null moon

stale rosewater dead in when parted

“SILPH.”

a sharp leer peeks over the top of his monitor. the crescent furrow of his brow highlights the break of his concentration. the whole of his emotion is bottled into the pupil of his remaining eye. it spirals in place, challenging the voice.

‘who dares,’ it champions.

“your four o’clock, sir.”

“ah.”

the stare flatlines in an instant. dies in the pits of his own mind, cascaded under the rest of his countless responsibilities and he shuffles those items to the back of his mind. just another small snippet for him to forget and struggle to recall later in the night. when he’s alone. drowning in his own thoughts.

“thank you.”

the empty void of his expression comes alive when his screen dies. he sees his own reflection. weary and disfigured. bandaged by a black headband that covers his missing eye. a firm reminder that he can never be too careful. that the world conspires against him and it only takes one moment of weakness for it to take from him.

“i’ll be off then. let me know if PENELOPE LIVY reaches out.”

“yes sir. safe travels, sir!”



the rest is a blur. this little detour is a blue space in his calendar. a small snippet that labeled ‘package arrives’ with a check yes for attendance. who and what that entails is lost in his notes somewhere. floundering in the recess of an endless ocean. another magikarp swept up in the bustle of slateport’s never ending industry.

the soft lull of his company car coming to a stop rouses him from his slumber. he blinks. once. then twice when his hand fumbles over the scales of an invisible pokemon. just knowing his kecleon is by his side is enough to reorient himself despite the small blackout.

small drives like these are when he sleeps best. when he knows he’ll be forced to confront his next task before the nightmares resurface.

his only pocket of rest that goes uninterrupted.

without terror.



the door to his car opens before he can reach for it himself. his attendant outside swings it to a full 45 degrees. “we’ve arrived,” the chauffeur states, unnaturally robust in posture.

“indeed. i can take it from here.”

“sir,—”

“i said i can take it!”

the sharp blow of his demand dismisses further protest. the constant vigilance of those around him serve as a reminder that his own protection is inadequate. he’s become slow and unaware. feeble with age. complacent under the bureaucracy of his own pyrrhic victories.



fernando’s face is a specter that goes against the crowd. pale skin showered with countless hours of computer blue light glows against the dull black of his collar. his attire paints him with a funeral. lifeless and without personality. one drab of the black found among the nameless businessmen that fall under one uniform.

the only thing that sets him apart is his lack of concern. there is no rush or attention held in his expression. just an emptiness.

an entity with singular purpose: complete the next task.

he corners her upon his approach. she’s stayed too long to bid farewell to her home.

“fernando silph.”

a mistake. time to mourn her home can come later. when hoenn is done with her. when it has gnawed on her soul and swallowed her youth.

when she carries the same dread in her step.

when she has understood what makes fernando silph a silph.

[attr="class","spiralpee"]
claire agakura

null moon

stale rosewater dead in when parted

“AGAKURA.”

that is the extent of his acknowledgement. simple and plain. singular without the need for trimmings. because here, she is nothing. her family name buys her no clemency. for hoenn’s forces care little for prestige or money.

all that matters is power. the strength to survive. the tenacity to kill.

that will be her first lesson.

“no.”

she is here for a favor. no better than dirt, she has nothing to provide as is. that’s why they sent her. for her to be cleaned and sharpened. rang through the furnace until he molds her into something wieldable. they want her to be a weapon.

instead, he will make her his tool.

“this is what success looks like in hoenn.”

her hand comes close. too close. and she can see it in his eye. the way it dies. present but just as hollow as the orifice he covers.

“in due time, you will learn, those who are uninjured and untired are inconsequential or dead.”

he tongue clicks with judgement. that’s enough for her first lesson. oxford heels click as he looks to depart from the ship.

“there is no in-between.”

[attr="class","spiralpee"]
claire agakura

null moon

stale rosewater dead in when parted

THE DOOR TO THEIR CABIN CLOSES WITH A SHARP CLICK. the sounds of the outside world, the shuttering of their cameras, the chattering of gossip mongers, fails to exist here. they are shut off from them in the same way their social caste creates a border between ordinary and extraordinary.

her voice rings clear now that they have no disturbance.

the middle divide comes down at fernando’s request. inside, a bottle of brown liquor awaits for him to partake. a pair of crystal glasses sits in the container, one he puts into a cup holder as he pours himself a modest sip.

“because success is relative.”

he points the bottle’s open nozzle to her as a gesture of a question. will she drink up what he has to offer?

“those who live to tell the tale determine what is just. those who looked for another path are no longer here to tell their story.”

the smoothness of distilled liquor is equal only to their ride. the silence of their vehicle hides that they’re already in motion.

“the route exists but no one has made it out back in one piece.”

[attr="class","spiralpee"]
claire agakura