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it is good that evelyn's dragonite is as bloodthirsty and as hungry for violence as the woman that commands it. their monsters are extensions of themselves—massive flying beast craving for destruction, massive heart hunting for some glimmer of fulfillment, remnants of a pregnant chemist clinging to the corpse of her rotten, murdered heart. while the dragonite is engrossed in a brawl, absinthe is losing herself in memories, flooded with the pain of the past and the reality of the present.[break][break]

evelyn is the second person to know what lies beneath the mask. howard slayte was the first, but absinthe did not show him her face because of a wealth of trust or compassion—rather, as an explanation for why she is broken, why she shattered at the power spot. absinthe doesn't know why, but she shows evelyn her face because she wants to.[break][break]

to absinthe's surprise, when evelyn draws close, absinthe doesn't instinctively flinch away. her rational mind, mired with distrust and paranoia, seems paralyzed by the tenderness that flows between the two women—the desolate void in absinthe's chest shimmering weakly with warmth. so, rather than snapping back with cruel words, absinthe finds herself paralyzed as evelyn's fingertips graze against the mangled remains of her mouth.[break][break]

a muscle jumps in her jaw. "misery loves company," she rasps, but there is no maliciousness to her tone, nor any vitriol to her words. instead, it is almost a tired sort of question, or perhaps a statement of resignation, a weak inquiry into this soft connection they are somehow still nursing. the phrase is painful, and true. no one else could understand her pain as intimately as evelyn could, and yet no one else could possibly realize this understanding. it doesn't make her burdens lighter. absinthe could never allow such a thing to happen. she only knows how to lose herself in the torture that life has made for her, at least for now.[break][break]

she hesitates, then, on impulse, reaches up to evelyn's cheek, gently pressing her gloved thumb to the delicate skin there. even now, absinthe is barely cognizant of the fact that she is allowing herself to entertain such foolish thoughts. she, cruel and distant as she is, does not know how to love. but there is a painful familiarity to this tenderness—a reminder of the life she used to have, the friendships she used to keep. "it's almost worse," she muses, "knowing i'm still capable of such things."[break][break]

knowing she still has enough humanity for it to be worth killing.[break][break]

her hand falls away from evelyn's face, and she busies herself with smoothing out her coat, if only to have a moment to make sense of her thoughts. she could draw evelyn into her schemes of revenge against the government, offer her a place at her side. they could burn everything that has wronged them together.[break][break]

"if you wanted to forget all of this, you could walk away and never see me again," she says quietly. "but if you don't... i want to burn down the world with you. the world hasn't seen the last of me. and if you want your revenge, it won't see the last of you, either."

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the whoosh of wind is the most menacing thing she's ever heard.absinthe is receding far into the background, fleeing, running like a coward from the champion that she cannot seem to touch. but as the gas is compressed above her, absinthe knows that she will not get far.[break][break]

and so, she kneels, still slightly obscured by the black smoke. she will not let her final moments be like this. absinthe blackwood will not die in this death far below her. "flame-" she starts. the intention is to call out for FLAMETHROWER.[break][break]

but the further calls are cut off in her throat. fire is from darkness, turned to pure hatred. a star alone in the dark sky, engorging all and swallowing the void, is very quickly thrown from the jaws of a salazzle. It reaches out like the arms of an eldritch beast and strikes towards josh and his steed. it seeks to burn all in its path, and to reach for the sky as if its immediate purpose is to reach to the ends of the earth and spread. if it catches flesh, skin, bone, grass, insect or beast, it will all be reduced to ash in moments.[break][break]

the face of absinthe burns, too close to the flame, ruined by heat. red, scaly and glazed with the sheen of fire-red burns, as blood vessels pop and begin to surface across the ruined wasteland of dead skin. her body seizes with pain, but to her credit she does not cry out.[break][break]

and it must reach an apex. let the treeline now behind josh burn in a display of pyrotechnics that the nature of her heart demands as the grand finale before the end. burn the world in revenge for her failure. let hell be the end for those unworthy.[break][break]

"i hope we burn together," she spits out with the blood that drips from her mouth. "i hope we're swallowed into hell."

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there had been the inkling, though perhaps not much more, that evelyn had forgotten her—too consumed in some delight or drink to realize absinthe had been left behind. that, or evelyn enjoyed the parties she took the woman to, and simply trusted absinthe enough to leave her to her own devices. it occurs to absinthe how little she cares either way; if she is being completely honest, the ball will be little more than a mosquito bite in her memory. less infuriating than a team rocket meeting, but more drawn-out, duller.[break][break]

masquerades, with their sultry looks and sly promises, inspire conspiracies. hushed words can be hidden with little more than a breath of silk over glass; skin gives way to silk, truth to lies. evelyn lies like she breathes, and flirts like most people walk. it seems less out of place here than most venues.[break][break]

all the black-garbed absinthe has to do is occupy the corner.[break][break]

and yet, here she is, communing with the eerie company that has crawled out from the halls. there has been dancing, display, discussion—rabble, in comparison to her work. and now, with the way the room seemes to almost tremble, it wis so much more than it appears to be. and, holy hell, how does evelyn manage to look even more radiant than she usually does?[break][break]

"fine, it looks fine." is all absinthe says about her own dress, almost curt with how firm the sentence comes to a close—it seems she is a stranger to both compliments and looking as if she actually put effort into her appearance. "you're one to talk, evelyn. it looks like you belong here." and she does: fairy queen, enchantress, it all seems to suit the vespertine woman's whims. she's very good at looking like she belongs places.[break][break]

in a moment, absinthe both envies and admires her, and then kills the thought.[break][break]

as for the prior proceedings, absinthe absentmindedly swirls her glass with a shrug, the model of a woman uninterested in the shenanigans of her oddly buffoon-like superior. has he always been so... weird? "nothing good," she says dryly. at least, not that she's been privy to. "a few distractions. a man hiding under the table. the usual. i'm expecting you to bring the excitement tonight, evelyn. show me a good time."[break][break]

a challenge hangs heavy in her voice. absinthe has never enjoyed a party, not even once. though she would never admit, she hopes that evelyn may break the cycle.

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makoto may already be aware of the answer to their question but it's absinthe's duty as the scientist to enlighten them further. the computer like device has a slot wherein a flash drive can be connected directly to the harddrive so that files may be downloaded easily for review, and absinthe goes about doing so.[break][break]

"when you did the fusion process, i believe it generated an intense metaphysical force, one capable of bodily altering your genome," absinthe explains with a studied drawl as her hand works the mouse deftly, skimming through visualizations of the genetic readout: sets of g-banded chromosomes stand out against stark black backgrounds with little notes of overlaid texts indicating their allelic frequencies, which stand out to absinthe like little flares—surely, though, without a chemist's education, makoto would have a hard time understanding the minutiae of it.[break][break]

as such, absinthe explains.[break][break]

"it's unclear how much alteration has occurred, but i can confirm that your cells, makoto, seem to be producing .8 percent of non-human dna that looks similar to erebus' dna—enough to indicate some form of permanent alteration." her eyes flit up from the screen to the young person standing before her. as the only evidence of such extreme cases have been clinical evidence performed during intensely immoral moments of Team Rocket's experimental background, absinthe knows little of how to proceed.[break][break]

"i've never seen anything like it," she comments, and lets that hang in the air for a moment before pressing onward. "first of all, it hasn't adversely affected either of your genomes, despite how concerning it may sound. as long as they don't exponentially increase or cause illness or pain, there's no reason why you or your pokemon should have a problem adapting." absinthe's voice is softer than usual.[break][break]

this is all she can offer them. the evidence and resources she has at hand are frighteningly sparse, almost insultingly so for such a powerful process, but if anything her immediate reaction should've been fear. and yet for some reason it is excitement that rules her head, an innate curiosity concerning the alterations that the team rocket member has unwittingly stumbled into.[break][break]

"i think you will be fine. if you'd like, though... i can continue screening you for any concerning changes over the next months."

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her jaw clenches beneath her mask as she watches the man step back from her lunge, leaving her stabbing uselessly at empty air. she doesn't need to see his face to know the wide-eyed expression of pity she'd receive. it was the same look she had gotten after cole's death, when everybody whispered about how they thought that she did it. typsin recoils from the pikachu as the disarming voice comes out, and it returns to coil around absinthe's feet, who herself cringes at the grating noise.[break][break]

anger flares, hot and bright.[break][break]

"talk?" she says, and sweeps her scalpel in a wide arc to place it between them as she shifts her stance. the hell did they have to talk about? "you don't know me. you don't know what i want."[break][break]

something broils just beneath the surface. i don't need your words. your salvation is lined with thorns.[break][break]

absinthe chokes out a laugh, cold and broken. "you don't know anything about me," she repeats again, quieter, and her grip tightens around her scalpel as her voice drops to a low hiss. "choke on your fucking pity."[break][break]

she doesn't want him to see her for what she is. she doesn't want him to see her like this, a broken mess, lashing out to reclaim some control over her miserable existence. the same person who sits slumped over the bar in the early hours of the morning, straining to remember why.[break][break]

absinthe has too much to hide. anger coils like her snakes, demanding her to attack.[break][break]

beneath her mask, absinthe's teeth grind together as she stalks towards the man again, eyes flicking to his pokemon. the pikachu. beside her, trypsin slithers closer, eyes gleaming with malevolent anticipation.[break][break]

a moment passes, and then both absinthe and her pokemon lunge at ollie, trypsin aiming POISON JAB at his abdomen, absinthe aiming her scalpel at whatever pound of flesh she can find purchase on. in this moment, she resembles a caged animal more than she resembles a woman—gnawing at the bars of her cage, so beaten by the world that she is desperate to feel something, anything, even if it means staining her hands red for the rest of her pitiful existence.

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through the curve of her mask, held tight against the burn that will never heal, comes spittle as thin and caustic as vitriol. something about absinthe abandoning her own pride bruises her with such intensity that, underneath a stoic face, something comes loose.[break][break]

to be in the presence of something eternal makes her heart go still. her exhalations chill against her collarbone.[break][break]

does absinthe envy her? does she envy the way pain rolls right off of freya's shoulders? the way it leaves absinthe irreparably scarred and begging for mercy while freya seems freed by it? is absinthe horrified? is she struck by the knowledge that this woman, this spirit, is made of better material than her?[break][break]

or is absinthe heartbroken, like she feels buried alive?[break][break]

it is seldom heard, but absinthe laughs.[break][break]

the first rumble gives her a moment's pause as she braces herself against a particularly solid tree trunk and sucks shallowly at her mask filter. at once, there is wet heat rolling off of her tongue like breath on a winter's night, but it is fast. she doesn't have time to react before being pelted with debris, unable to dodge the assault. heavy bark chunks tumble down around her, and suddenly the trunk explodes in a sonic shockwave of humid sapphire forest fire.[break][break]

steam fills her lungs in an automatic scream as something dull collides with her cheek and she staggers, coat singed black at the edges, lungs trembling and swelling at the shock of more air than she's used to, muscles spasming with ghost pain half-remembered. her peripherals are obliterated by streaking colors and screeching breaths. nothing she does works. she's dead meat from the start.[break][break]

tryptophan runs towards the hill. further confrontation is foolish; faced with the prospect of divine wrath, her mind blanks with well-earned deer-in-headlights fear. she hasn't fought someone with her life on the line like this for years, never like this, god—never like this. the adrenaline drains from her bloodstream all at once; she feels like pulp. panic pools sour in her mouth.[break][break]

another fell hiss. hordes of meteors tear a hole in the ground a millimeter from absinthe's thigh, just enough to launch her upwards knock her to her knees, which sends the long end of the narrow snapping off into the earthwound made by a meteor.[break][break]

...is she going to die like this? is it finally over? or will they let her rot? will they make her kill herself so they won't have to do it themselves?[break][break]

she is ready to accept her fate when tiny arms push absinthe and roll her away from the field designated as the divine's apocalypse ground. in the process of being adjusted, absinthe looks up and sees tryptophan, arms raised, staring at her. he had pushed her right from the path of an incoming meteor.[break][break]

tryptophan is summarily knocked unconscious. absinthe, brushing up against a near death-experience stares for a moment at the forlorn expression of the devil, and then her face hardens. the goddamn idiot. he mocks her. he watches her suffer. he reminds her of a time that is no longer hers. and then, in her moment of greatest need, he saves her.[break][break]

she hates him, more than anything.[break][break]

nonetheless, she gets up, she recalls the shiinotic, and she releases something new. a crobat materializes in a flash of light as absinthe once more begins shambling for any shelter she can find. the crobat opens its mouth, and a bright barrel of light begins to pool on its tongue. a moment passes, and then HYPER BEAM releases towards rayquaza with a righteous burst.

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evelyn, though she tries to hide it, is an open book. a world of hurt pains her heart, mars her pretty face with sorrow. they share the indignity of betrayal; the burden of ghosts of lovers past. evelyn has borne a child into this cruel world, and absinthe... absinthe has lost hers before they even had a chance to breathe.[break][break]

it's funny, really. absinthe understands. she, too, has joined team rocket out of necessity, for resources. to find closure. to satiate a fickle thirst for vengeance. maybe that's the biggest tragedy of all—so much pain breeding such... emptiness. that all they have left is schemes of revenge and petty loyalties to corrupt syndicates.[break][break]

she is under no illusion that team rocket is anything but filth. and still.[break][break]

there is nothing she won't do for power. the world made her this way.[break][break]

the irony is so bitter, absinthe can practically taste it on her tongue.[break][break]

she says nothing. there is nothing to say. no condolences to offer that won't seem trite or rehearsed. the past is the past. now, all they have is what's in front of them. hopefully, soon, they will be stronger than ever.[break][break]

absinthe tips her head to evelyn in appreciation of her honesty, then answers the question in kind. "i lost my husband and i lost my child. i want to destroy everybody that associates with the filth that orchestrated it." her eyes are distant and hard. "rocket gives me the resources to make that happen."[break][break]

no point in dancing around it.[break][break]

part of her wants to offer evelyn a place in her research, should the other chemist find herself in need of direction. but even the suggestion feels too personal, like it would break some unspoken boundary. they're little more than strangers now, after all. but maybe... they could be close again.[break][break]

absinthe reaches into her coat and pulls out a flask, and her other hand unclasps the eternal mask from her face. beneath the mask, evelyn might see the curve of her jaw, once hidden, now borne for the world to see—a twisted mass of mangled flesh and scar tissue, so grotesque it is nigh horrifying, rendering absinthe the model of a burn victim from the nose below. she takes a long swig of the flash, and then she recaps the flask, replaces it in her coat, and returns the mask to her mouth. she glances back at evelyn and searches the other woman's eyes, seeking to know if the other woman realizes that absinthe has just forfeited a part of her private life. that she is being... vulnerable.

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absinthe raises an arm to shield her face, her mask's filters clogging with sleep powder as the spores fly back towards her in the harsh wind provided by the pidgeot's wings. she can feel her skin crawl with revulsion as her fingers brush against the surface of the device that obscures her disfigurement, the memory of how she came to need the mask haunting her. in some ways, the mask is a blessing in disguise. all it does is serve as a reminder that she is not abby, and that abby is not her.[break][break]

her only regret in getting rid of cole, she realizes with a startling lucidity as the shiinotic wobbles on its tiny legs, is that she did not do it herself. if only it was her poison that coursed through cole's veins, she would have at least felt something from it. she feels nothing as her pokemon tumbles through the air. with an intense burst of pity, it hits a tree and crumples to the ground. she recalls it immediately. perhaps tryptophan will provide the poison for her, for whatever conclusion she comes to.[break][break]

she knows now that taking on the champion by herself is impossible. she sends out her salazzle with trembling fingers. let feralys take her last breaths in a blazing display of passion, she decides. let it end like this. the salazzle emerges from its pokeball gracefully, but absinthe looks away.[break][break]

in the last moment, she does not hesitate to secure her own safety. she cannot swallow the world if she does not live to see tomorrow. absinthe prepares to leap from the tree. she commands for a smog.[break][break]

"smog!" she shrieks out, the ire of a rabid wild animal.[break][break]

her salazzle cannot reach josh. her salazzle does not try. toxic gas emerges from her maw in pillows of obscuring darkness. in the midst of the smog, absinthe leaps from the branch, lands to the ground in a roll, and makes a mad dash for a gap in the trees.

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most days, absinthe wouldn't have given a second thought about having the snake pit evacuated of patrons. such a directive would be reserved only for team rocket's highest echelon members who would bask in their shared domination. however, for the first time in a long time, absinthe did not recognize the name that she had been given by her higher ups, and rocket had been stingy in giving any details about her guest. amaretta irwin.[break][break]

the dim lightning casts sharp shadows across the bar's weathered counter as absinthe cleans it in wide sweeping motions, wrangling glasses to give the sense that she is simply doing her job. she eyes the large double doors to the snake pit with tension in her sharp green eyes. it would be sensible to appear nonchalant for whoever this allegra burns was, to show she was unperturbed by power and capable of shrouding her darkest curiosities. only her tremoring hands betray her otherwise impenetrable facade. a faded, old grand piano glints at her from a dingy corner of the building.[break][break]

absinthe's fingers hover near her revolver hidden on the shelf below the bar, loaded and a hairsbreadth from reach. the lack of information about this impending arrival unnerves her to a maddening degree. out of habit, she glances to the corner of the bar where a tall, dark figure with piercing black eyes stands sentinel. tryptophan, her shiinotic. the irony that this particular pokémon is able to arouse more fear in absinthe than any rocket grunt would be endearing if she didn't have more important matters to attend to.[break][break]

she hates how it watches her.[break][break]

as the door to the snake pit creaks open, absinthe takes a shaky breath and busies herself with filling a shot glass with an amber liquid, maintaining the appearance of a barmaid waiting on her VIP. what an odd day.

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13.5cm custom insulated steel briefcases lay stacked one on top of the other like playing cards in front of her, deadbolted to the surface of the bar table with thick padlocks and corner-clamps so as to prevent anyone not strong enough to bench 40 kilograms from walking away with them. they sit beneath the fog of tragedy that hangs low in the snake pit. post-rush hour finds the other seats at the bar vacated and the last patron scurrying off into the night with whatever remaining loose change he didn't spend on drinks. the bronzed glow of the orange-black neons cast shadows off of her severe and square-angled facial structure, making the harsh contours seem borderline cadaverous in their rigidness, while in her hand she's pouring over patient records she absolutely should not have possession of.[break][break]

whenever she grows bored of the inner machinations of people's private lives, she amuses herself by rotating the vials around each other in their neatly labeled rows, watching the chemicals separate and tumble over one another inside their sloshy chambers. acetone. sulfuric acid. batrachotoxin. like colored test tubes inside a child's chemistry kit.[break][break]

time ticks over to half past eleven, and she slides a magnifying glass one aisle over on a medical chart with her off-hand while tapping a rhythm into the bar-top with her other hand. there is a hand off to be done with one calliope this evening, the contents of the briefcases, and absinthe finds herself salivating over the idea of testing something... new on the woman.[break][break]

of course, if only she arrives.

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absinthe snatches the briefcase from the girl's hands as soon as it is offered, her movements efficient and economical. for a moment, she simply stares at the black rectangle, scarcely able to believe that it is finally here, in her hands, after a week of planning, after far too many dead ends and endless nights spent slaving over her lab bench. though it also contains the necessary reactants for creating an antidote, as was requested, is also holds therein the bits and bobs of her passion project.[break][break]

the girl's question jars her from her reverie, and absinthe glances up, one thin eyebrow arched. "radiation?" she echoes, the word muffled by her mask. "no, this is not radioactive. it's a neurotoxin."[break][break]

absinthe places the briefcase on the ground, kneeling beside it to enter the combination. the locks click open with a satisfying sound, and absinthe lifts the lid to reveal several vials of a shimmering, iridescent liquid. she lifts one of the vials, holding it up to the fading light.[break][break]

"one drop will cause unimaginable agony. even just a pinch of liquid absorbed through the skin turns off the body's ability to stop muscle contraction. every muscle in the body spasms for many moments, then exhaustion sets in, to the point that the victim is finally incapable of breathing."[break][break]

she looks back at the girl, her eyes cold and hard. "so, no. you need not worry about radiation, nor my mask. if i wanted you dead, you would be. do you have any other stupid questions?"

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absinthe listens intently as himiko recounts her story, her expression growing dark and brooding as the tale unfolds. the chemist's eyes are stormy with the understanding of what it means to lose everything, of the consuming need for revenge that follows the stripping of one's agency, one's life. it is not the same story, but it carries the same moral.[break][break]

"that must be hard," she allows at last, turning the vial of her toxin around in her hand contemplatively. "you were wronged. your life was ruined without a second thought."[break][break]

a beat, and then a quiet, tense: "...do you think you'll ever get back to kanto? or do you think you'll just start over here?"[break][break]

it's difficult to discern the answer that absinthe wants. perhaps the chemist simply wants commiseration. perhaps she wants confirmation that there really is the possibility of rebuilding, of starting over. or perhaps she wants reassurance that roots that run deep cannot be shaken or cast aside, no matter the circumstances.[break][break]

the irony, of course, is that absinthe is the exact opposite of rootedness. she has severed most of the ties in her life, dedicating herself fully to her pursuit of vengeance. whatever the answer himiko offers, absinthe will be forced to grapple with these contradicting impulses within herself—a testament to just how deeply her tragedy has eroded the foundation of her life.

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bubbles of desperation rise to absinthe's face, sweat pooling at her mask and visibly streaming down the front of her chest. it riddles her hairline, coating the indentions of her fingers with dewy moisture and greasing her palm as she grips the sap-slick bark beside her with an unforgiving vengeance. her chest balloons and contracts, the flares of her nostrils around the filter of her mask the only perceptible sign that she is alive and ready.[break][break]

she hasn't felt this alive in years. it churns acidic in her gut.[break][break]

absinthe stretches, rises to peer over the mound of debris that separates her from the rolling, writhing pain that tries to consume freya. and good god, is she responsive. for a moment, all absinthe can see are the corners of her curled lips and the edges of her obsidian eyes, abyssal and cruel—and if it wouldn't shatter absinthe to pebbles, she might actually smile.[break][break]

nails dig crescents into wood, thoughts slam hard and smoldering through her skull. calculating each risk and reward with threadbare logic and sunspot intelligence until she finds herself bordering on prayer that it is absinthe that leaves victorious.[break][break]

the firestorm comes for her in rivulets, sapphires and bruises that crackle like fingers running through static. and were absinthe a sturdier woman, she may stay and play in the flames and pretend it was anything other than excruciating. she may go and twist her fingers through serpentine blues and violets and dare herself not to break.[break][break]

instead, when there is opportunity enough, absinthe commands tryptophan to release freya and level a GIGA DRAIN towards the dragonair in hopes of distracting it long enough to give absinthe an opportunity, right before she launches herself out from her hiding place and upwards onto an inclined hill. the flames lick and lap like hellfire at her back, and absinthe cannot resist a screech of pain as the heat penetrates her clothing and leaves raised welts on her thighs, calves, and back. her path is slow going, affected by the arrow upon her leg, and ill-fated.[break][break]

(she does not know where she's going. only that she got more than she bargained for.)

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