“I know, you’ve told me,” he said, patient and understanding. If there was any tension in his body at Alex’s recounting of his past hospital experiences it wasn’t directed at the man in question, but rather, at those who had left him, isolated and alone. If Memo was face to face with them, right now or ever, he’d deck them all, and then give them a chewing out that would make his abuelita proud.

“Baby.” It’s gentle, insistent, like a fishing hook, aiming to catch and draw Alex out from where he’s receding, the horrors he’s falling into. “You’re not going to be alone. I’m going to be there.” He presses gently along Alex’s collarbone like he’s a paper crane with seams that need strengthening.

“That’s part of why I want you to do this, Alex. Because now that I have you I’m not ever, ever going to let you go. You’re going to get sixteen to seventeen years and then another and another and another.”

He rolls himself up so they’re chest to chest, elbow planted in the bed by Alex’s right bicep, chin in his hands.

“If you don’t do it for yourself, do it for me, please,” he murmurs, unwilling to feel ashamed of the gentle manipulation, bright eyes scanning Alex’s, aiming to burn out all the cobwebs and shadows there.

He sort of just… detaches, from the meeting at large. It devolves into arguing and yelling and cheap shots and a whole roomfull of egos crammed together each trying to one-up each other. He realizes his points are going to be falling (mostly, not entirely, but mostly) on deaf ears, and it does seem like he and his team, such as they are (his, now), are going to be alone.

He gives Julia Davis a small smile. Not alone. They would have each other.

Everyone’s priorities lay elsewhere. Everyone’s opinions are varied. He shifts back, out of the meeting, out of himself, dissociating in a way he hasn’t had to do since he came to Hoenn. There’s a curl of dread in his gut, combined with the sort of sick satisfaction that comes from fine-tuning a survival skill that you hope you never have to use again.

Josh Dragomir keeps waggling the promise of equipment over their heads like a dog biscuit, expecting everyone to come to heel at the assurance of a shiny new toy. As though they’re all children.

It doesn’t work, unsurprisingly. But points to him for trying.

Someone leaves. Inconsequential.

Tensions are high. People are cursing. The Slateport crew wants to leave, apparently. Also inconsequential. Those with little importance reveal themselves in the brightest way.

Talia Celes says he’s right. Knock him over with a feather. He gives her the ghost of a smile.

He listens when Callan Young begins to fill them in on Primal Points. This is why they’re here, after all. “Heard.”

LANCE VOLLANS brings up the Petalburg v. Fortree thing again and Memo has to resign himself to realizing not everyone has the context. He’d wasted enough time harping on that point to no avail. “I’d rather not leave things to chance. Call me a worrier.” Maybe he was picking up more from Alexei Ivanov than he thought.

Then his cousin walks in. And it seems like he’s meant to calm everything down, but things only get worse, somehow. He makes brief eye-contact with Sénon Game to show that he’s not being ignored, then turns to Laurence Anderson as the Head Ranger speaks.

More preaching on unity and clarity (he’d already tried, it wasn’t new.)

(He was so far dissociated that he didn’t even realize Josh Devlin was talking about his Cyberchase Hell and when Lars asked for reports he visibly winced in pain.)

Lars quickly goes to work with orders and assigning units in particular directions. When it’s time for his instructions, he says again, “Heard, sir.” Because of course he’s going to do his best to protect everyone, why else would he be here?

He can feel Kaida Adachi bristling from across the room like she wants to jump the table and rip his throat out with her teeth. Sorry, Kaida.

Things heat up again. Like a pot of water constantly being moved on and off a lit burner. Someone else leaves. Inconsequential.

The councilwoman chimes in, in particular councilwoman fashion-- repeating known facts in a measured voice to sound important. Inconsequential.

You’re still here. Your body is still here. Don’t go too far. Don’t.

Then someone throws a fucking pie. It’s the vulgar woman from before (inconsequential). What a joke. A sickly smile crawls across his face, a feeling like relief-- not exactly, but close to it-- worming over his skin. Not my monkeys, not my circus.

He has to tamp down on a series of delirious giggles that threaten to spill over. Pinches his lips shut and breathes measuredly, trying to think of anything that’s the opposite of funny. Verb conjugations.

The councilwoman yells in a surprisingly un-councilwoman voice. It drives him closer to cracking. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.

This is fucking crazy.

“This is our lives, now,” he whispers hoarsely to annalise henderson , turning his shaky smile on her.

ollie morales chimes in and is trying to direct the meeting back towards productive rationalism. It seems like a losing battle.

“I think people are going to be panicked, no matter what,” he says, in response to the brunette’s theory about not needing evacuation. “I don’t want to rely on assumptions and then have it be too late.”

He looks at Lars, again. “Has the League tested this before? In a controlled setting? Would it be possible to see the reports, or run another test, to know what we’re jumping into, here?” His voice is calm and hollow.

Kaida looked at him and he cracked, a bit, but fell in the opposite direction. Instead of wanting to burst into insane laughter, he wanted to cry. Or puke. Or both. It was a mad dash to shove himself back out of his body, to float above it again.

Please, don’t, he shot back at her, mentally-- but obviously, she wasn’t a mind reader.

His name being mentioned is a knife at his throat. He can’t breathe. He has to breathe. He imagines the physical motion of hands pressing down on his lungs, forcing them to exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Kaida talks. He makes no attempts to include himself beyond the mention of his name.

Then, making good on his promise, Josh Dragomir gets up in front of everyone and dangles his shiny new toy in their face.

They’re neat. They’re very neat. What all they have to do with the situation at hand, Memo doesn’t really know, but they are, definitely, neat. He helps himself to a pair, body moving fluidly despite the numbness that’s settled into his very being. Funny how you can fall back into your habits. “Thanks,” he says to Josh.

He’s ready for the meeting to wrap up. He’s ready to get back home and… cry, maybe, he doesn’t really know. Probably not super great and tough and ideal, but, who gives a fuck. Maybe this wouldn’t have gone so ridiculously AWOL if more of them cried more often. His face falls into a mask of peace as he addresses Lars for a final time.

“We await your word on how, when, and where to set up the Primal Points, sir.”

[break][break]
75%

[attr="class","rigidtag"]Alexei Ivanov

[attr="class","rigidnotes"]

notes.

b-b-b-boss battle

[attr="class","rigidpokes"]

Despite his best efforts, he’d fallen asleep at Alex’s bedside. Eventually the pain in his neck from being hunched over had gotten to him, and he’d rested his cheek on the scratchy hospital blanket, and time had passed, and he’d slept.

He was slightly delirious, exhausted and emotionally strung out. He had a distant memory of someone moving him, but that may have been a dream. All he knew was, when he woke-- to a gentle but insistent tapping on the window, combined with a sort of squeak that sounded like a dog’s chew toy-- the bed was gone and he was curled up in a chair. His spine lit up with stiffness and pain as he uncurled, slow at first and then jumping up in panic.

The world spun; his chest tightened, and he took one step to run out into the hallway and demand to know what had happened-- but they would’ve woken him, right, if Alex died?

Fuck, he felt terrible. Mother fuck. He’d promised to be there for him and he’d fallen asleep.

He almost fell over, then, but he steadied himself enough to register that the insistant tapping noise (which had grown faster since he woke) was Zelle, pounding on the window. Memo tried to find the spark of happiness that usually accompanied his favorite of Alex’s Pokemon, but despite all his attempts, nothing took.

With numb legs, he crossed the room to the window. With numb fingers, he worked the crank to open it-- just enough for Zelle to get through, lest the whole flock get ideas and come rampaging in.

“Hi, baby girl,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and his throat felt coated in sandpaper, from the screaming and the crying and the throwing up. “It’s good to see you.” The words rang a little hollow.

He jerked a thumb towards the door leading out into the hallway.

“Let’s go find your mom.”

Alex went quiet for a long time and Memo absolutely knew his stomach was curdling with dread. It was the same feeling he, himself, got whenever he thought about returning home to Galar. Not even-- not even Spikemuth, just, the fucking region, as a whole.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, barely more than a whisper, a breath over Alex’s chest, “but it’s not going to be like any of the times it was before. Because I’ll be there. You won’t be alone.”

His fingers traced a trail over the outer curve of Alex’s ribs.

“But… this is important, honey. Your health is important. I would like you to at least do the consult. See what the doctors say.” He rubs a thumb over Alex’s sternum. “Who knows? It might not be as bad as you think. You have a way with worrying. It’s a gift, honestly.”