Chapter One: Standing on the Tip of a Knife
"My good people."
Hundreds of journalists were huddled in front of a stage. Every one of them was trying to push the person ahead gracefully aside, so that
their microphone or camera could get a better view. It was something of a farce; every journalist there ultimately derived their pay from the same source. But the illusion of competing viewpoints was an important charade to keep alive.
The person they were all so eager to hear the opinion of was Evan Emerit. He wore a shiny, dark suit and a convincingly humble smile. His ebony hair was greying around the edges. "Just two hours ago, the former Voice resigned after an x-ray revealed that he has cancer. After serving Torcra for fifteen years, he shall sorely be missed."
Evan paused to take a breath. To allow it to sink in. Had gambling been legal, he would have been a stellar poker player; he had no tell. Most of all, his voice had that warm, compassionate quality that made him seem genuine.
"As a consequence of this, I have been elected the new Voice of Torcra. Like my predecessor, I will endeavour to provide the public with the truth. And in these times, truth is more important than anything. We stand on the brink of chaos, my friends." He leaned in – not like a car salesman, but like a grandfather providing a nugget of wisdom to his grandchild. Clasping his hands together, he continued, "As we know, there are those who are enemies of Torcra. Those who want to see it destroyed. I refer, of course, to the vicious attack on Cronine Tower less than a week ago."
The new Voice of the People paused again. That was his job title, which was far more palatable than what other reigns might have called him. "Minister of Propaganda" had such an ugly ring to it. But, of course, he was more than just a simple government minister. He had hit the ceiling of his career, being one of six joint leaders of the region.
An Oligarch.
"Five-thousand, seven-hundred and forty-one. Let nobody forget that number," he said, waving his finger aggressively. "Let that number ring throughout the region. It is the number of deaths that that terrorist attack caused. This, my friends, is the power of information. The power to know whom to trust, and the power to know who our enemies are. Those who oppose the new security regulations would do well to remember this. And this is the platform upon which I enter the office of the Voice."
A few miles away, a television broadcasting this message flicked off. A seventeen-year-old named Bevan rolled off his comfortable bed, scoffing at the television. "They sure like to eat it up," he muttered to himself. He shuffled lazily towards his ensuite. He splashed some water on his face, at least thankful that he could wake up at eleven o'clock.
He brought his face up, staring at himself in the mirror. He had a pale, skeletal face. His auburn hair sat in defiant scruffiness against his scalp, while his deep, tidal eyes stared distantly into his own face.
Casually, he noticed a note on the counter of the sink.
I'll be home from the press conference at two. Don't leave the house.
Some birthday, Bevan thought to himself. What made his blood rattle in his veins, however, was that his father had just been promoted up three stages in his career. On the upside, it would mean an even bigger house. Everything else was a downside. More guards. More rules. Most notably, the man that he'd spent his life loathing would succeed even more.
Suddenly, he noticed a flash of black in the mirror. Quickly, he turned around. Before he could call for help, a black glove was over his mouth and a syringe was in his neck. He felt a strange liquid entering his body, spreading over him as an incapacitating euphoria. "Have a nice trip, rich boy," a voice whispered behind the balaclava of his assailant. A goofy smile spread to Bevan's face, the assailant removed the syringe, and Bevan slumped peacefully to the ground.
Bevan could only vaguely make out what was happening next. He felt his hand being wrapped around the syringe, and then it being placed next to him. He could then vaguely make out the man pulling out a vial of liquid and walking into the bedroom. After that, all Bevan could see were the colours and sounds of his environment, igniting before his very eyes.
The next thing he knew, a bucket of cold water was being tossed over him.
"What?"
"I realise you're probably in a dazed state right now," said a disapproving voice. Bevan looked up, and with disgust, realised it was his father. "So let me break it down. One of the guards found you tripping on Juice."
Juice. A mildly expensive drug, concocted from the byproducts of Shuckle and Parasect.
"Juice? I was... high?"
Evan kneeled down. "You still are. Cold water can make you temporarily alert."
"I didn't... take drugs."
"Well, of course you don't remember doing it: there's amnesia associated with the drug. But that amnesia wouldn't wipe out your memory of acquiring it. Besides, a syringe was found next to you. Or, if you'd prefer, I could show you the footage of you stabbing yourself in the neck with it."
"Uh?" Bevan retorted.
"You and I have never gotten along well, and I know you're rebelling..."
"Oh cut the bull," said Bevan, sighing. He hated being talked down to. Even when a narcotic which he was sure that he never took was coursing through his brain.
"Fine," said Evan sternly. "You want to go down the route of blunt truth? Once again, I'm indulging you. Protecting you from your lack of sense. Your lack of tact, of decency, and basic morality. But I at least thought you were smart enough not to go shooting up drugs." Evan sighed. "I've protected you for too long. Your attitude would have you in jail if I didn't hold the kind of connections that I do."
"Gonna call – call the police?" Bevan dared, perhaps unwisely.
Evan sneered. "No. But when I move into the underground safe hold tomorrow, you're moving to military school." He leaned in, his nostrils flaring. "Do you feel me?"
Bevan poked his father's shoulder roughly, looking like a comical drunk. "Look here, man. I don't do drugs."
"Feeble, even for you," said Evan dismissively, rising again. "And, I'll leave you with that thought as the effects of the water wear off and you slip back into the drug-induced euphoria. And don't bother going into your bedroom to give yourself another hit; we've confiscated your stash."
Bevan felt like protesting, pointing out that there were no drugs in his room. But instead, all he could manage to do was sit back and let his eyes roll upwards.
* * * * * *
A light switched on, illuminating the dark room. A woman in her late teens with curly, chestnut hair sat across a steel table from a figure completely in black. She could vaguely make out a skeletal, white mask covering his face. It was featureless, except for two narrow slits allowing for eyesight.
"What the hell do you want?"
The masked man put his gloved hands together and leaned forward. "If I were a Spectre, I suppose I would want to have you executed. We know about your illegal activities. Keeping Pokémon. Trafficking arms. Vagrancy. But what makes me interested is your affiliation with a certain man."
He pulled out a photograph from his lap and placed it on the table. On it was a man in a black suit, gloves, a balaclava, and goggles, rigging an explosive. "Of course, I'm not a Spectre. But you knew that. And I suspect that you have an idea of what I want."
"My hand in marriage?"
"All the anti-interrogation techniques that you've been taught mean nothing. We've already got everything you know. Which is nothing of value, at least with regards to the organisation which you've been working for. The Knife is so good at keeping secrets that not even its own members know anything about it. Very cult-like, I would say. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
"So the rumours are true. He
can read minds."
"In most cases, you should give no credence to rumours. But that one is all real."
"But you haven't killed me yet. Which means you need me for something else."
The cloaked man stood. "When he looked beyond the secretive covers of your skull, he found something interesting. A quality in you that makes you, as a person, valuable." He circled the table.
"You are a psychopath."
The girl squinted. "I didn't hear 'murder' in your earlier list of crimes, you hack."
"A common misconception. A psychopath does not feel, except perhaps for frustration. He has no conscience, nor empathy. He sees people as tools, or playthings, to be manipulated; whether that means killing is purely a matter of preference. Many of them hide well, like you have, underneath a superficial layer of charm. Usually we can pick them up as high-flying members of government, and identify them as either useful or a threat. You picked the third option. You're both."
"So what do you need me for?"
"Very rarely do we get someone with this quality who is able to operate a Pokéball. Like I said, they opt for cushy and bureaucratic jobs. You had a rather unfortunate start to life, didn't you? Perhaps it was the years of abuse that did it, or perhaps you were born that way. I have to say, I don't care much how it happened. I do care what you can do for us."
"So you give me my Pokémon back and, what? I become one of you?"
"Rather rashly, we'd already confiscated and terminated your Pokémon before we had you looked at."
"What possible reason could you have for doing that?" The girl's eyes were steady. Unflinching.
"Pokémon have been known to break out of poorly-made street Pokéballs if they feel strongly enough about protecting their trainer. And after about a year of living under a trainer, they become largely useless to us. Besides, you'll take the route that all of us took. You go to a training academy. You get put on the fast-track for promotion as a Spectre. When you're ready, we fake your death, and teach you how to move things with your mind."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't. Your constant frustration with life is that you've had no control. You've always lived at the whim of the system. We're offering you a chance to be above it. To control others. To experience the thrill of having someone's life entirely at your discretion." As he said that, he placed his hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and whispered, "Like I have now."
"To bait me with honey..."
"...With a sting sitting in wait," said the interrogator, finishing her quote. "Funny how the good doctor's sayings end up on the street."
The girl peered into the slits in the man's mask. "I'll do it."
* * * * * *
"Are you crazy?"
A chestnut-haired teen turned around to face the dark figure that appeared in her mirror. Suit, gloves, balaclava, goggles. In her hotel room.
"I just came to remark on the irony that the psychopathy pill was actually used to
prevent a death. That and an amnesia pill. Are there any lasting side-effects?"
"You can marvel at the irony on your own time," the girl sneered. "Because of this plan, all of my Pokémon..."
"A necessary sacrifice," said the man, gathering from the glint of wetness in her eye that her emotions had returned. "And it wasn't like you didn't know. We had to do this, Charlotte. We had to get on the inside."
The girl named Charlotte lowered her eyes. "I... I guess I just wasn't ready for it. They'd been with me for years."
The man stepped closer and stroked her cheek affectionately. "You held them dear, Charlotte. It shows that you're still human. But you must hold your freedom more dear. When you begin valuing personal relationships above that... we all lose."
She turned her head to the side. "What do you want? You always have an angle."
"Information, actually," he replied, lowering his hand. "I've supplied for you the son of our new Voice. Bevan Emerit. He'll be joining you in the academy."
"What do you mean that you supplied him?"
"Daddy thinks he's on drugs." He chuckled quietly to himself. "I just need you to see if you can get anything useful out of him." He handed her a small photograph. "He's a recruit candidate, as well. Front-line stuff, probably."
As she took the photo, she asked, "What's the profile?"
"He's been friendless for the past ten years of his life, after his mother died. He's culminated his hatred in everything that his father embodies. Bullying, authority, and control, mainly. Don't get sarcastic or condescending with him, either."
Charlotte sighed. The profile was simple enough; all she had to do was appear compassionate and understanding. For her, at least, it wasn't entirely an act.
"Well, I should go, before someone sees us together," said the man. "They might get the wrong idea and think that I'm friends with a Spectre. I have a reputation to maintain."
Charlotte rolled her eyes, and in that temporary loss of focus, he was gone. She turned back to the mirror and sighed. She knew there was something more to her assignment of getting on the inside. There always was. No operative knew the full extent of what they were doing; they were simply small, blind chess pieces. And the player controlling it all was a madman.
"A brilliant madman," Charlotte reminded herself in a whisper.
