[attr="class","body"]

this isn’t the first near-death experience absinthe has endured. being a part of rocket necessitates danger. she has faced fire, poisonous gases, aggressive pokemon—all of these things she had been trained to accept as a part of life. that is why she only cringes when the arrow breaks off, that's why she bites into her lip when the head shifts. not all injuries she faces in her line of work are fatal, but all of them unpredictable. now, facing down a heavy medical decision and finding her options spread limply in front of her like roadkill only serves to paint absinthe a picture of her mortality.[break][break]

how fragile humans are. bodies break like clay cups thrown carelessly to the ground. how odd, that she’d dedicated so much time to medicine, to concocting potions and tonics meant to heal, to better the wellbeing of others through alchemy, yet her life continues to rot.[break][break]

but absinthe does not want roses or sympathy or thoughts on morality—not from this woman. not from any woman. she wants solutions, results, tangible actions.[break][break]

unfortunately, none seem available in her immediate vicinity.[break][break]

yet rose presents her with a choice; a rare one in life.[break][break]

absinthe breathes through her nostrils—a deep, resonating inhale—and watches rose throughout her explanation with a critical squint. she weighs every syllable with suspicion. every word seems laced with hidden meanings and deeper truth, like a code absinthe can crack with a fine-tipped scalpel and unveil.[break][break]

she processes rose’s explanations like equations in her head. absolutes versus possibilities, chances against risks, certainties weighed and measured.[break][break]

she clears her throat, nodding minutely to the beat of her racing pulse. "all right."[break][break]

absinthe lifts her chin defiantly; the action sends her hair cascading down her back like an inky wave. a flicker of apprehension, of mortal fear, passes through her emerald irises—like lighting—but leaves only determination and resolve in its wake. she meets rose’s unwavering gaze with a hardened one of her own.[break][break]

"no hospitals," she whispers, voice laced with anticipation of the impending trial. "i can handle it."

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

the ultra crater is hostile to all life.[break][break]

it serves, instead, as a poor mimicry. shapes of bamboo tower over the entirety of the strike team, but when absinthe runs a finger over one particularly tall stalk, cold, unfeeling metal gives no quarter beneath her touch. it is all steel and hatred, and rocket thinks they can reckon with a land so foreign and so cruel.[break][break]

absinthe believes it folly. alas, she is not here to talk back. she is here to do her damn job. arceus rest whoever dares to get in her way.[break][break]

the chemist listens to her orders through a commlink with an unflinching expression. the man on the other side serves as little more than a distraction, annoying and incessant, like a fly in her ear. nonetheless, she listens, eyes straight ahead, hands forced into fists at her sides. they are to chase sparks, to reckon with the moon itself. already, absinthe is souring at the very idea, eyes upward, seeking the sound of slicing. steel edges glint against foreign sunlight filtering through tree-like facsimiles.[break][break]

then, the noises, thick and sharp, reach a fever pitch, until absinthe's eyes finally find purchase on their sources. living origami, arms sharpened like steel, lumbering towards them on points that do little more than proffer scratches to the metal earth that bore them. malice radiates off of them. their intentions are as clear as the light that bounces off of their every surface.[break][break]

it is prudent to run, but homicide comes quick and easy to absinthe, like an old friend. her gloved hand clutches tightly around a pokeball on her belt.[break][break]

what emerges is magma encased in steel, a moth plated in metal, brimming with lava. a buzz, persistent and low, drones from its sleek, constructed body, and its wings, six diamond plates in total, fan behind it like the petals of a lotus. it stares at the incoming kartana like a ghost might stare at death.[break][break]

"overheat."[break][break]

the order is given, and cesium, for all its worth, obeys, as any machine would.[break][break]

its wing plates shift to orient into a star shape in front of it, and each wing glows white with heat, so much so that the air warps and shimmers in front of it. for a moment, all is still, even the incessant droning having ceased, until a column of fire bursts forth in an explosion of light and warmth, aimed directly for the horde of kartana before it.[break][break]

hopefully it will thin the hoard enough to allow an easier escape, as absinthe already begins to turn towards the path to the waterfall.

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

absinthe watches as the monster purrs at june, some sort of grotesque display of affection that sends bile rising in absinthe's throat. she's not sure why—a bond between a trainer and their pokemon is sacrosanct and special. she knows this.[break][break]

it just doesn't feel that way when it involves june.[break][break]

and there's a feeling that pricks at her conscience like thorns on a rosebush. a feeling like disappointment, coated in bitterness, dusted with resentment. june seems so unbothered, so nonchalant about having been gifted an extraordinary, magical beast like this—absinthe had to beg and scrape for a false one, a replica, a cheap plastic mask. she had to forsake a useful partner just to come into possession of a curse with no benefit, a con without a pro.[break][break]

"no," absinthe answers. "i got nothing."[break][break]

her eyes crane down to the devil at her side, and devil stares back at her. there is no fondness, there is no laughter, there is no joy or celebration. there is emptiness, and there is darkness. they stare at each other like sinners stare at saints—malice and envy rolled into one terrible glance.[break][break]

"a test," she continues, as if rolling the thought around in her head like a river might smooth a stone. "i don't know. it feels like a curse."[break][break]

and a blessing for a woman who craves death, but she doesn't say that part aloud. she's realized, slowly, that few peers enjoy listening to her talk about how much she would like to die. it only makes them pity her, a fate far worse than death.[break][break]

her eyes snap up to lock onto june once more.[break][break]

"don't tell anyone about this."

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

for all of her faults, if there is one thing about absinthe that is true and real, it is that she runs a damn good business.[break][break]

not the front-facing business, of course. no, never that. lavinia has picked up on this fact—the owner's manners leave much to be desired, and the small, cramped space of the snake pit offers an uneasy feeling to all who enter, as if the walls cave in around them, as if the bartender is sizing up her next meal. indeed, it would be a wonder that the building still stands, if not for the swinging kitchen doors in the back, promising anything but food. her open little secret, as obvious as it is unnerving.[break][break]

and it's also the reason nobody talks back to her. it's the reason nobody asks questions. why dare to anger the woman who pours your drinks?[break][break]

and though absinthe is in no dire need of extra cash, courtesy of her booming side hustle, she still knits her brows together when the teenager asks about a tab. it's almost laughable. many moons ago, somebody asked the very same thing in the very same chair, and absinthe responded in the very same way.[break][break]

"tabs imply a certain amount of trust," she says, teeth gritting against her tongue, hand tapping a tiny, idle pattern into the dingy bartop, "and i don't make a habit of trusting anybody who walks into this place."[break][break]

the second part goes unsaid: to find yourself in the snake pit is to find your life in shambles.[break][break]

though absinthe goes to pour another finger of scotch into her glass, she pauses right before the teakwood ambrosia can flow over the lip of the bottle, allowing her eyes to pierce the girl in front of her once more. "seven fifty."[break][break]

it is now, then, that absinthe finally realizes where she's seen this girl before. at least, where she's seen the same features. Calpurnia Kubrick.[break][break]

absinthe's teeth bare beneath her mask. go fucking figure.

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

absinthe barely acknowledges the doctor's presence when she enters. her head is down, hair falling in an inky black curtain around her jaw, and her eyes leer warily through blood-stained tresses. she smells like dirt and iron. she feels even worse.[break][break]

but absinthe is accustomed to being hurt. though she had shed tears in the moment, when the arrow pierced her skin, when her own fire burned her face, she is numb now. she has felt this before. she hurts other people, too. she deals the same as she receives tenfold; to spare and inflict agony. there is no honor or dignity in her line of work.[break][break]

but there is both honor and dignity in the girl that comes to see her. bright-eyed, innocent, naive, compassionate, stuttering and stammering and praising absinthe as if there is any good to be found left in the woman at all. maybe even sweet, for one of rocket's dogs. but nevertheless a dog on the end of a leash, just like all of them. in that way, they are similar, almost kindred spirits. in every other conceivable way, they are anathema to each other.[break][break]

in fact, even just being in her presence puts poison on absinthe's tongue. she is unsure how to name the feeling, only that she knows it lies somewhere between malice and envy.[break][break]

when she speaks next, there is an unsettling hardiness to her expression. "not endurance," she returns. "just survival."[break][break]

she pauses. her teeth bare beneath her mask as she recalls the disgusting chain of events that led her to this moment. "and questions like that are what get people killed."[break][break]

this line of reasoning leads absinthe down a rabbit hole of rumination. sometimes she despises her occupation, and most of the time she despises who she works for. there are many moments spent awake at night wondering what her life might have turned out like if she’d stayed her original path: straight-laced researcher with a bright future ahead of her at a prestigious corporation, doing things for the betterment of mankind. instead, she’s alone in a blood-stained lab at four in the morning with no hope left to dream of anything resembling a normal existence.[break][break]

so absinthe grimaces when she peels her eyes from the floor. her scowl digs deep lines into the sides of her nose. it isn’t rose’s fault that absinthe finds herself trapped in limbo between who she used to be and who she’s becoming. she sighs heavily as she reaches up a hand and unclasps her mask from her face. purified air hisses out from the released pneumatic valves therein, then dissipate in wisps through the lab.[break][break]

what lies beneath the mask is her whole face, an ugly patchwork of scars and fresh injuries. even through the lines of her hair, rose might be able to spot the entire lower half of her face consisting of nothing more than jagged, torn flesh sewn over itself into bulbous, protruding globs of scar tissue, the result of another burn long faded. so extreme is the damage that hints of her teeth and gums can be seen in a small hole breaking up the mangled flesh of her lip, gone entirely. then, above that, knitting over the left side of her face is bubbling flesh, already blistered, from an all new scorch.[break][break]

"my face is hurt, too."

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

love has never been enough for absinthe.[break][break]

she tried to settle. she tried to tell herself that she would never be fully, truly happy, so she resolved to instead aim to be content. cole was that first step. she stumbled on the edifice of his personality, he wooed her with gifts and compliments and promises, and then he pulled the rug from beneath her. it was perhaps then that she realized she would always be empty in a way that no person could fill.[break][break]

absinthe's little secret gets close. she really does. she's all glitz and glamor and blind faith that absinthe could never live up to. but when the high of seeing her fades, absinthe is left with nothing.[break][break]

it is why she pours herself into her work. it is why she takes fights she knows she will never come back from alive, it's why she bets on losing horses—herself. she thinks that, maybe, if she can just prove herself, if she can just win, if she can just make the other side feel the pain and terror she's felt her entire life, that will be enough.[break][break]

and this idea, much like most other ideas in absinthe's life, is folly.[break][break]

that is why she limps back to her temporary lab in petalburg with an arrow shaft still embedded firmly in her knee. that is why she cringes at the feeling of cold nighttime air caressing the side of her face that now blisters in the wake of burned, marred skin. that is why she leaves blood on the door handle, the lock, the frame when she desperately struggles to enter the lab.[break][break]

she lost, and all she has to show for it is the wallet of that damn head ranger. even now, many hours away from her encounter with him, he sets her teeth on edge.[break][break]

there was a doctor called for her as soon as she dragged her sorry ass back into town. now, she waits, idle and confused and angry, sitting in a steel chair in the middle of the lab. the door is open, a welcome invite for whatever sorry sap they've sent to deal with the worst mannered bitch in all of team rocket.[break][break]

god rest their poor soul.

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

grigori leaves. absinthe is alone again.[break][break]

absinthe is a stranger to relying on her peers. even since she was a girl, she was self-sufficient to a fault. when she flowered into an adult, cole forced her to depend on him for everything—happiness, companionship, love. now, without him, she flounders. she's learning how to be a person again. grigori likely doesn't know this, but he has the privilege to see a side absinthe doesn't show anyone, not even evelyn. an absinthe that needs help, and an absinthe that asks for it.[break][break]

it is strange, strange enough to draw a choke, strangled chuckle from the depths of her throat.[break][break]

but now, in the silence, ten minutes is a lifetime. the span between seconds stretches out impossibly long in this moment, where blood lingers like iron weights on her tongue and the depth of her guilt threatens to drown her. she is stained with her own sin, and anybody daring to step through this alley would be able to see it.[break][break]

grigori told her to consider another avenue of escape, but absinthe has not bothered with it. in fact, by the time ten minutes is over, she is unmoved from where she sits against the dumpster, nigh catatonic in traversing the winding tunnels of her own mind. there are some footsteps, some wayward eyes in the span of this eternity, but absinthe does not move, nor does she flinch. some part of her wants everything to go wrong.[break][break]

ten minutes.[break][break]

a person can survive a decade in ten minutes, survive an eternity waiting.[break][break]

those ten minutes pass unbearably long for absinthe—but then, she sees a shadow approaching.

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

june is right—it doesn't matter. absinthe will be hanged regardless. already, she feels the spectral, silken tendrils of a rope around her neck, kissing, biting, warning.[break][break]

many people have called her broken. they are right in their judgements, even if absinthe would like to deny and deflect. she is broken. she is broken in that, in the same breath of proclaiming fear of the unknown, of death, she also invites it, claiming that it is her right. just as she is scared of the rope, she longs for it, just as a rabid dog longs for the leash—to be subjugated terribly, and also to be free from self-destruction.[break][break]

june does not understand in many ways, both of the shard and of absinthe's yearning for the grave. a younger absinthe would be quick to explain. this absinthe does not bother.[break][break]

instead, her eyes linger on the lizard. futuristic, indeed. june had not been lying about that part. it's all shiny metal and corrugated steel, shifting and arcing with latent violet electricity. it's the real deal, too, not like absinthe's poor excuse for a bird. in that sense, absinthe envies the younger woman. where she gets to revel in being fully steeped in the negative attention that the miraidon brings, even holding wondrous powers as a result, absinthe gets all of the persecution of fezandipiti with none of the benefits.[break][break]

it's a cruel fucking joke.[break][break]

though june's explanation does spark a trace of familiarity in absinthe. the chemist shifts, arm reaching up to touch a part of her neck. though it is covered with the thick black rubber of her mask, extending even down to her collarbone, absinthe still feels a trace of electricity lingering where she touches.[break][break]

"powers," she echoes, barbed wire clinging to her tongue. "yes. like electrocution?"[break][break]

absinthe coughs into her hand, and it almost sounds like a dark, bitter laugh.[break][break]

"you're lucky. or stupid."

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

trypsin, absinthe's seviper, slithers through the rubble with deadly grace, tongue flickering out to taste the air. her scales glisten red as she moves like liquid fire in the sun filtering through the destroyed cityscape, illuminating her form with an eerie crimson glow. trypsin coils, muscles tensing beneath gleaming scales - a flash of metallic blue as the steel on her tail glints - and then she strikes.[break][break]

iron-hard, the bladed tip of her tail smashes into the cracked pavement, sending fissures spiderwebbing outwards from the point of contact. dust billows up in clouds, obscuring trypsin momentarily before the winds whip it away, revealing the damage done. great chunks of concrete lay strewn about, jagged edges testament to the force behind trypsin's attack. but she does not relent, dark eyes fixed on another section of debris threatening to collapse entirely, body coiling again-[break][break]

with a surge, trypsin lashes out a second time; more chunks rain down around her, smashing into smaller pieces upon impact with the ground or each other. when the dust settles once more, a significant portion of the blockage has been cleared away - enough space made for workers to move in and begin proper reconstruction efforts. trypsin, satisfied at last, curls into a watchful coil atop a nearby hill of rubble, ready to continue clearing away the remnants of the battlefield at her trainer's command or whim.

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

absinthe watches calliope slide into the seat opposite her, and she notes with a calculating, predatory gaze how she addresses the transaction straight away. "i do," the chemist replies. absinthe uses a key taken from her coat pocket to unlock the latches on one briefcase - snap, click, clack.[break][break]

the noise causes absinthe's pulse to jump like a live wire.[break][break]

she sets the case between their pairs of elbows with the inside facing upwards towards the taller woman. nestled in foam and velvet, there lie rows of vials with shiny red particulates suspended in transparent jelly. the reflection off of the glass refracts the neon lights. no part of her expression betrays emotion; absinthe's facial muscles remain flatlined. the most emotion on display is within the brilliant emerald hues of her cornea as excitement narrows her eyes.[break][break]

"take one out and examine it closely," absinthe instructs, leaning over the table to pull out a small penlight and click it on. she directs the beam toward the briefcase, illuminating the product for inspection. "before you comment on its quality, of course."[break][break]

unsociable people interested only in chemical satisfaction is hardly anything new for absinthe. transactions done with silent looks, curt nods, or blunt statements all share one thing in common: none of these strangers trust her, nor she them. they come to her purely because what they want is best when crafted by her meticulous hands.[break][break]

absinthe lifts her eyes, and something dark plays therein. "the majority of what is here tried and true. reliable." her breath hitches on unsaid words lingering in her throat. "but i have experimental product as well. say the word, and you can be the first to test them."

[attr="class","credit"]

[attr="class","body"]

the world is spinning, twisting, making absinthe's head pound, and the tree roots reach up and threaten to ensnare her, drag her down into a dark abyss of secrets and half-truths, mysteries wrapped in enigmas that pull at each other like scavengers over a corpse.[break][break]

absinthe will never escape.[break][break]

instead, she levels a glare at june, feeling a surge of indignation rise through her chest, pressing against the cage of bone that encases her heart, demanding to break free and fight.[break][break]

"the bird," she gestures lamely at fezandipiti, whose beady black eyes seem to pierce right through her skull, right to the juicy secrets housed within. she shouldn't be giving out information right now. "...it's a long story."

a hush falls over the four of them - june, absinthe, and their respective beasts of burden. time seems to stretch thin, pulled taught like the strings of a violin held to the bow, trembling under the pressure, begging to be plucked and to sing.[break][break]

but there is no song.[break][break]

"...fuck it."

absinthe throws up her hands, palms out, in surrender. fine. fine! they're going to do this. they're going to share each others' secrets, as if they have nothing left to lose. as if there is any point in holding onto the truth when the universe seems so keen to strip them both bare and reveal them to each other, a pair of ugly, writhing maggots at the core of existence.[break][break]

"it's a shard of fezandipiti," absinthe says finally, voice infected by a profound sense of resignation. "the real thing came and gave me it. i accepted. now it is with me."[break][break]

absinthe's eyes meet june's. though she feels the truth of it all deeply in her soul, her expression is level, and her gaze leaves no indication that she truly understands the consequences of this 'gift'.[break][break]

"your turn."

[attr="class","credit"]