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cruel as she may be, absinthe is not stupid. to charge blindly into places when one can simply use their brain first is a fool's errand. as such, when she hears the cries of strange pokemon, she decides to first listen, and judge whether they are at all worth her time.[break][break]

absinthe decides to attempt to identify the pokémon from their cries.[break][break]

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outrunning past mistakes is a futile effort. they will always cling to the flesh and bone of the afflicted with the visco-grip of glue. to run only slows one down, allowing the bad decisions to accumulate like fall leaves and damp earth upon cold stone.[break][break]

one can only beat themselves up for so long. still, this comes as little comfort to the chemist.[break][break]

absinthe hopes cole is somehow at peace in the afterlife. hell, that is—if he deserves the mercy.[break][break]

absinthe's eyes do not waver from her companion as she speaks, even as evelyn hounds the dog with her dragonite. for years, she's believed evelyn dead to her. it only seems fair absinthe could learn of the woman evelyn has become—even through what seems a trivial squabble. after all, perhaps she killed the girl absinthe so loved to hate long ago. "filth?"[break][break]

the smirk drawn onto her lips, albeit hidden by her mask, tastes of copper. "oh, evelyn," she chuckles, a sound devoid of any mirth, "i'm already filthy."[break][break]

the inside of the sewer pipe is pitch dark, though that does nothing to dissuade absinthe from pressing on. she can already hear the rustling of rodent-like pests further inwards, and in truth, in places like these, sometimes feeling is more useful than seeing. absinthe need only reach her fingers forward to feel the brush of mangy fur or the wet twitch of a dank tail. vermin are creatures of grime, of filth, and now so too is she.[break][break]

it is only expected to see a creature within that rules the garbage as a king. a garbodor is silhouetted in the distance against light filtering down through the gaps of a sewer grate. with a flash of light, absinthe calls forth an almost pristine looking frosmoth—normal in every way besides the slight purple tinge to her scales, the way her feathered antennae end in toxic chains.[break][break]

evelyn may bother with the beautiful pokemon of life, but absinthe only feels at home amongst the trash. that's why the frosmoth goes forth and stun spores the garbodor. that's why absinthe throws an empty pokeball at the thing in turn.

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absinthe watches from a distance, perched carefully on a tree branch, her legs swinging listlessly below her. her eyes are hard and cold as she gazes at the garchomp and his less-than-graceful rider. she recognizes him instantly.[break][break]

it is josh devlin, a champion ranked trainer.[break][break]

he had been kind to her once, but that means nothing now. he is a high-profile target, after all, and his death would bring great honor to team rocket. more importantly, it would bring great honor to absinthe herself.[break][break]

a smirk pulls at the ruined flesh of her lips. he is alone, and he is vulnerable. it doesn't even seem like he has his best team with him. to her, it seems like a perfect crime scene.[break][break]

slowly, carefully, absinthe unhooks a pokeball from her belt. she presses the button and a beam of light bursts forth, materializing into a frosmoth, though there is a sickly purple pallor to her hue, and her antennae end in toxic chains. absinthe's very own poisonous weapon.[break][break]

"asbestos," the chemist murmurs. "blizzard."[break][break]

with a powerful beat of her wings, the frosmoth dutifully stirs the stagnant air into whipping, frigid winds. even worse, the snow itself is toxic—breathing it in is certain to be disastrous. absinthe cannot help but grin as she presses her gas mask closer to her face.

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absinthe considers lulu's clarification, nodding. "very well," she says finally. "anybody will do. but it would be helpful if you could find those who have already experienced lucid dreams."[break][break]

the chemist looks around her lab again, her eyes taking in the pristine machines and resources laid out before her, unblemished by failure and time. it's almost a shame to mar them with use. almost.[break][break]

she pauses, though, at lulu's question. slowly, absinthe leans against the nearest counter, her arms crossing over her chest. she's always liked to pace while she ponders over difficult questions. as such, she takes a few thoughtful steps forward.[break][break]

"to start, i need to study the brain both at rest and in the midst of a lucid dream," she says slowly, weighing her options carefully. "to lucid dream is a trainable skill. i would prefer my assistants train the test subjects in the art of it."[break][break]

the chemist taps her fingers against her upper arm as she ponders further. "when i know the structure of a lucid dream, i will know the parts of the brain that needs to be stimulated to induce the same circumstances. then, i can formulate the drug with that knowledge in mind. off a hunch, galantamine will form the base of this endeavor. acetylcholine may be a good crossroad to explore, but i believe serotonin could also yield fruitful results."[break][break]

absinthe finally glances up at lulu. "it'll take time," she warns. "but i intend to make that time worthwhile."[break][break]

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there is the faintest rustle of clothing as trypsin shifts, unseen, her scales barely glinting in the dim moonlight that dares pierce through the black canopy above. her beady eyes, much more adjusted to the darkness, narrow as she senses a warm body approach.[break][break]

absinthe can tell little of the nature of the potential victim, only that she desperately wants something to take out the fury of existence on.[break][break]

she thinks of the seviper around her neck, the power and pain she is able to cause with a flick of the wrist. she almost delights in it, in being able to bring death upon the so-called innocent. the thought consumes her. it maddens her. it blurs her vision.[break][break]

they are coming closer now. their steady footfalls are louder, the rustling of their clothes clearer. her hand rests on her scalpel's hilt, waiting.
and then, something in absinthe snaps. perhaps it is her newfound bloodlust, or the endless weeks of depression and spiraling insomnia. perhaps it is the erroneous way that she thinks with absolute certainty that she will get away with this, that nothing will stop her from continuing to carve a path through league bastards like a hot knife through butter.[break][break]

whatever it is, it spurs her on. the long, deadly knife leaves its sheath with the quiet whisper of metal on leather, glinting once in the moonlight. as quick and silent as death itself, the white-clad woman lunges from the shadows, her scalpel poised to strike like a cobra ready to sink its fangs into its prey.

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the ticking of time seems to slow to an agonizing crawl as absinthe stands amongst towering, scarred trees, her foot tapping impatiently against the dewy grass. she had chosen this meeting point for its seclusion, far away from the center of petalburg, if only because she was told that this particular delivery of supplies would necessitate discretion—a clear indicator to absinthe that the person involved is not of the rocket persuasion. the trees loom around her like silent guardians, their leaves rustling softly in the evening breeze.[break][break]

her gaze darts around the shadowy forest, searching for any sign of the delivery girl she had been promised. her irritation grows with each passing minute, threatening to boil over into a bitter rage.[break][break]

"i swear to arceus," she mutters under her breath, words muffled by the ever-present gas mask, "if this girl is late, there will be hell to pay."[break][break]

to whom? she's not certain.[break][break]

though, if she's honest, probably another poor prisoner. rocket has been too generous to her, to give her so many test subjects. it is a matter of time before absinthe begins using the wretches for her less savory experiments.

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the midnight air is like a thick, black curtain draped over route 102, a stifling darkness that would smother any light foolish enough to reveal itself. absinthe sweeps through the dense undergrowth with trypsin, her sleek seviper, coiled tightly around her shoulders like a living, breathing scarf. she is a diva, afterall, and divas do not crawl on their bellies like peasants. normally, absinthe would not tolerate such behavior. she makes an exception for one of her only companions.[break][break]

trypsin's tongue flicks out to taste the damp air, her beady eyes searching through the shadows for any sign of life. somewhere in the distance, a noctowl calls out into the night, and its cry echoes off the trees and drowns the silence in a momentary wave of sound.[break][break]

the familiar weight of her scalpel presses against absinthe's hip, a cruel reminder of the night's grim purpose. she can almost taste the tension that hangs in the air like a fog; the constant push and pull between team rocket and the league, each vying for control of petalburg and its surroundings, has been rapidly approaching a boiling point. tonight, she wants to ensure that she is useful, in whatever way possible. she craves blood.[break][break]

her breath comes slow and steady, collected in the confines of her ever present gas mask, creating a steady, low hiss as the air struggles to filter its way through the charred remains of her lungs. what she wouldn't give for one deep, clean breath. but she had been choking on the poisonous bile of grief and guilt for years, now. what difference does it make if her lungs were filled with toxins, too?[break][break]

nonetheless, absinthe keeps the mask. it has another purpose, a darker one. one only she and the only admin she can trust knows.[break][break]

a pitiful state of affairs. absinthe's fingertips itch. she will replace her need for clean air with a lust for blood. maybe, then, she will forget about everything else that falls down around her.

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route 102's towering trees extend into the sky like sickly green vertebrae, their branches interlocking and tangling into what feels like the skeleton of some giant, ancient beast. absinthe can't say that the feeling of being watched is a new one—tryptophan is always watching her, afterall— but there's a tension in her spine, carried through the brush of wind, that she's having trouble shaking off.[break][break]

this would be the time for a potential enemy attack, wouldn't it? god, what absinthe wouldn't give to see some pretentious, self-righteous league members try to invade rocket territory in search of any gain in a forever war. but perhaps that feeling is just a touch of paranoia talking, no more than the usual unhealed brain chemistry. after all, there is quite literally nobody around for miles.[break][break]

so absinthe thinks.[break][break]

as absinthe walks, her eternal watcher and most powerful weapon, a shiinotic named tryptophan, hops by her side, emitting a glow from the ends of its tendrils that spotlights the leaf litter in a diluted lilac hue. it keeps its large, round eyes locked onto absinthe, as it often does, perhaps only to make her insecure, to make her feel like a beautifly beneath a microscope. it has seen things that not even absinthe remembers.[break][break]

tryptophan unnerves her. it scares her. it reminds her of cole, and every terrible thing that happened at his hands. it is a reminder of the weakness that yet infects her, the memories of a man who likely didn't even love her.[break][break]

and yet it is the only thing in life she can trust, for tryptophan never changes. he only watches.[break][break]

that's why he joins her in the warfront. as a mirror. and as a weapon. absinthe shifts the gas mask on her face with a bitter twist of her lips.[break][break]

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