , a traitorous voice at the back of her mind whispers, it may have just guaranteed your life. 

Erin grits her teeth and casts yet another glance at the window. No matter what Cyrus has in mind for her, she’ll be better off in the hands of those whose morals she can trust. Her only option is to escape, survive, and find either a gym leader or Professor Rowan—getting home can come after the survival part. 

The breakfast Europa gave her sits on her desk, untouched. Erin eyes it with interest, thoughts brewing in her mind. Now, to come up with an escape plan. 

The moon-hair man visits her after Europa and Pan have delivered her dinner. 

“Oh, it’s...you,” Erin greets, once again coming up short on his name, though he’s familiar enough for her to ascertain that he was in the games. 

“Saturn. Don’t forget it.” Saturn glares at her, and she averts her eyes sheepishly. “Charon is done rifling through your belongings. I’ve been sent to confirm your basic details before we return this to you.” He pulls out her passport, smirking when Erin’s eyes widen. “You’d best cooperate if you want it back.”

His sharp features are honed into a perpetual scowl of sorts, but Erin would guess that under the glower Saturn can’t be much older than she is. His glare does not petrify her, whereas she’s sure that if Cyrus ever broke from routine and frowned she would disintegrate on the spot. Instead, she’s starting to feel the creep of annoyance pricking her at the man’s condescending way of speech. 

“Full name?” 

“You’ve got my full name right there.” She indicates the open passport in Saturn’s hand. 

Saturn doesn’t react to her brazen defiance. “Age?” 

Erin is about to exasperatedly repeat that he has all her information in his hands, but is struck with the suspicion that this world may not use the same date system as her own. “Twenty,” she eventually allows. “Twenty-one later this year.” 

Saturn hums and narrows his eyes at the passport like it has offended him. “This passport is useless here. You realize that, right?”

“I’ll need it once I get back to my own world.”

“Didn’t you hear Charon this morning? It pains me to admit it, but the crazy old man is the best inventor in the region, if not the world. If his precious machines can’t get you back to where you came from, then there’s no hope.” Saturn scoffs, tossing the passport to Erin. “You’re better off giving up on getting back to your dimension.” 

An overwhelming terror creeps into Erin’s thoughts. She has had anxieties, suspicions that there may be a possibility she is stuck here for good, but to hear someone else put in words so bluntly is almost more than she can handle. Gripping her passport with white knuckles, she keeps the tremors out of her voice and replies, “Then what do you suggest I do?” 

The Galactic commander perks up, a smile gracing his face for the first time. “I can think of no greater purpose than committing to our cause. Our boss seeks to end the suffering of all life in the universe, and all of us of Team Galactic are working together to truly change the world.” 

Erin curls in on herself, grabbing the supplied cup of water off of the table and gazing into it sadly. “I’m not sure…would you all really take in someone like me?” 

She sees Saturn’s shoes approach her in her peripheral vision. “Team Galactic is open to anyone . You’ll be awarded for your efforts, too—though not as high as a commander’s, the starting salary of a Galactic grunt is fairly—” 

Erin flings the cup of water at Saturn, not even pausing to watch it land on his infuriatingly smug face before launching herself off of the bed and making a beeline for the door. 

Two unfamiliar grunts man the door but are too stunned by Erin’s sudden appearance to do more than sputter as she slams the door shut behind her and flies down the hallway. High on adrenaline, she retraces the path to the bathroom she had memorized the last time Europa accompanied her there, then banks right to the door next to it— emergency exit, it reads. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears as she pushes it with all she’s got. 

“After her!” she faintly hears Saturn roar, followed by the sounds of pokeballs being activated in the hallway behind her. She has no time

to do anything but run, nearly stumbling and falling as she pushes past confused grunts on the stairs. 

The squealing of a winged blue creature descends on her as she rounds the corner of the second flight of stairs. The zubat persistently hounds her until one of her hands successfully connects with it—leathery, real skin—and swats it away—not a minute too soon, either, because the emergency exit is finally in sight. 

She can taste freedom on the tip of her tongue. All she feels is the animalistic urge to escape, like all those times she played prey in playground games of tag. She slams into the door and tears out of the building…

Only to stop in her tracks when a line of grunts block her only path down into the city. 

“Shit.” She can’t stop now, she’s come too far—but the stone cliff face is far too steep and smooth for her to safely slide down. From within the emergency exit, she hears a shrieking series of croaks unlike anything she’s ever heard before in her life, and she stiffens. 

“Toxicroak, restrain her.” 

The toxic frog’s skin glistens as it nears her. Erin swallows harshly and looks for possible avenues of escape, but she’s forced to realize at this point that she’s failed. Trying to escape will probably get her poisoned and killed. 

That doesn’t mean she isn’t going to try it anyway. 

Her foot only moves an inch before a sharp, prickling pain emanates out from a point on her shoulder. She cries out in agony before falling to her knees, the voices of Saturn and grunts alike swirling together and reaching a deafening pitch before all goes black. 

Chapter Text

When she comes to, she’s in the medical bay again. Voices that are starting to become sickeningly familiar fill her ears, which feel as though they’re filled with cotton. She struggles to sit up, to the dismay of a fretting Europa. 

“God, Saturn. It’s almost like you never graduated from trainer school or something. Has the almighty second-in-command really forgotten that a toxicroak’s poison sting is lethal to humans?” It’s Mars, whose dry tone is unmistakable at this point. 

“I already told you, it wasn’t on my command! I only told Toxicroak to restrain her, but then she had to go and make a break for it! Toxicroak is trained to immobilize any target that moves unexpectedly, pokemon or not.”

Erin groans, trying to formulate a coherent sentence, but her tongue feels like tire rubber. Her pained warbling catches the attention of the bickering commanders, who finally enter her field of view. 

“Seems like the sleeping beauty’s awake,” Jupiter quips, smirking. “It’s about time. Wipe that look off your face, Saturn. You look like you’re about to piss yourself.” 

Unruffled by the bickering of the commanders, Europa dashes her brow with the back of her hand, and it’s then that Erin notices an empty syringe in her hands. “It’s a miracle that we happened to have drapion antivenom in storage, but any longer and it would have caused permanent nervous damage,” Europa chirps as if that’s meant to make her feel better. 

Erin finally finds her words and shoves a slightly numb arm in the direction of Saturn, levelling him with a glare. “You tried t’kill me,” she slurred. 

“You deceived me,” Saturn fires back indignantly. 

She’s about to retort about how death is hardly a deserving punishment for throwing him for a relatively harmless loop, but before she can, Jupiter cuts in. “Before this devolves any further into a playground argument, Master Cyrus wanted to see the girl.” 

Erin is promptly escorted out of the medical bay by Europa, a steadying hand on her shoulder and flanked by the three commanders, with Jupiter in the lead. She keeps her mouth shut and head down as she’s nudged up a staircase. They arrive in a room with a set of sturdy metal doors and a key card swipe point, but instead of swiping her card like Erin’s seen Jupiter do many times before, the commander instead opts to press the intercom button. 

“We’ve brought her, Master Cyrus.” Following her words, the doors slide open. Mars and Jupiter make way for her and Saturn, remaining in the waiting area. The doors close behind them. 

Cyrus stands silhouetted at one of his windows, Charon by his side. He addresses Erin directly once he takes a seat at his desk. “So I hear you staged quite the escape attempt.” 

Before Erin can react, Saturn immediately bows his head, fists clenched at his sides. “Master Cyrus, I take full responsibility for my blunder. I shouldn’t have underestimated—”

“That’s quite enough, Saturn. You may go.” Cyrus is dismissive and frighteningly calm, almost like he’s oblivious to the way Saturn is sweating bullets. 

The commander fumbles to formulate a response, eventually settling on a meek yes, Master Cyrus before vanishing beyond the sliding doors. 

Now it is just Erin, Cyrus, and Charon. Cyrus continues, “I’m curious, what would drive you to attempt something so foolhardy? Have we not been accommodating you well enough?” 

Erin nervously picks at the hem of her tank top. “I don’t want to stay here as a prisoner when I could be searching for ways to get home.” Something about the intensity of his sunken eyes always manages to worm the truth out of her.

“Back to your upstream dimension, you mean?” Charon joins the conversation. “Impossible. Trust me, girl, if my inventions lack the power to send you back against the dimensional current, nothing in this world possibly could, save for the gods themselves!”

“Yes, as Charon has emphasized, trying to get back to your world is a hopeless venture. However, we’ve been plenty generous to you following your unexpected arrival here. I even swear to continue sheltering you. The least you can do is cooperate with us.” Cyrus intertwines his fingers and rests them against his chin. 

“A-and if I don’t want to?” Erin curls her hands into fists, pushing aside the fact that Cyrus has all but admitted to ripping her life away from her permanently—it won’t do anything productive to break down before the cold man. She won’t let him exploit any more of her weaknesses. “If I want out?”

Cyrus is silent for just a half-beat. Then, “We can’t allow someone who knows so much about our directives to roam free. I’m sure you understand.” 

Not as long as you’re of use to us. Mars’s irritating face pops up in Erin’s mind, which has gone utterly silent, all trains of thought coming to a screeching halt. She swallows thickly, but her throat remains dry, and her eyes start to sting. 

Cyrus is going to kill her. She will die in this miserable building if she doesn’t think of something right now. 

...save for the gods themselves!

“W-wait,” Erin stammers, her face going lax with realization. “You—old man, what was it you said about travelling back to my dimension? Who has the power to do so, exactly?” 

Charon, taken aback, adjusts his spectacles. “Well, no one. No human creation could possibly hope to produce the power necessary to traverse against the dimensional current. Only the pokemon who govern spacetime themselves can travel across dimensions as they please—at least, according to the legends.” 

“That,” Erin points at Charon, fueled by desperation, “that’s it. You’re saying Dialga and Palkia could send me back to my dimension, then?”

Cyrus and the old man seem to have caught on to where she is going with this, but Charon still seems doubtful. “It’s a reasonable hypothesis, but—”

Erin waves off the rest of his statement, refocusing her attention on Cyrus. “Cyrus, I’ll fully cooperate with Team Galactic and your ambitions. I’ll tell you everything I know. Hell, I’ll even become a grunt if you really want. But I have one condition.” 

The dangerous gleam is back in Cyrus’s eyes, and this time Erin can put a word to it— interest. “Go on.” 

On the second morning since her arrival in this world, Erin is awoken by Europa and Pan practically bursting through her cell door. 

Europa is absolutely elated. “Master Cyrus says you’ve decided to join Team Galactic!” She lunges for Erin, who has no time to react before she’s ambushed by the two grunts. 

“Whuh?” Erin sputters intelligently. 

Pan helps her into a sitting position, Europa hanging off her other arm, and Erin almost feels compelled to remind them she had nearly died from a poisonous sting not even a day ago. Europa holds in her hands a sleek, grey-and-black bundle of fabric and a couple tubes of what look like paint. 

When Europa pulls out the scissors, though, Erin is fully awake. 

“No.” She bunches her brown locks up in her hands protectively, wrenching away from the grunt. “There is no way you are laying a finger on my hair, and good luck getting me into one of those...those spaceman suits!”

The grunt pouts, edging her scissors closer to her head. “It’s company policy…”

“Company policy my ass!” Erin rolls away from the two grunts, her back thudding against the wall. “Bottom line, I’m not touching those uniforms!” 

She ends up forced into a Galactic jacket that is ill-fitted to her size and smells like cardstock. The sleek, sci-fiesque jacket and relaxed-fit sweatpants make for a strange look, but it’s the least of Erin’s worries right now. A small, primal part of her is happy for the free clothing, the same part of her that would RSVP to any given social event so long as complementary food is dangled over her head. 

After Erin convinces Pan and Europa that the hair dye isn’t necessary (by chucking it out of the barred window), the latter poutingly informs her she’s to gather her things and meet with Cyrus after breakfast. 

With her passport tucked into her back sweatpants pocket and the jacket sleeves sagging and bunching around her wrists, she knocks on the metal doors hesitantly. The doors slide open, and she steps in with more confidence than she actually has. 

Erin immediately can tell Cyrus is disapproving of how haphazardly she wears the Team Galactic jacket, but to his credit, he brushes it off and greets her, “Good morning, Miss Erin. Though, I suppose that since you’ve now joined us, I may refer to you as just Erin.” 

Erin levels the Galactic boss with a firm stare. “Please remember the terms of our agreement, Cyrus.” 

He drops the colloquial and clearly rehearsed smile. “While your membership with Team Galactic is temporary and mostly a formality, I must insist you still resemble the part. We can’t have one of our operatives stumbling around defenseless, farcical or not.” Cyrus opens a drawer in his desk and withdraws unseen objects. When he places them on the table one by one, Erin recognizes them as standard-grade pokeballs. “How much do you know about pokemon battling, Erin?”

Oh, so much. Erin swallows. “I know some,” she settles on. She’s not sure how to put years of in-game grinding into terms that Cyrus would easily understand.

“We’ll be testing your battle capabilities today to determine where you will rank within Team Galactic. Take your pick of any of the pokemon here.” He indicates the array of seven or eight pokeballs evenly placed across his desk. 

A part of Erin wants to ask if these are stolen, but it’s probably wiser not to ask. She reaches for the one closest to her, the one in the middle, and takes it into her hand. The ball is heavier than she expected it to be, driving home the fact that a living creature, an actual living being rests within. “Which one is this?” 

“That’s a gligar,” Cyrus informs her. “It was caught on Route 206 recently.” 

It’s all somewhat overwhelming to Erin that she’s living out her childhood fantasy of receiving her own, actual, real pokemon, so much so that she hardly gives a crap that she’s never been particularly fond of gligar before. She wonders how her elementary school self would have felt if she knew that her ‘starter pokemon moment’ would not only come one day, but would be in the presence of Cyrus, not a professor. “I’ll go with this one, then.”

If Cyrus had eyebrows, she’s sure one would be quirked right now. “You aren’t curious about any of the others?”

Erin nods. “Gligar is fine.” In reality, she’s not entirely sure she’s even breathing right now. On the off chance that this is a vivid, stubborn coma dream, she prays that she doesn’t wake up at this very moment. 

“Very well. Then, without further ado, let us test your strength.” 

The metal doors suddenly slide open behind Erin, making her jump and clutch the pokeball closer to her chest. Standing in a neat line are the commanders, minus Charon. 

“You called, Master Cyrus?”

Cyrus pushes away from his desk. “Yes. One of you will be battling Erin here. Any volunteers?” 

Erin glares coldly at the man with crescented blue hair, her eyes communicating a clear warning. Antagonize me again after pulling that stunt last night and you’ll regret it . Saturn doesn’t seem eager to engage with her again either, scoffing and turning his gaze skyward, which leaves either Jupiter or Mars. 

“I’ll do it.” Mars steps forward. Unease starts to broil in her gut as Erin considers the possibility that between the cryptic comment made to her on day one and now this, Mars may just have a vendetta against her. What she’s done to earn the redhead’s ire is beyond her. 

Cyrus nods. “Keep in mind this is her first ever battle.” 

By the look in Mars’s eyes, Erin fears that this is the one order from Cyrus that Mars may disobey. 

They move into the waiting area just outside Cyrus’s office, Erin instinctively moving to the far end of the space while Mars takes her place across from her. The remaining two commanders stand with Cyrus, who oversees the match from the midpoint of the room. 

Mars takes out a pokeball and releases the pokemon within in a burst of light—a zubat. Erin fumbles with the pokeball given to her, debating whether she should throw it or simply press the central button. When Mars begins to tap her foot impatiently, she throws caution to the wind and hurls the ball up into the air. To her utter wonder, it explodes open in a flood of bright light, then falls back into her hands, emptied. 

A winged creature with large pincers and a segmented, barbed tail floats before her, wide eyes assessing her timidly. 

This is my pokemon. Erin is speechless. My actual pokemon. She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling until she opens her mouth to greet it quietly, “Hello.” 

The gligar flaps its wings a little more energetically, tongue darting out between its fangs. It’s strangely endearing. 

Her moment with the pokemon is cut short by Mars diving into battle by declaring an order, “Zubat, wing attack!”

The bat creature streaks across the room like a bullet and heads straight for the gligar. Adrenaline pumps through Erin’s veins as she instinctively cries, “Dodge!” 

Gligar ekes away from the zubat’s glowing wing just in the nick of time, flapping discordantly to maintain its balance. It’s now her turn. Erin stammers and runs the movelist Cyrus had given her through her head. She vaguely recalls some of Gligar's basic stats—high speed, poor special attack, high defense. “Uh, fire fang, gligar!”

The next moment, gligar’s mouth is ablaze with flame, and it lands its bite on zubat’s torso. Zubat shrieks and retreats back to Mars’s side.

“Supersonic!” 

The zubat’s squealing reaches a sickeningly high pitch, and gligar floats back to her side, eyes screwed shut in pain. Once the squealing subsides, Erin quickly mutters, “Oh, shit. You alright?”

Gligar seems surprised at her words for some reason, but gives a short nod. 

“Good.” She grits her teeth and commands, “Feint attack!”

Within moments, gligar disappears, then suddenly reappears in front of Mars’s zubat in a burst of surprising speed. The resulting collision sends the poor bat hurtling back to its trainer.

Erin watches the Galactic commander carefully, waiting for her next move. She has an uncharacteristic frustrated scowl on her face, blood-red eyes sharpened into a glare. “Just what are you standing around for?” Mars snaps suddenly. “Think you’re too good for us? Zubat, bite!” 

The bat pokemon recovers and once again makes a beeline for gligar. This time it’s moving even faster, and gligar has no time to react before the zubat’s fangs are buried in its wing. Erin’s heart jumps into her throat as her pokemon lets out a pained cry. “Gligar!” 

“Finish it off with a wing attack!” 

Zubat’s wing lights up before Erin can shout out her move. With a sickening thwack, gligar is swatted to the ground. 

Her legs are moving before she can process what has happened. The panic of seeing the creature beaten down into the floor overpowers everything else, the feeling sickeningly similar to when she’d watched her dog take a nasty fall down the stairs years before. 

“Gligar,” she whispers, hands floating awkwardly. At the sound of her voice, the pokemon opens its eyes and starts to get to its feet. “Are you alright?” 

“What the—” Mars cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “I take it you’re forfeiting the match, then?” 

The room has gone completely silent, save for the flapping of zubat’s wings. Erin looks at the gligar entrusted to her, noting its determined chirps and noises, almost as if it’s telling her it can still fight. But she can’t help but focus on the scratches and painful bruises littering its tiny body.

“I’ve seen enough.” Cyrus strides towards Erin’s end of the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Return your pokemon to its ball and come with me to the sick bay.” 

Erin doesn’t meet Cyrus’s eyes, still focused on gligar. With a resigned sigh, she fishes out the pokeball and returns gligar to it in a flash of red light. 

As she is led out of the waiting area by Cyrus, she keeps her eyes down and far away from Mars and the other commanders, whose stares she can practically feel upon the back of her neck. 

Chapter Text

The grunts that take her gligar away to be restored to full health aren’t ones Erin recognizes, so she keeps to herself until they return her pokeball to her and excuse themselves from the room. 

“You fought well,” Cyrus compliments. She wonders just how genuine praise from someone who effectively amounts to a cult leader can be. 

“She cheated.”

Cyrus replies, “How so?”

“She didn’t wait her turn to move,” Erin explains, feeling very suddenly like a kindergartener throwing a tantrum now that she’s vocalized it. Sheepishly, she continues, “In my world...in the games I played, we always had to wait our turn to attack.” 

She waits for the mockery to come, but it never does. Instead Cyrus simply says, “This is reality, I’m afraid. In the real world, not everyone will abide by rules and common courtesies. And there will be people who will come to suffer because of it." 

He’s right, even if it sickens her to admit it—she was too caught up in the glee of living out a childhood dream to realize that real life has real consequences, and her living, breathing gligar got hurt because of her. Erin traces her own reflection in the shining surface of the pokeball. She hopes that gligar is resting well within. Her hand stops. “Did you want this back?” She holds out the pokeball reluctantly.

Cyrus shakes his head. “You may keep that pokémon—it’s only fitting for a subcommander to be armed.”

“Subcommander ?” Erin nearly drops her pokeball. “I—I mean, I don’t think it’s a good idea to give me such a high rank when I’m only—” 

“Though brief, your match proved that you are familiar with the basics of pokemon battling, which is certainly more than we can say about many of our new recruits. Being a subcommander will ensure that low-ranking grunts won’t have the right to question your circumstances. It will also provide good reason for a commander to be near you at all times, including during expeditions and Galactic official business.” 

So he isn’t just blowing smoke up her ass. Everything these people ever do is always done with purpose, and it seems that Cyrus hasn’t forgotten her little escape attempt after all, Erin muses with chagrin. “Does that mean I’ll be stuck under surveillance constantly? Like…even in the washroom?”

“Again, we’re not unmannered here at Team Galactic. There are no cameras in the restrooms, if that’s what you’re asking. You will be allowed time in your own room at certain points in your schedule, and you may use the facilities without accompaniment, of course, but nothing you do can go unreported to us.” Cyrus levels her with a look that almost comes across as warning. “Surely you understand, considering recent events.”

Erin sighs in resignation. 

She is moved into a new room shortly afterwards. It’s a little less cramped, but not any less oppressive than the other jail cell-like room she was confined to before. The difference is that this room locks from the inside, allowing her some much-needed privacy, and a single hook has been drilled into the wall for hanging clothing upon. It’s the little touches like this that really make a home. 

Erin tosses her jacket off onto the hook and splats face-down onto the bed. After rolling around with her own thoughts for a bit, she hears a knock at the door. It’s far more refreshing than having the door burst open whenever somebody felt like giving her the time of day. 

“It’s us, Miss Erin!” Europa’s voice is clearly audible through the steel door. 

Erin opens the door, the two easily excitable grunts immediately cramming themselves into her new room without another word. “Can you drop the ‘ miss’ already?”

Pan salutes her. “Right, it’s Subcommander Erin now.” 

“No, I—just Erin is fine,” she insists tiredly, plopping back down on the bed. “What is it now?”

“We’ve come to check up on you,” Europa explains like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Master Cyrus says that we no longer need to tend to your needs now that you’re officially a member of Galactic—and a high-ranking one, at that—but we couldn’t resist making sure you were adjusting alright.”

“We know from experience how fierce the commanders and Master Cyrus can seem at first, so we figured we’d swing around one last time to make sure you were doing fine,” Pan says. 

She’s almost moved. “Why do you guys care so much? You two don’t even know me…”

Europa falters, so Pan speaks in her stead. “Master Cyrus believes that anyone united in the name of a common goal is as good as family. Besides, honestly speaking, you’re the most interesting thing to happen to us ever since we joined.” 

“Kind of like taking in a lost bidoof?” chimes Europa, having recovered. 

Erin feels the smile on her face grow strained. “A bidoof, huh.”

“Say, is that a pokeball?” Europa bounces over to Erin’s bedside, staring curiously at it. “Could it be that Master Cyrus has entrusted you with a pokemon?”

“What is it?” Pan prods. 

Erin assesses her new room’s size briefly, then throws the pokeball up in the air like she had earlier today. Gligar materializes in a flash, looking well-rested and energetic, to her relief. It lets out a series of chirps when it sees her, flapping onto the bed and causing the mattress to sink with its weight. “A gligar.” 

The grunts let out their oohs and ahhs, catching the gligar’s attention. It flaps off of the bed, getting a closer look at Europa and Pan. 

Erin looks at the two curiously. “Don’t you two have pokemon of your own?” 

“Us new hires don’t get pokemon,” explains Pan. “Besides, we’re grunts locked to HQ. What would we need pokemon for?” He pats Erin’s gligar on the head, and it trills happily before it goes to town on Pan's hand, licking at whatever it can get its claws on. "W-whoa there!" 

Erin can’t help but crack a half-smile at the strange scorpion-bat’s antics. The two grunts look so happy to be playing with her gligar that she can hardly believe these are supposed to be caricatured villains. In the TV show and video games, grunts had always seemed to treat their pokemon so...heartlessly. 

She shakes it off, even if something warm persists in her chest. “Well, uh...thank you guys. I think you’re the only people that have treated me like a human being since I got here.” 

Europa beams sunnily, but the smile slips from her face before long, and she lets gligar pinch her finger gently. “I suppose this is the end of our super important assignment…” 

“It’ll be back to cleaning duty for us,” Pan says with forced cheer. 

Erin continues to watch gligar carefully. No matter how much animosity she feels towards Cyrus and Galactic, these people are…well, people. Misled and fooled into joining this crazed cult, somehow. No matter how much she tries, she just can’t bring herself to equate the teal-headed goons she grew up fighting on the tiny screens of her DS to the two living, breathing people before her. Perhaps the absurdity of the situation has finally gotten to her head. “Hey...I’ll still see you guys around, yeah?” 

The smile returns to Europa like it never left, something akin to relief flooding the young grunt’s face. “Y-yeah, of course, Mi—I mean, Erin!” 

They excuse themselves not long after, the door clicking shut behind them. Erin leans back on her bed and watches her gligar flap about and peruse every corner of the room for a bit. When that gets old, she gets up and reaches for the windowsill, which is just within arm’s reach for her, though she can’t do much more than hold onto it—PE was never her forte. 

Just a sliver of the sky is visible through the diminutive window and the bars. A vague sense of claustrophobia suddenly grips Erin, and she feels an urge to get some fresh air—which, she realizes to her glee, she is now free to do. Surely this company building must have a rooftop? 

“Hey there, little guy,” she calls to her pokemon, who turns around attentively, tongue poking out between its fangs as usual. “You up for a little stargazing?”

At this time of night, most Galactic operatives have already retired to the bunkers, save for the night security stationed at the entrances, so Erin is spared any interrogation as she follows the signs fastened to the ceiling directing her to the roof, gligar trailing behind her. She's closest to the rooftop of the southwest tower—a discovery that reminds her of how immense this building is, with four separate towers that are joined at the middle in a dome. 

The night air is cold and the wind tears into her mercilessly at the high elevation, prompting her to shrink into her Galactic jacket a little more. Her gligar seems nothing short of delighted, though, and this alone is somehow enough to make it all worth it. 

“Whoa, a shooting star!” she points out, eyes widening at the realization. Her gligar follows her extended finger and gazes at the falling streak of light curiously. 

It stares into the sky and chitters with glee as Erin looks for a good spot on the concrete to sit. Despite the chilliness, the sky is clear and lit up with stars brighter than the ones back home, a wonder considering the immensity of Veilstone’s cityscape, which could almost rival Toronto’s in its scale. It’s just about as gloomy, too. She had been looking forward to returning to her hometown at the end of the semester to finally see the stars again, but life—and Charon—had different plans for her, it seems.  

A sudden pressure weighs on Erin’s throat and her eyes well up with an unwelcome wetness. Here, even the stars are unfamiliar to her. Gone are the Big and Little Dipper. This truly isn’t her world, and there was no telling that Cyrus would keep his word when the time came. 

Darker thoughts still invade her mind. Perhaps she wouldn’t have the chance return to her world at all. Maybe she really had somehow died without realizing it. She sniffles against her better judgement as the faces of her loved ones flit through her mind, one by one. What would she do if she really were dead? What of the money she sunk into her degree? What of her future? Her friends? Family?

A purple face jams itself into hers, eyes staring concernedly and something akin to a whine coming from its mouth. Her gligar sniffs her wet face curiously. A weak chuckle bubbles out of her throat unbidden as she finds herself hopelessly endeared by the scorpion-bat. And then comes the assault. Before she can do anything about it, her gligar has coated her cheeks in its saliva, ignoring her attempts to push the creature away. Absently, she hopes that its saliva isn't...corrosive, or something.

"Alright, that's enough of that!" Rubbing her face with the sleeve of her coat, she says, "It’s nothing, little guy. I'm fine. Say, why don’t I give you a name? Would you like that?” 

The gligar perks right up again, segmented tail swishing. 

“Alright, in that case…” Erin glances back at the sky. “How about Comet?” Her pokemon chirrups in approval, shoving its smooth head under her hand in a bout for attention. Erin giggles again, obliging. She thinks she might die for the little thing after just a day of having him. It's almost scary. “Comet it is, then. Mitty.”

A few minutes of comfortable silence pass before she feels the need to start talking, lest she get lost in her own thoughts again. “I wonder if you remember the life you had before you were taken here,” she muses as she scratches lightly behind Comet’s ear. He looks at her as she speaks, trying to understand. “You’re kinda like me, you know. You were caught by these guys and taken away from the life you knew, just like that. Just like me.” 

Comet hums, settling down at her feet and sitting in a way that Erin can only describe as ‘child-like’. 

“Do you miss your parents too, Mitty?” Erin wonders aloud. “Me, I was finally on my way back from school to see them when suddenly…” Her hand stills. “The ground just opens up beneath me, and poof! Here I am. There I was thinking I was just about to have it all figured out, and now, just because the ground decided to give out beneath me, I gotta swallow all these new rules. Ain’t life a bitch and a half?” 

Despite not understanding a single word, the gligar looks content to listen to her ramble, and that alone is enough to make Erin smile, even as she looks up at a sky full of alien stars. She may be a stranger in a strange land, and the commanders may all hate her, but at least she’s got an adorable bat-scorpion thing that trusts her, and, well, that’s still something, right?

Chapter Text

The next morning, Erin finds herself in the Galactic cafeteria among a sea of teal hair and chopped bangs. A tray is clutched feebly in her hands, a surprisingly appetizing breakfast bagel perched upon it that threatens to slide off every time she twists to avoid another grunt. She’d gotten it into her head this morning when breakfast hadn’t been placed at her door that they probably expected her to eat like any other member of Galactic now that she’s been initiated , so here she is, trying to find Pan and Europa in the crowd somehow. 

“Oh, hell,” she mutters, making a beeline for the edge of the room. The grunts that notice her—she imagines she sticks out like a sore thumb—do make way for her, but she doesn’t miss the strange looks she receives along the way and feels the sense of unease multiply in her chest. 

Chalk this up as another bad idea in a string of bad ideas. She should’ve just stayed in her room and starved. 

But before she can pass the penultimate table, a voice calls out to her, just scarcely audible over the din. “Erin! Over here!” 

She turns in the direction of the voice and scurries over to Europa’s table, squeaking out a few sorries and ‘scuse me s on the way. With a triumphant clatter, she drops her tray on the table across from the grunt, finding Pan to her left. 

“It’s like a warzone out there,” she mutters in greeting, fixing the bagel that has been knocked off of its plate onto the bare tray with a grim stare. “Reminds me of high school.” 

Europa gives a polite laugh. “So how was your first night as…” Her voice suddenly drops to a near-whisper. “ Subcommander? ”

Erin rolls her eyes. “It was fine, I guess. Kinda cold, though. Might need to talk to Cyrus about the heating in my room.” She pauses, bagel en route to her mouth, as a very distinct sensation falls over her. Leaning in, her eyes dart between the two grunts. “Are they staring at me?”

“Oh! Uh…” The grunts exchange glances before Europa finally nods. “Yes, a bit.” 

“What is it? Am I not wearing this jacket right?” 

“The jacket is fine,” Pan assures her. “The rest of your attire is, well, not as in line with our dress code—b-but that’s no big deal!” His voice takes on a placating tone as Erin starts to grip her sweatpants defensively. 

“It’s just rare to see the high ranks in the cafeteria, is all,” says Europa. 

“Yeah, I’m just surprised you’re eating with us! Um, usually the commanders don’t eat with the other operatives,” Pan remarks. 

“They don’t? Then where do they eat?” 

Another glance is exchanged before Pan continues, “The commanders’ lounge, maybe? I’m not sure myself…” 

“There’s a commanders’ lounge? Figures that they wouldn’t tell me about that,” she grumbles. “So that’s why they’re all looking at me.” 

“Maybe partly. But most people are a little…intimidated by the commanders, you see.” The way Pan shifts awkwardly implies he’s speaking from personal experience.

Erin manages an eye roll. “You can just say they’re assholes. I do.” But the glares of the grunts she passed on the way here didn’t seem fearful. A closer description would be resentful , even. She supposes the sudden appearance of a new face in the higher ups might come off as shady to most, but hell, you’d think villainous Team Galactic would have no room to pass judgement on any underhanded dealings she may or may not be involved with! Glass houses—or headquarters—and all that. 

As she takes a bite of her bagel, her frown completely drops and her face goes slack. Her brain shorts out in utter disbelief at what she’s experiencing, blocking out what protests Pan would have sputtered back at her with a haze of static. “This is the best bagel I’ve ever eaten in my life,” she says after swallowing. 

Europa laughs at her, but Erin is not joking. “That’s what I’ve been saying! Isn’t the Galactic cafeteria food good? Oh, you have to try the mini-quiches.” 

Maybe it’s not Cyrus’s winning smile that’s driving recruits, after all, Erin muses, because she’s pretty sure that if Galactic had a booth serving free food at her university’s club fair, they’d make recruits out of the entire freshman populace by sundown. 

A grunt with an expression of poorly concealed contempt informs her that the boss is to see her immediately after breakfast, and so with some chagrin, she bids her new ‘friends’—if she should even call them that—goodbye. The trek to Cyrus’s office is a quiet one, but the stares continue as lab coat-clad researchers and teal-wigged operatives alike take the opportunity to assess her in passing. 

With how much she feels like some kind of zoo animal out of its enclosure, Erin almost finds herself regretting turning down the teal hair dye. 

Almost . 

Cyrus alone greets her when the doors slide open. “Ah, Subcommander Erin. I have your new schedule here for you.” 

She feels her lip curl back in distaste at the phony title, even as she reaches out for the sheet of paper he gestures at on his desk. Then it turns into a full-on grimace as she stares at something that looks strikingly similar to a class schedule. 

One thing is for sure. As long as she’s here, Cyrus is intent on putting her to work.

“Charon has expressed concern over the state of your health following your arrival here. He has volunteered his time to perform regular check-ups to make sure nothing unfortunate befalls you.” 

Anything more unfortunate than landing here in the first place? Erin is tempted to remark, but her burgeoning sense of self-control (and self-preservation) keeps her mouth firmly shut. 

“His methods may be a bit…unorthodox, but do let me know if he ever crosses the line.” 

“Stop moving.” 

A yelp tears itself from her throat involuntarily as something cold jabs at her side, shocking the early-morning bleariness out of her. She whips around as much as she can with her arm strapped into the blood pressure cuff and glares at the old man accosting her with a thermometer. “Shouldn’t that be in my mouth?”

Charon steps back and affixes her with an appraising look, one that sends an uneasy shiver down her spine. “Are you old enough to understand the dangers of mercury poisoning, girl?” 

She gapes, offended. “You know how old I am! You literally have my files!” 

“Yes, well, the young and hopeful all start to blend together once you reach a certain age,” he retorts, running a swab over the end of the thermometer before holding it out towards her face. “Perhaps you’ll understand someday, if you’re lucky.” 

Erin snatches the thermometer from him with her free hand, jamming it under her tongue. 

A minute later and a thermometer surrendered, Charon grunts to himself and mills over to the sink to discard the tool. 

The weight in her left pocket strikes at her mind, and she draws the phone out of the jacket, morosely tracing the cracks in the screen that were accrued upon her sudden impact. “I don’t suppose you could fix my phone,” she throws out to the curmudgeonly scientist. “It hasn’t turned on since I got here…”

“Your cellular phone is a lost cause, young lady,” Charon replies, taking the device from her and giving it a short once-over. “Electronic devices seldom have withstood my experimental trials with spacetime manipulation, unless possessed or otherwise manipulated by a life form. I see no reason why one would survive a trip through dimensions.”

“Shit, man.” Erin sighs and plonks the phone down on the metal table. “My back-up plane ticket was on there…” To herself, she mourns the lost opportunity to take pictures of everything she’s seen, touched, or even breathed on in this world. Particularly Comet. 

She sits in silence as Charon types out something on a distant keyboard. “Am I allowed to ask what it is you’re looking for in me, exactly?” 

The fluorescent lights catch his beady little eyes, glinting behind red lenses as he gives her a look she can only describe kindly as patronizing . “Miss…” He breaks his stare at her to glance at the passport propped open on his desk.

“Erin,” she provides stiffly. 

“Miss Erin. Surely the enormity of what you represent as a scientific accomplishment is not lost on you? The first living being to successfully be transported across dimensions using human technology. Imagine for me what your body—what your mind had to go through to be here at this very moment. Just imagine!” 

She takes a deep breath as the cuff begins to loosen. “Well, I had to fall down, like, ten feet, for starters.”

“Frankly, it’s nothing short of a miracle that your vitals remain within normal boundaries and that you show no signs of illness or infection. You seem to be adjusting just fine, Miss Erin.” 

The notion awakens a train of thought in her brain that has her furrowing her brow. “That is surprisi—ah! Fucking ow! What the fuck? What did you just do to me?” She cradles her victimized shoulder, twisting away from Charon doe the second time in the past ten minutes. 

He pries her hand away and presses a circular bandage to the offending area. “Since your arrival here, I’ve been developing protective treatments against all of the most common sorts of pathogens. Your body didn’t seem to reject the treatment last time, so it’s safe to assume you harbour no inconvenient allergies, at the very least.” 

“I don’t remember a last time,” she says slowly, suspiciously. 

“I took the liberty of administering it to you while you were undergoing the drapion antivenom treatment.” 

She allows herself one more affronted glare at the notion of her rights being violated so flagrantly before huffing a resigned sigh. It was too early in the morning to hold a temper. “How kind of you to take care of me like that.”

“Naturally.” Immune to sarcasm, the old man continues to speak as he jots something down in his notes set across a nearby table. “Now, if I were able to replicate your particular phenomenon…and perhaps even patent the Interdimensional Traveler…” 

“You’d make millions.” The word patent is a sour wake-up call to the similarities between her reality and this one. “And that’s what it’s all about. Not the miracle of science, or whatever.”

Charon chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Isn’t it always?” 

“For the most part, your days will be spent assisting Commander Saturn.”

Erin’s face screws up involuntarily at the mention of the man. “What’s he in charge of?”

“He plays an integral role in keeping the Galactic Organization afloat,” Cyrus informs her, even as her expression remains doubtful. “Do not hold his brief lapse in judgement against him. I’m sure he will appreciate any help you can provide him.”

How terrifyingly vague. 

“Cyrus didn’t exactly tell me what we’re going to be doing,” Erin starts in as civil a tone as she can muster, staving the more paranoid assumptions of what this commander’s duties might be. “Care to explain?”

Saturn rolls his eyes. “What I’m going to be doing is acting as a glorified babysitter for you on top of all of my other duties. What you are going to do is keep up . ” 

This doesn’t address her concerns in the least. With how ready Cyrus was to threaten her with certain disposal should she prove an obstacle for them, Erin is half sure this place must be equipped with a morgue. And with how close Saturn’s attempt on her life had been, she is even more sure that he’d be in charge of it. Him or Charon!

A moment later, Saturn speaks up again. “Since Master Cyrus sees it fit to have you assist us, we have no choice but to tolerate each other for the few couple hours, so I’d wipe that look off your face if I were you.” 

Erin continues to watch him warily. “Last time we were alone together, you tried to kill me.” 

“I did not—“ Saturn cuts himself off, massaging his brow. “Fine! Keep quivering in fear for all I care. Just don’t say anything, and don’t slow me down.” 

“I am not quivering in fear,” she can’t help but rebut, offended. “I’m not scared of you.” Charon? Sure. Jupiter? Definitely. But Saturn? Fear doesn’t come close to describing what she’s feeling right now. 

Saturn chooses to ignore her, checking something on his clipboard before making a sharp left and stopping at the first door on the right. “Remember. Not a word.” 

He hands her a binder before pushing the door open. 

A mixed group of grunts and lab coat-donning operatives that Erin assumes must be part of the R&D department stand up from their seats at an elongate conference table, quick to salute Saturn. 

“Commander,” greets one lab coat. “I suppose it’s Tuesday again, isn’t it?” 

“Indeed.” Saturn breezes past the gaggle of nervous operatives to the whiteboard, scanning the charts that have been pinned against it cursorily. “What sort of progress have you made since last week?” 

None of the researchers seem very keen on speaking, their eyes flitting between Saturn, the board, and Erin, who is still standing at the doorway, binder in hand. 

Saturn seems to finally remember she’s there. “I suppose you haven’t formally met our new Subcommander yet. Why don’t you introduce yourself, Subcommander?”

She clears her throat awkwardly. “Oh, I’m Erin. I, uh…” 

After a few beats of silence, Saturn cuts in. “Right. Well, show me what you’ve got.” He nods at the same lab coat that greeted him, the presumed ‘leader’ of the group. The bespectacled man scrambles for a stack of papers on the table before launching into a shaky spiel. 

“Right, w-well, taking a look at our stock from the last quarter, w-we can assume that this uptick here may have been the result of Campaign B.”

“The campaign we ran on Sinnoh Now ,” Saturn states, looking to the lab coat for confirmation, which the scruffy man gives with a nod. 

Two sentences in and she’s already checked out. As the discussion continues, she gathers that these people are in charge of progressing Galactic’s business ventures, reminding her that Galactic in the games was both a team hellbent on the recreation of the world and a semi-legitimate business. 

Sadly, she knows little more about stocks and shares than line go up and line go down , and the part of her high school education that covered basic economic principles had been completely blotted out upon walking the stage. Without any other options, her gaze falls to the binder she’s been entrusted with. She cracks it open and immediately regrets it. Numbers upon numbers, spreadsheets upon spreadsheets, stuff beyond her wildest statistical nightmares. The little note she’d made of her ‘ Microsoft Excel experience’ on her resume is feeling mighty pathetic right about now. 

“Subcommander.” Saturn’s clipped voice shakes her out of her spiralling reverie. 

She looks up from the binder and notices the the stares of the whole room on her. Shifting uncomfortably, she meets Saturn’s eyes. 

“Since you seem to have nothing better to do, why don’t you make us all something to drink?” His tone is thinly veiled mockery, and Erin narrows her eyes.

“What?”

“Coffee,” he clarifies. 

Her jaw drops. “I am not your servant!” 

“You’re my subordinate, aren’t you?” 

Pushing down the urge to argue back once more, she swallows her pride and storms over to the door. She’s halted again by Saturn’s irritatingly smug voice.

“And where are you going?” 

“To the cafeteria to get you your goddamn coffee, Commander ,” she bites out through clenched teeth. 

Saturn quirks a brow and points at something to her left. Following the gesture, her eyes land on a small coffee machine tucked next to an array of labelled packets and stirring sticks in the corner of the project room. The workers of Team Galactic must be used to some long, tiring nights. 

Realizing that he was serious about not letting her slip out of his sight, she moodily changed course. 

Sure, Cyrus—and maybe even Jupiter—scare the ever-living hell out of her, but Saturn doesn’t command that same begrudging compliance—the insufferable man is barely any older than she is, and, for that matter, barely any taller, too! What right does he have to torment her after he’d nearly killed her once already? She isn’t about to surrender the last of her agency to this crummy organization! She didn’t somehow survive an interdimensional leap to be treated like this! As her wet glare settles on the condiments before her, the self-pitying internal monologue comes to a stop. 

Minutes later, she’s passing out cups of coffee to the members of the team in the room, and they fall silent as she mills about, seemingly just as bewildered at the turn of events as she was. One of researchers does timidly ask her for an extra cup of creamer, which she obliges with a derisive snort. 

“Your coffee,” she offers to Saturn finally, holding his glare with one of her own, challengingly. He narrows his eyes but seems too pleased with his little power play to question it further, and he takes the cup from her. 

“Don’t look so upset, Subcommander,” he comments as he does so. “Everyone does their part as members of Galactic, no matter how small. That includes you, now.” 

And then he nearly chokes as he takes his first sip of the offered drink. Erin can hardly suppress the grin that breaks out on her face as the commander coughs out the last of the coffee, an empty and crumpled salt packet hidden away in her hands.

“Mars and Jupiter are two of my finest field operatives. As their missions often take them away from HQ, you’ll be seeing less of them. Mars primarily handles reconnaissance, while Jupiter is responsible for training our operatives in battle.”

“You mean I won’t be getting any more training?” Erin frowns, fingers tracing along the clasp of the pokéball in her pocket. “What level is my gligar at, even? I mean, I’m supposed to be playing the role of a subcommander now, shouldn’t I be—“

“It is high enough.” Cyrus levels her with a stoic expression, but there’s something about the set of his brow that communicates a warning to her. “Yes, any Galactic subcommander must naturally have a pokémon to use, but there is no need for you to get any more involved in the fight yourself. Your contributions lie elsewhere, do they not?” 

Erin is far from stupid. She knows exactly what Cyrus was tacitly warning her against, but while she’s been strong-armed into cooperating with his ambitions, into putting up with barred windows and dirty glares in the lunchroom, into blindly accepting that the most dangerous person in this world is a man of his word, there’s a point where she has to step away and remember the realities of her situation. That remembrance makes her thumb tap the releasing button of Comet’s ball just a little more firmly, acutely feeling the way the ball shifts ever so slightly in response. She can almost feel his restlessness within.

The pokéball is heavy in her pocket as the last of Mars’s little legion finally passes her by, the redheaded commander marching past with a harsh knock of their shoulders, followed by a vicious sort of sneer.

Then the intercom screeches to life, the bubble pops, and she hurries down the halls before Cyrus can lose his temper with her. 

“You can take your seat at the desk here.” 

Erin shuffles in, eyeing the chair that has been specially positioned at one end of Cyrus’s desk for her with dread. Yet her inhibitory instincts are significantly dulled by the fact that she’s practically dead on her feet at this point with nothing but the adrenaline of anxiety to keep her going through her one last shift with the Galactic higher-ups. 

“I trust that the commanders treated you well on your first day of work. Charon’s tests weren’t too invasive, I hope.”

“Save for the surprise vaccination, no.” Erin shakes her head. “Doesn’t seem like your commanders are too big on my new job, though. Mars especially...” 

“Is that so?” Cyrus’s hands clasp behind his back. 

“Yeah, she, uh…shoved me.” She feels a little sheepish tattling to the boss like this, but something about his stare coaxes it out of her . 

The Galactic Boss’s reply is as clear and stoic as can be. “Mars can be somewhat hasty in her judgements, but she’s young. I’m sure she will come around in due time and retire from such juvenile antics.” 

Young, spoken as if Cyrus isn’t on the young side himself. She distantly remembers him being somewhere in his late twenties, putting her closer in age to Cyrus than to the protagonist she first experienced this world through all those years ago. Scary. 

“So how is this gonna work? You want me to just…talk?” 

The boss pulls out a thin manilla folder from one of the drawers of his desk and places it before her in a manner not unlike the way he’d presented her with her schedule this morning. God, it seems like ages ago now, she’s so exhausted. She thumbs through the contents, carefully watching Cyrus’s reaction from her peripheral vision, but what she sees inside catches her full attention. 

“Erin, do you know what this object is?” 

“I might,” she answers carefully. The focal point of the top photograph is a faultless sphere, sitting against other miscellaneous trinkets in the background. The sphere catches the light in the photo, revealing a pearl-like iridescence that seemed to not originate from its smooth surface but from deep within, somehow. It tickles her childhood memories and she struggles to separate one game from another. Not the Soul Dew, but something else…

Then the memories slot into place, aided by the context of exactly which game she’d fallen into. “The Lustrous Orb?” she tries, rewarded by Cyrus’s stoicism fading into approval. 

“Indeed,” he confirms, tipping the folder in her hands back a bit so they can both see from their opposing sides of the desk. “And do you know the significance of said Orb to our mission?” 

It’s starting to feel an awful lot like he isn’t so much interrogating her for new information as he is testing her to make sure what she says aligns with what he already knows. But far be it for her to flunk any sort of test, especially when her chances of getting her life back are on the line. “It’s associated with one of the legendary dragons. Palkia, I think.”

“How so?”

She blinks at the question, coming up blank. “I don’t really know,” she admits. “I think it boosts its stats.” 

“That is quite irrelevant,” Cyrus remarks grimly. 

The vague displeasure on the boss’s face strikes a pang of fear into her heart. How is she supposed to know the intricacies of how and why the orbs are connected to the dragons? The game hadn’t exactly been specific, and though she remembers some signature items having a forme-changing effect, she recalls no such mechanic for the Lustrous Orb in particular. Was this the kind of information Cyrus needed? And then, in a terrifying moment, the alternate possibility—is all her information useless, locked to the context of a video game as it is? What would that mean for their deal, if so? 

“All I know is that each of the dragons has its orb,” she adds, voice small. “This one is Palkia’s, but Dialga’s is totally different. Adamantiu—er, no, the Adamant Orb, I think. Honestly, I’m more familiar with Dialga’s side of things.”

“Why is that?”

Just like that, she finds herself awkwardly stumbling over an explanation of versions and version exclusives to the very antagonist of the games. “And I had the Diamond version.” 

The man across from her seems to be deep in thought, all traces of hostility and standoffishness completely gone. “You mean to say that in the stories you were told, you were presented with alternate timelines—alternate outcomes of the same event?” 

“I guess,” she mumbles. 

“How interesting.” He taps at the glass surface of his desk, which Erin suddenly realizes is glowing in turn with his touch—it’s a touchscreen keyboard of some sort. “The Adamant Orb, was it?” She nods, and he taps more rapidly. “Good, that will be all.” 

“That’s it?”

“You’ve done what I called upon you to do. I see little value in pushing you beyond your limits, not when you seem ready to collapse at any moment. I will have to speak to Charon about the potency of his immunizations in the future.” 

Come to think of it, she is rather more sweaty than usual, even taking the anxiety into account. And her chest feels kinda funny. But a lingering thread in her mind keeps her hovering at the door, reluctant to leave. 

Cyrus, missing nothing, meets her flighty gaze. “What is it?” 

“Your grunts. They seem…suspicious of me,” she offers. 

“They will not give you any trouble. I will make sure of that.”

“But…” They still won’t like me , an uneasy voice whispers in her mind. “Are you going to tell them about me?”

“What of you?” 

“Why I’m here. My actual role. I—I just don’t see why I have to keep up this, this facade of being part of the team when—” 

“You are part of Team Galactic. Whether you like it or not, the fact remains that you have joined us of your own volition.” His tone is absolute, snapping Erin’s jaw shut and silencing her unspoken protests about how the word volition is a bit generous in her situation. “I have been generous with my accommodations for you, but I did not extend such niceties to you just so you could tell me how to run my own organization. My people will know only exactly what is necessary for them to know in order for them to carry out Galactic’s goals, and nothing more. This is how an organized effort obtains success.” 

Cyrus steps out from behind his desk and strides over to her, prompting her to shrink into her jacket instinctively. “Moreover, you’re already perfectly aware of why I cannot divulge the truth behind our rationale to the operatives,” he murmurs, eyes narrowed. “And you remember the terms of our agreement, yes?” 

Erin nods. 

“Good.” She doesn’t notice the tautness in the man’s frame until it’s gone.  

“Hey, newbie.” 

Her blood runs a degree colder when the silky voice of Jupiter stops her in her tracks. I was so close, she thinks mournfully, staring at her room-slash-cell door just a few yards down the hall. 

The mahogany-haired commander’s heels click against the linoleum as she approaches. Steeling herself, Erin turns to face her, wondering what she’s in for. 

“Oh, relax. I don’t bite.” Jupiter sneers as she takes in Erin’s expression. “Seriously, you should see yourself. Jumping and twitching at everything like a wimpod . You were far more interesting when you were chattier. Why don’t you say something already?”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” Erin manages to mutter back. 

Jupiter, contrary to her expectations, seems thoroughly amused. “Much better. And no, thanks. Not in your shoes.” 

Erin glances at her loaned grey loafers, suddenly feeling a tad self-conscious. 

A momentary silence falls over the two as Erin waits for whatever it is Jupiter summoned her for. 

“Mars despises you, you know.” 

Jupiter surprises Erin by being the one to break the silence first, and with relative ease, at that. Memories of that first night at the Galactic HQ wherein Mars dangled the looming threat of death over her head come back to her. Erin can’t say she’s surprised, but the brazen confirmation still makes her stomach flip. 

The purple-haired commander sidles up to Erin, face unreadable. “She says Master Cyrus is wasting his time with you. If you ask me, Mars just can’t stand not being the centre of attention... the boss’s little pet, that one.” 

None of this comes as a shock to Erin, but between the venomous looks from Saturn and callous leers from Charon, her patience is running awfully thin. “What’s your point?” she asks warily. “Everyone here hates me. I know that already. Is it fun to watch me squirm?” 

The Galactic commander tips her head back in a chuckle. “On the contrary, I don’t hate you. Anybody that gets on Mars’s shitlist is good in my books. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all. And so…” She slips a hand into a hidden pocket in her jumpsuit and pulls out a G-branded card. “A gift to commemorate our newfound friendship. What say you?” 

Erin eyes the sleek black card carefully. It’s the approximate size and shape of an ordinary bank card, inconspicuous and discreet. “What is it?” 

“A Galactic key card, of course,” Jupiter drawls, twirling the card in her manicured fingers. “It’ll open almost any door for you in HQ, save for the ones reserved only for us commanders and Master Cyrus himself. You’ll still need clearance if you’re meaning to leave the building entirely, but I hear you’ve decided to become one of us, now, so there’ll be no need to worry about that anymore, right?” 

Catching the unspoken warning, Erin crosses her arms and tries her best to not look as interested in the Galactic key card as she is. “What’s the catch?” Someone as sly as Jupiter would never offer such a precious boon without expecting something in return, Erin just knows it. 

Jupiter’s cheeks rise with her smirk. In an act that dumbfounds Erin completely, she then pokes the tip of Erin’s nose, the smirk growing into a sick grin. “Aren’t you adorable? No catch. Consider it a welcoming gift, if you want.” She struts away coolly as though nothing had even happened. 

Stranger and stranger. It all makes her so very uneasy. 

The odd interaction weighs heavy on her mind still as she closes the door behind her and kicks off her loafers. The ensuing reunion with her bed is touching, emotional, and a bit soggy as Erin smears yawn-induced tears against her blanket. Freedom, at long last!

Well, so to speak.  

She can’t even remember a time when she was this wiped, this anxious, and this confused about what it is she’s even supposed to be doing. The dull ache of her shoulder has turned into a searing pain that flares whenever she so much as stretches her arm at a right angle, so she resigns herself to a one-armed evening and carefully shrugs off her jacket. 

She digs around in the pockets and releases Comet from his pokeball, giving him a chin scratch as soon as she’s able. The gligar, recognizing the space, flaps about delightedly, eventually latching its feet upon the bare rod extending across the width of the window—meant for curtains, but she had been granted no such luxuries—and dangling from it, upside-down. She regrets not letting him out sooner; being trapped in a pokéball all day can't be much better than her own living situation. 

Before she throws the jacket into a room corner, she takes out the card in the opposing pocket. Turning it around in her hands contemplatively, a vague unease makes itself known in her chest. 

Why did Jupiter give her this? Was she inviting trouble? Testing her, perhaps? Erin could think of nothing more in-line for Jupiter than an attempt to manipulate her into springing a trap on herself. 

After another moment, she digs out her smartphone, prying the top half of the case free and tucking the Galactic key card against the bare surface of the phone. Snapping it shut as quietly as she can so as not to wake the dozing bat at her window, she slips the phone back into the pocket of her sweatpants. 

It’s a small mercy that she’s been allowed to hold onto anything she brought with her, and it offers her just the slightest bit of comfort to feel the familiar weight of her phone in her pocket. She can nearly pretend, just as her consciousness fades away, that she’s back in her Scarborough apartment, just waiting for the day of her flight home to roll around.