The Slowbro storage is out of the way in the North Wing. Not quite to the labs, not too close to the courtyard. The idiots are loud and the work ugly.

"Hold it steady, Dude," Freddie directs her Graveler, her four arms firmly placed on one of the Slowbro's back and arms, "if it tries to hit you with something just . . . teach it not to."

At the same time Rhys, her Rhydon, positions herself behind the pokemon. Wraps her two strong arms around its shell-clad tail and digs fingers into the biting mouth of the mutated Shellder gripping its flesh. Instantly the Slowbro begins to thrash around and make that low, lazy keening noise Freddie's failed to go deaf to over the hours of this work.

What they're doing is cruel, no question. The Slowbro will revert to a Slowpoke with a bit more trauma, but the process is painful and the Shellder won't fair as well without its host. Freddie can't say she feels good about it.

But she can stomach it. She's seen worse happen to her own pokemon. Her own men. Turning off her empathy for a wild thing unrelated to her in any way is easy in comparison.

"Come on Rhys, pull," she says, words heavy and breathy.

mission
@open

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