there's.

plenty of chairs there. is he just going to? well, alright. it wasn't that important. adele shakes their head, drawing the forms nearer to them. a passing glance and they already know it's just as bad as it was the last time that they'd seen it. the only difference was that they'd approved it on the assumption that it probably would've been fine to file away.

an intake report wasn't difficult and any supervisor certainly would've objected to its submission if it'd been anything less than the truth. rangers were awfully—well, obedient like that. an odd and eccentric bunch, but so was the rest of the league and they still put up with that.

"now, look here." flipping to another page, they direct his attention to the top-most box.

"what—pokemon is this? i took a few guesses, but i'd like to hear it from you." even the photo included was questionable, but they couldn't do anything about that.

SCOUT WILDER

maybe she was just callous.

that wasn't something to report. or an indication of any certainty of violence, but the situation puts them at odds with any rational thought: it would be their great luck to find themself surviving a hostile takeover only to end up face down in an alley. adele hardly registers it when the cubone scuttles out from behind its trainer(?) and cowers behind their legs.

the only sign that they knew was that their hand reaches instinctively downward to gently press to the skull it wears, its tears wetting the back of one of their legs.

if it offers any comfort, there's no indication.

in this situation, what were they supposed to do? ask for the pokeball, or offer to take it to the agency themself? drop it off at a pokecenter until someone came running looking for it? take it in? or return it to the girl once the cubone's weepiness has been abated?

then, she asks a question and it makes adele stop thinking altogether.

"what?" what kind of a question was that? they pause, uncertain as they watch her to see if she actually wanted an answer or if it was purely rhetorical. destitute, or abandoned? their chest tightens at the thought. not from sympathy, but from the thought that crosses their mind that adele had been abandoned and knowing that—

that it wasn't the case, and still it. still,

"destitute," because that they endeavored to think was something that could be fixed.

being abandoned could not be.

"why? what would you choose?"

cassidy

think of other things, adele.

you've gotten quite good at that. distracting yourself, thinking of things that must be done and things that cannot wait. it is easier. they won't turn around again. they won't be besides themself with what they think might be grief, or anger. there still lies a job, a responsibility. one that you've never cared for, a soft voice whispers in the back of their hand.

it's because you have nothing else, another says, and adele chews on their bottom lip. their nails rake along the soft part of their palm. a ghost grasps at the space that connects their skull to their neck.

things that matter. things that need to happen, things that will: they need to get people off this island and onto the ships. adele starts to walk in the direction of the beaches again. they need to evacuate. they need to call into headquarters and let people know. they dig crescent moons into their hand. they need to find those that don't already know. they can't afford to get distracted, they can't—you didn't care a pretty minute ago what went on, adele. their short walk ends.

something blooms in their chest and unfurls.

just the tiniest bit.

it aches: more parasite than flower.

you didn't—slowly, adele is face-to-face with someone that they loved. he's never spoken to them before. thumb swipes the space where their ring used to be. where their skin is just a little paler than the rest, they trace the phantom of a platinum band unconsciously. he looks older now. rail thin, sickly even. something in them laughs, that this would be the image that their mind spits out instead of a warmer face and a healthier disposition like the one they strove to see.

there is no future in which they would have thought then, or that they would have thought now, where christopher bishop would know how to take care of themself when adele was not looking. their arms cross over their chest, uncertain: "you look tired, kit."

kit bishop

the sound of the sirens is familiar.

it is more a memory than anything else. what they left behind, what they would leave behind? inconsequential. all things are replaceable. it is what they tell people as they join in the chorus of those with the league to redirect civilians to evacuate. some scream. some cry.

some ask them why it is that this is happening and the fervent answer is always the same: that this was the work of rocket, as though they had nothing to do with it. adele tactlessly counters: that they didn't know, that they didn't want to be in this situation again either.

those from hoenn look at them with contempt.

those from kanto look at them and understand.

adele watches from the shore as another fishing ship departs from the port. boats are few, but the people are plenty on this small island. some are residents. some are people who make the regular ferry ride to commute between the mainland and the space center. others are like them, passersby who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. as they watch some climb aboard the backs of sea-faring pokemon, they sigh with a quiet fondness—

fondness?

they don't know what to do with that.

maybe they don't need to do anything. a twitch of a smile. maybe they should think of leaving hoenn if the sight of an emergency is comforting. seeing these hapless residents look abound, wide-eyed and as terrified as they'd been. it's the scene from one of their bad tv dramas. adele watches a retreating back and sees themself in that stranger.

when they turn to look back, so too does adele.

and this is where the scene would be completed. where they'd find a stranger that isn't one. they shouldn't have looked again. they turn away. and now they haven't. he would be gone by the time they turned back.

that, too, is familiar.

kit bishop

was she.

was she not going to take it? mm, maybe they should’ve offered. it wasn’t as though they’d really drink two cups. maybe she was the type that needed an explicit invitation. “yeah?” adele mumbles, half-listening as they slide the second cup of coffee over towards their would-be coworker and signal with a light tap.

julian demassieux—sounded like a familiar name. that’d make sense. embassies rarely dealt with small names. maybe it’d crossed their desk a handful of times the past few years. they can’t put a face to it, though, so maybe they were just misremembering. were it that they took a little more pride in their work, adele might’ve been a little more impressed, but instead it comes out as:

“oh, kalosian. erm—”

they take a sip, then test out a few vowels.

even now, hoenn feels foreign on their tongue. the vowels don’t come out quite right and they never fully pronounce everything the whole way. words slur together, but it’s fluent enough to be understood by most ears. salvageable, except for when they’re not paying attention. “mm,” another experimental try before they finally land on a shoddily cobbled together: “enchanté, mademoiselle. je—parle? peu?”

cutting her off before she could even potentially reply, adele adds, “that’s pretty much all i remember from high school.” they take another sip.

a bittersweet attempt at trying to make polite conversation in lieu of leaving marilee to more of the same silence from before. they don’t remember ever being quite this inept, even as all evidence points to the contrary that they should’ve expected it.

not that she seems to notice, tripping over every thought from sheer nerves.

“but, if you don’t speak it, then uh. you know.” they quickly interject, “don’t report me to hr for a microaggression. please. they'll take my stapler.”

marilee beaufort

"that's—" creepy, "strange."

it comes out before they realize that it does. thinly veiled concern crosses their features as they second-guess the invitation inside. they'd heard about something like this happening before, probably. to one of their coworkers? was it better that at least it was with a vet than it was with a cadet finding an address from a registration?

still, they'd already made the offer though—albeit under duress of a particularly loud-mouthed chatot—and so adele steps aside, tucking themself behind the door to their lackluster apartment for him with a passing thought to text someone that they might not be in on monday if this encounter went sideways.

maybe they'd make the evening news.

though, these days, it might not even be a headline.

trailing behind him was luce, who was looking remarkably better than he had the day before.

the first sign should've been that his flippers were distressingly dry. all he'd needed in the end was a float pool, but it was probably for the best he'd gotten checked out anyway. they watch his slippery little feet pad along the carpet, trailing water in his wake. they'd been putting it off long enough that their previous vet had altogether given up on trying to contact adele.

their dentist too, now that they thought about it.

a relieved smile disappears as they shut the door and adele takes a passing glance in the direction of their kitchen at the question. it'd been meant as a thank you for you, but, "ah, well." 

they wring their hands as they shuffle towards the counter to examine the scorched remains. the smoke mostly cleared out. all that was left as a sign that there'd been anything at all was the flour still clinging to their fingertips and the remaining splatters of uncooked batter on the counter. "i was. baking. it, um. well." they tip the muffin tin in his direction for observation, rattling them inside of equally charred cupcake liners. any signs of the printed pikachus on surfboards were just—gone.

they clear their throat.

work to hide any embarrassment.

"i didn't know you made house calls, doctor."

his name, which he'd helpfully provided, is willfully disregarded in favor of dr. sawyer as their memory finally fills in the gaps from earlier in the day.

benji sawyer

it's not a remarkable talent.

in most people's eyes, it wouldn't be one.

in their line of work? maybe. adele veronesi is a secretary of little renown. the majority of their responsibilities fall to watching the comings and goings of league officials from the office. checking in when requisition files are handed over. making sure the i's were dotted and the t's crossed when they needed to document a new badge holder.

most forms came in typed.

others were drafted by hand. deciphering what that handwriting was, between the hasty scrawls of the elite that think the work beneath them and the stains from coffee or—well. pokemon, really—fell to them.

they don't ask for very much.

adele parses out what they can and files it, oftentimes without a word. this, though—they can't abide by. it'd been difficult enough to parse out the ' wilder ' from the rest of the name. they'd managed to pick that out with the right lighting and enough concentration.

but, the rest: they're hastily typing an email by the time the ranger arrives.

"ah, just—"

they think they have a chair. actually, maybe it's better that they just. another message is fired off and adele adjusts their fractured glasses. after a quick search of their files, they stand and gesture for scout to follow them to an open conference room. there was enough issues that needed addressing on fifty different cases that it might've merited a larger space.

it's once they get situated that they finally place their folders on the table and click their pen. black, to counter whatever color he'd settled on.

"could you hand me the first one? any of them."

SCOUT WILDER

the answer is satisfactory to the ranger at least.

adele breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as robin turns her attention to the rest of them: discerning, realistic and critical. they think of lavender. then, of running and fighting and screaming until it became futile. it led to the same path. survival and death are two sides on a split coin and they're privately grateful that she's sensible enough to know that.

to admit it to people that survival in it of itself is a victory, and that more than that does not need to be meted out in combat.

not sensible enough to call it for what it was, though.

arms cross over their chest, nails digging into their arms through the sleeves of their coat. self-defense, battling—they twist their fingers through the fabric. there's nothing wrong with the insistence, thereof. they know that. it was just an additional layer of protection in case things went wrong. there's no promise that the league would be attacked in the first place.

this was just a fabricated scenario. something to think about in the worst possible situation, where their daily monotony would be interrupted by terrorists and the same self-justified violence.

there was security, protocols in place.

but, they hadn't thought that kanto would've fallen either. they'd been hopeful hoenn wouldn't. now, they're being told that they might one day soon have to fight or run or hide again? to escape more cruelty that people like them have never invited? similar signs, similar signals.

( it's not her fault. they know who to blame, and even then; they won't. a centrist's position is cowardly. )

they pick at an unraveling thread.

"isn't that the point of you people?"

robin coello

at least, it isn’t a question of having a discerning palate. they could both agree on that at least. the order would’ve been objectionable to most people, even if it hadn’t been oddly—tasteless? sweet in all the wrong ways, and milky in a thousand and one others.

they thank their lucky stars that for all of his ill-tempered twists of fate with their drinks that at least he didn’t point blank throw the order at them. it'd been too long and way too convoluted for them to even think of actually enjoying at the inconvenience of others.

though, in which case, maybe they would’ve just been grateful it was iced.

if they hadn’t specified, they’re sure it would’ve come scalding hot. maybe. their eyes follow the barista as he retreats back behind the counter to follow the order to a t. probably. “you don’t actually have to—” make it, but the sentence trails off as they watch him bustle around to make it happen. they suppose that they still—paid for it.

that meant that they should get a drink equivalent to what they’d said, but.

adele frowns as they look at the drink on the counter, still just a short distance away. maybe they could pretend they just didn’t see it. after a beat, they quietly volunteer conversation: "it really—i would just be happy," another pause of uncertainty. "no, nevermind."

he's already made it. or, was making it. they'd just have to regret the purchase later and, then, maybe go to different place to actually get a cup.

( this too was part of this odd relationship. )

Blake Wright

tedium was—good.

they’ve heard plenty of arguments to the contrary. that normal is boring, and that they would sooner face some rampaging horde than meet life on its simplest terms. they’ve thought it, every now and again, that maybe it was the case that adele lacked the capacity for adventure. other days, when they watch those of higher rank trudge into the building with any number of injuries or missing limbs, that they may be the only sensible person that remains in ever grande.

nevermind, hoenn.

part of that normal is going home immediately after their time in the office concludes. it does not include attending work-sanctioned events that they have no interest in going to. all those invite are prying questions no one actually wants answers to, friendliness they don't care for and a unique vulnerability to showy drinks that places them in this kind of a situation:

they don’t know how they got up here.

all they know is that they can’t get down.

adele’d thoroughly exhausted all means of garnering attention from passersby. they’d thrown their shoes, their watch—their phone, and few had thought to look up. even more did, then hurriedly skittered away like roaches in the dim light. their chin rests against one of the branches, arms dangling uselessly as their feet position them on the trunk, looking more slakoth than they do person. “hellloooooo? helloooo? hello! hello! hell-o! hellooooooOOoO—” their throat hurts.

the leaves rustle as they smack their face into the tree limb, defeated. their voice is hoarse from yelling.

“hello? hello? hello? hello!”

PENELOPE LIVY

it's—difficult, sometimes.

adele attempts to retrieve their hand just as emma catches them by the wrist, fills the space between and goes just a step too far for them to be comfortable. slender digits fall slack against the palm of their hand. chipped nails are mismatched against hers, primly manicured and clean where their own hands are riddled with anxieties. they invite it, sometimes.

their hand flexes involuntarily.

the attention.

all rational thought tells them that they shouldn't indulge it. it invites more trouble than it's worth.

she's been patently clear about her interest, and they are not so young as to think that they're anything more than a passing conquest.

in some ways, that's—fun.

it's attention that is handed out freely, but never expected in turn. nor is it ever expected in complete sincerity. if it's that, then adele is happy to mimic the part of a hard-won love interest. it's a way to pass time for them both. that's where the line is drawn. they draw it again by wriggling their wrist free of her. amusement exits stage left, and they look to the window. the wall. the door behind her. anything, to let her know that this is as far as their indulgences will allow for today. they draw their hands closer to themself.

( it keeps her around longer some days. some days, it chases her away. they haven't decided which they'd prefer. they would, if she knew her place. )

this would be infinite, too: "enjoyed your stay?"

emma stone

"i didn't interrupt some very important business, did i?"

a snort comes out involuntarily as they watch as the adhesive on a sticky note slowly peel itself off of his cheek. at least he does them the great favor of removing the vaguest twitch of guilt in the asking by having not been—well, doing anything of great significance. there'd been plenty of times before that they'd found themselves making a tense conversation worse just by arriving to deliver a note or coffee on a late night.

there'd been plenty of other times, when adele found themself wondering whether or not any of some of these league officers were very much aware of the place that they were—cavorting? they sound like a grandmother—in.

"adele, right."

a polite, but tense smile. "hi," as their eyes follow his to the window.

don't tell them that adone'd been here and said something equally compromising.

thoughts rake over the farthest reaches of their memory, but lands on nothing that they think they might've said about him that would've come across as strange. warnings, at best, for adone to not invite himself into any more trouble than he already did. reminders to be polite if given a treat, even though they knew anything that they said went well and over that chatot's pea-sized brain.

"huh?" oh, they'd missed it.

"i'm sorry; he was here?" adele parrots back. "and he left, with?" their mouth falls open. then shut. then open again. a newfound urgency replaces any pause for friendliness. two chatots? equally loud-mouthed birds, entirely too likely to mimic each other? without any supervision? with their thoughts? "we need to find them. right now." a pause. rewind. "i—" no, we is presumptuous. they only meant to ask—"ah, i'll need to excuse myself. mr. logan."

request is already forgotten, and adele hastens down the hall without remembering to at least close the door.

lam logan

bless her heart, she was trying.

it might've been condescending to say out loud. maybe they should've asked to borrow someone else's. their hand falls aback, resting at the space between their shoulder and their neck as robin works to find another reason. any reason to let this charade go on. "um, would it be easier for me to just—" adele vaguely gestures between themself and the crowd of on-lookers, who were equal parts entertained by the clumsiness of the presentation and irritated to see how long it was going on because they'd been less than helpful.

"a? heist?"

the corners of their lips twitch. "that's not really," what anyone here's actually worried about. "you're joking." they didn't put a lot of stock in any of the security around. but, between the league proper and the able trainers that were, the implication here is that they were worried that some rank-and-file were going to be subject to—what? thugs that were going to come in and crack their heads on the tile? they bite their tongue harder.

everyone's just—

it's not her fault, a voice gently reminds.

but, this is just the problem with everything, another balks, and their lips press into a tight seam. no one ever tells them anything until it happens. so, no one takes it seriously until they're staring dead-eyed at the five o'clock news, trying to figure out where the hell that they're supposed to run or if it's just another catastrophe they need to avert their attention from for peace of mind.

their gaze flicks away. hand ruffles through their hair. don't ask the question you actually want to. "um, i don't know. punch them. find the heaviest thing i can grab and hit them with it." sure. why not. "run?"

robin coello