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My Trip tothe End of Time, by Pearl Gideon

I'm too tired to do the whole "rundown of most hilarious moments", but great chapters as ever. Nice what you did with the fact that Pastoria has to be the dampest city in Sinnoh, what with all those puddles and the Goths were a funny addition too. Iago's comment about non-conformist-ness was win. Glad we finally got the truth about Darkling Town, but what's going to happen to poor Stephanie? Doesn't seem to me like the League have her, what with all the information she gave to Pearl. Much to ponder there is. Also, yay for Spiritomb reference ^_^
 

ninjanerd

Well-Known Member
Amazing as always, Cuterline. I suppose I ought to write a proper review, but the thing known as school eats time faster than Rattata chews through wires. I also like how you integrated the theories to the plot, but added to the mystery. Keep up the good work.
Honourably yours,
Ninjanerd
of the Sack Hearts
"la mano en la cara"
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
I'm too tired to do the whole "rundown of most hilarious moments", but great chapters as ever. Nice what you did with the fact that Pastoria has to be the dampest city in Sinnoh, what with all those puddles and the Goths were a funny addition too. Iago's comment about non-conformist-ness was win. Glad we finally got the truth about Darkling Town, but what's going to happen to poor Stephanie? Doesn't seem to me like the League have her, what with all the information she gave to Pearl. Much to ponder there is. Also, yay for Spiritomb reference ^_^

Hm. What is going to happen to Stephanie, I wonder? And was all that information she gave to Pearl entirely accurate, what with the mysterious man in black holding her hostage? And am I guilty of blatant misdirection? Find out... sometime.

Amazing as always, Cuterline. I suppose I ought to write a proper review, but the thing known as school eats time faster than Rattata chews through wires. I also like how you integrated the theories to the plot, but added to the mystery. Keep up the good work.
Honourably yours,
Ninjanerd
of the Sack Hearts
"la mano en la cara"

I always do this - integrate speculation into the stories, that is. When I write this, and when I was writing TTMG2DTW, I have almost no idea where the story is going, so it's supremely flexible. I like to know what everyone's thinking, put all those thoughts into the story, lead them off on rambling tangents and stab them in the back with unexpected turns. Also peculiarly violent metaphors, it seems. Ahem.

Anyway, thanks for reading. We've reached the point where the pre-written chapters run out, so updates are going to slow down a bit from now on, I'm afraid. Still, good things come to those who wait, or so they say.

F.A.B.
 
All that stuff about very flexible plot lines makes me very happy. :)
And don't qorry, even if I don't post much, I will definitely be hanging around for the new chapters to be written.
 

Agent Tectonic

From Ashes, I Come
So, Ashley's story is getting more mysterious, the plot line is getting more mysterious, Pearl for once is in less trouble while Stephanie is close to shaking hands with death, Iago is always awesome, Bond and company are ridiculously funny as ever, who else outside of Team G. Looker isn't important enough to mention. . .yet I bet. I think that's it. So, two questions:

1)Is Tristan's character based off the Grunt that runs away from you from Pastoria all the way to Lake Valor after the whole bomb going off? I'm pretty sure he had a Croagunk when you face him, and he seems like he would fit the mold for Tristan. I've been wondering this long before it was revealed he was a bong expert, which further supports my point.

2)Don't you think that Stephanie's "kidnapping" a bit cliche? I'm not saying that it doesn't make sense, but I still can't shake the feeling that it is too cliche still.
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
All that stuff about very flexible plot lines makes me very happy. :)
And don't qorry, even if I don't post much, I will definitely be hanging around for the new chapters to be written.

Thanks. Always nice to know.

So, Ashley's story is getting more mysterious, the plot line is getting more mysterious, Pearl for once is in less trouble while Stephanie is close to shaking hands with death, Iago is always awesome, Bond and company are ridiculously funny as ever, who else outside of Team G. Looker isn't important enough to mention. . .yet I bet. I think that's it. So, two questions:

1)Is Tristan's character based off the Grunt that runs away from you from Pastoria all the way to Lake Valor after the whole bomb going off? I'm pretty sure he had a Croagunk when you face him, and he seems like he would fit the mold for Tristan. I've been wondering this long before it was revealed he was a bong expert, which further supports my point.

2)Don't you think that Stephanie's "kidnapping" a bit cliche? I'm not saying that it doesn't make sense, but I still can't shake the feeling that it is too cliche still.

1. Tristan is sort of that grunt, and sort of every inept Galactic in the game. (That particular grunt has a Glameow, by the way.) He's also (as has been heavily implied) Fabien's cousin, which probably explains a lot.

2. Yes. Yes it is. I wonder why that could be...

Also, I have some unfortunate news. I was just finishing the next chapter when OpenOffice, for no discernible reason, converted all 270-odd pages of the story into repeated '#'s. I haven't lost previous chapters, since they're backed up - but I've lost the 6000 words of this latest chapter, and so I'll have to rewrite it from scratch. So, sorry, but it's going to be delayed by quite a long time.

EDIT: That was the next chapter, actually. I've just discovered I still have the coming one, and so I've just posted it.

F.A.B.
 
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Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Chapter Twenty-Five: In Which Ellen and Bond Go From the Frying-Pan Into the Fire

'Most Haunted House: While Hearthome is known for its high Ghost population, the highest single concentration of Ghosts in any one dwelling in Sinnoh is Corvada Castle in the Celestial Hills. While only three or four of them have ever been seen, numerous Ghost Trainers such as Fantina Cousteau have conclusively proven that there are at least twenty-eight spirits somewhere within it. The occupants are, apparently, completely unaffected.'
—The Big Book of Sinnish Records

“What?” I asked. “What's going on?”

“Come with me,” said Ashley. “I'll explain as we go; there's no time to waste.”

Sighing, I dropped both my old and my new phone in my bag, hoisted it onto my shoulder and followed him out.

“We're not getting any sleep any time soon, are we?” I asked.

“Pearl, we have almost exactly forty-eight hours before a bomb of devastating potential goes off somewhere in this damp and Gothic city, and we have no idea where it might be. I think that anything as minor as sleep can be safely disregarded under the circumstances.”

“They never show this in the movies,” I complained.

“Perhaps you ought to try reading a book for once,” replied Ashley, reaching the stairs and gliding down them like a ghost. “None of those trashy crime novels, either – something realistic, where problems take hours or days to solve instead of minutes.”

“Hey, I—” I broke off, realising something was missing. “Where's Iago?”

“Here,” replied the Kadabra. I blinked; I was sure he hadn't been there a moment ago. It must, I decided, be my current state of fatigue that was responsible; I'd had a pretty tiring day what with the two near-death incidents and the break-in at Courmocan High. “How did you not see me?”

“I – it's been a tiring day,” I said. “Uh, where are we going?”

“Stanner Square,” replied Ashley, sweeping past Wednesday and towards the doors. “To the Jeffrey Lebowski Embryonic Research and Genetics Institute.”

“The what? Why?”

Blade Runner is set in a future Los Angeles,” Iago told me. “None of the significant locations in it exist in Pastoria, but there are loose parallels.”

“The most obvious being the Tyrell Corporation, a biotechnology giant based in a pair of big pyramid-shaped buildings,” Ashley put in.

“So we looked for biotechnology concerns in Pastoria—”

“And came up with the Jeffrey Lebowski Embryonic Research and Genetics Institute,” concluded Ashley. He pushed open the doors and almost in the same motion slid into the waiting taxi outside. “Finding it was the part that took so long. There are fifty-four biotechnology companies of one sort or another based in Pastoria, but the only ones that have a vaguely pyramid-shaped building were that and Anthea Laboratories.”

“And of those, only the Lebowski Institute does any work on humans,” Iago added. “Anthea is just an experimental concern attempting to sequence new crops.”

The speed and density of their explanation set my head spinning, and it was with some effort that I managed to bring it back into alignment with reality.

“So... what're we actually doing?” I asked.

“We're going to the Jeffrey Lebowski Embryonic Research and Genetics Institute to look for clues,” replied Ashley, with a trace of annoyance. “Haven't you been listening?”

“Well, I have, but—”

“Well, perhaps if you'd spent less time talking to Stephanie and more time assisting with our investigation you would know.”

“How do you know—?”

“You put two phones in your bag when we left; you've obviously bought a new one to call her from,” he said dismissively. “Now, keep up with the plot, please. We have a genetics institute to get to.”

It took about forty minutes to get to the Institute; it was about three miles west of the Ganmet Monument, in a district that looked like it had been born of an architect a hundred years before his time: everything was glass or steel, ultra-tall and ultra-thin; those few buildings that didn't conform to the type were spherical or pyramidal.

“Whoa,” I said, staring out of the window. “I never knew that there was anywhere so modern in Pastoria.”

“They don't advertise it,” said Iago. “They rely on the Goth tourism. That and the hippies who come to watch Pokémon at the marsh, and they don't particularly like glass buildings either.”

“What about Trainers?” The city had a Gym, didn't it? It must get quite a bit of Trainer traffic.

“They don't bring that much money in unless they really go nuts,” he told me. “This isn't Gibbous Island.”

The taxi pulled up at the side of Stanner Square and we got out; Ashley made me pay by the simple expedient of walking away and leaving me there. By the time I'd caught up, he and Iago were at the main doors to the Institute – which was indeed pyramid-shaped, and plated in glass. It also appeared to be completely deserted: all the lights were off, and I could see no sign of anyone within.

“Do we break in?” I asked, looking around nervously.

“We don't need to,” replied Ashley. “Someone already did it for us.”

He pushed the door lightly, and it swung freely open.

“What...?”

“The lock is buckled and partially melted; I'd suggest Tristan's Croagunk has been to work here.” He glanced at me. “Come on, then. Let's see what they want.”

He slipped inside, and, with a brief look back at the dark, deserted square, I followed.

---

“Do you think he'll come back to get us out of here?”

Kester considered. On the face of it, the answer seemed quite obvious.

“No,” he said finally. “I think we're stuck here.”

“Damn,” said Sapphire, after a suitable pause.

“Yeah,” agreed Kester. “It's a real shame.” He looked over at Felicity. “What do you think, Liz?”

“I think he's coming back,” replied Felicity.

“Really?”

“Yes. He would not really leave you here. He would be lonely without anyone to show off in front of.”

Kester raised his eyebrows.

“I hope you're right,” he sighed, and leaned back against the concrete wall of the cell. “But I tell you what – I am going to kill him when he gets back.”

“I think there's a queue,” Sapphire told him dryly, which did absolutely nothing to raise their spirits. For there is nothing quite so singularly depressing as indefinite imprisonment – the more so when you are unlawfully imprisoned.

And most of all when you know that the only way you are likely to escape is if Robin Goodfellow decides to come back for you.

---

The lobby was all modern and shiny, and seemed to have borrowed its design scheme from a Macbook; everything had soft, curved edges and a clean, white look. We crept carefully through it – or at least I did; Ashley strode and Iago sauntered – and down one of several long, pale halls.

“How do you know where we're going?” I asked Ashley.

“Footprints,” replied Iago. “Pearl, you know how good his vision is—”

“Actually, no,” said Ashley.

“Oh.” Iago looked startled for a moment. “Well. OK.” I hid a smile; it was nice to see him wrong for once.

“So how do you know, then?” I asked.

“Listen,” said Ashley. We did – and sure enough, after a moment my ears caught a faint sound, too distant to make out properly. I couldn't tell what it was, only that it was; I turned to Ashley and asked him what was making the noise.

“I think it's a person,” he said, and I swear his ears grew slightly as he listened. “No, more than one. Even I'm having a little trouble at this distance.” He shrugged. “We'll find out in due course. Now, come on! If you want to get any sleep at all tonight, Pearl, we need to make some headway right now.”

We continued down the corridor, turned left down another and then right; now, I could make out the noise properly myself: the sound of someone's clothes shifting about them as they moved. Not Team Galactic, then, I thought; their spacesuits all seemed to be fairly skin-tight, which I supposed worked all right for Liza but which was probably a hassle for anyone who wasn't as slim.

“Not the Galactics,” murmured Ashley, at the exact moment that I thought it, and mentally I patted myself on the back. I was right.

Ashley motioned for us to be still, then paced up and down the corridor, listening; after a moment, he decided on the right door and pushed it open.

“Hello— oh!”

He turned to Iago and I.

“Well,” he said. “This isn't quite what I was expecting. Come and have a look.”

I did, and turned on the lights to reveal three people tied to office chairs, thoroughly bound and gagged, and blindfolded for good measure. At the sound of our voices, they all started squirming and mmphing through their gags.

“What the hell?”

“I know,” agreed Ashley. “Bizarre, isn't it?”

“Should we kill them?” asked Iago, which made all three fall silent again.

“We're not going to kill them. Why is that you feel this need to kill everyone we meet?”

“I know.” Iago glanced at them. “I just wanted to scare them.”

Ashley stared at him for a moment, shook his head and returned his attention to the three people in the chairs.

“Let's see,” he said, circling them like a shark. “Female, mid-forties, dog owner, mother of two. Male, early seventies – late sixties? – something around then, ex-military, evidently put up a fight when they got him. Male, sixteen or seventeen, Goth, just arrived in Pastoria this evening.” He stopped and pondered. “Now, I suppose the question is, why would the Galactics leave them here?”

“Aren't we going to untie them?” I asked.

“No,” replied Ashley sharply. “These people can't be trusted not to go straight to the police as soon as they're free; we really don't need anyone finding out that we broke into a genetics institute at quarter to one in the morning on a quest to save Pastoria. It'll cause a lot of unnecessary interference, Lydia.”

“What? Did you just call me—?”

“Sorry. That was remiss of me. My apologies, Miss Soames,” Ashley said meaningfully, and the penny dropped. These people could hear us – and so to cover our tracks when they eventually escaped, we needed false names.

“Yes. Right. Sorry, um, Zachariah.”

He stared at me and mouthed, Zachariah?

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, Mister Clutterbuck.”

Ashley tipped his head back to face the heavens and muttered some brief supplication to whatever powers might be capable of delivering him from my idiocy, then sighed and started talking again.

“We have to figure out why it is that they left them here,” he continued. “They're evidently a clue – or perhaps one of them is and the other two are decoys. Ah, but which one? There's the thing... No. We don't know that yet.”
“Actually, we do,” said Iago, holding up a piece of paper. “This was on the desk over there. Mister Clutterbuck.” He pronounced the last two words with a kind of unholy glee that I'd previously thought was the sole preserve of vengeful demons.

Ashley grimaced.

“Thank you, Herr Spatzendinger. May I compliment you on how well you're hiding your accent?”

Iago glowered, but, not to be outdone, countered in a heavy German accent.

“Ach, vell, you know. I try.”

I tried very hard not to laugh and just about succeeded. Ashley, the faintest of smiles on his face, grabbed the paper off him and read it out aloud, changing the names as he went.

“Hello, Messrs Clutterbuck, Spatzendinger and Soames. As you will no doubt have realised by now, there are three people in this room. Investigate them, and if you succeed, you will learn the location of the bomb.” He lowered the paper. “It's signed Liza.”

“Makes sense,” Iago said, nodding. He still used the faux-German voice. “I'm not even sure if ze uzzer vun can read.”

“She gives nothing away,” noted Ashley thoughtfully. “Hm. There are three of us and three of them, for a start. I suppose we ought to investigate one each, but—”

“—but one, I am not letting you out of my sight and two, that vould mean leaving Lydia to investigate one on her own,” finished Iago.

“Hey, I can do this myself, Spatzendinger,” I protested. “Maybe a bit slower than you, but I can do it.”

“We'll see,” said Ashley. “You can investigate the old man. Herr Spatzendinger and I will investigate the other two together.”

“You can't be serious!” cried Iago, his accent slipping for a moment in his passion. “Lydia? Investigating on her own?” He stared at Ashley for a moment, and repeated: “Lydia?”

“It's not ideal, I realise that,” said Ashley, and it was interesting to see that infuriating calm turned on someone else. To those on his side, I discovered, it was actually quite pleasant. “But we have only a little under forty-eight hours to find and deactivate this bomb. Time is not a luxury we have right now.” He looked at me. “Besides, Miss Soames is not that stupid. She'll be fine, with a few pushes in the right direction.”

“Thanks, Mister Clutterbuck,” I said with feeling, and the warmth drained from Ashley's face.

“Yes, I'd forgotten about that,” he muttered under his breath, and then bent down to pull the wallet from the pocket of the Goth boy. Unsurprisingly, it was made of black leather and studded with little spikes. Ashley flicked through its contents, pulled out a piece of paper and put it into his pocket, and replaced it. “Nestor Schultze,” he said aloud. “Sixteen, resident of 44 Forvell Road, Sunyshore. Herr Spatzendinger, search this lady here – and Miss Soames, I suggest you search the gentleman in the middle there.”

“OK.” I stepped up to him, and felt a frisson of excitement run down my spine; Ashley had given me little tests before, but never a proper bit of detectivery. Always, he either knew the answer or was simply one step away from it; this was my big break, my chance to prove that I too could solve a case. I would show him that I could discern the shape of the truth from its shadow, that I could work out the size and smell of reality from the footprint it left on an axe handle, or a body – in short, I would prove that I was, though maybe not as good as him, still a fine detective.

I looked down at the old man, tense in his bonds, and wondered:

Now where the hell do I start?

---

Midnight is a curious time. When it comes around, when the two hands of the clock meet for a perfunctory minute at the twelve, one finds oneself uneasy in the streets, forever glancing over one's shoulder to ward off the stalking shadows. In the West, it has been named the witching hour; in Sinnoh, where witches have never been particularly feared, they call it the ulñanacar, the 'hour of the dead'.

It was the hour of the dead now, and they were creeping into Hearthome by streetlight.

Ellen and Bond were no longer alive, it was true, but neither of them felt particularly dead, and both were acutely aware of the fact that a lack of true life would not protect them tonight. Whatever they were made of, and whatever strange force quickened it, would be devoured by any Ghost they met without hesitation. Usually, there was a body to shield the spirit from direct spectral attack; without any flesh to cover them, Ellen and Bond were currently feeling very vulnerable.

Pigzie Doodle, on the other hand, was drifting along about fifteen feet in front of them, attempting to look as if he had nothing to do with them.

“Could you stop whistling nonchalantly, please?” asked Ellen timidly. “This situation is eerie enough already.”

Huh. Suit yourself. He stopped and turned left around a corner. Come on. There's one of those sinister black car rental stores somewhere around here. We need wheels if we're going to make it through the city before we're noticed.

A throaty chuckle emanated from the mouth of an alley, and it was with the greatest of efforts that Bond stifled Ellen's shriek.

“Hush, madam,” he whispered, one white-gloved hand clamped over her mouth. “We must not give away our presence!”

Ellen, eyes wide and shining for all the wrong reasons, nodded silently, and he let his hand drop. Bond placed a finger on his lips, just to make sure the message hit home, and led her on down the street.

OK, said Pigzie Doodle, glancing around nervously. I think we got away with it. Just two streets that way and—

And what, exactly?


The Duskull froze, every molecule of his gaseous being stopping dead in midair. He looked almost solid.

Cal, he said in Nadsat.

“What was that?” asked Ellen, staring around wildly.

“I confess myself ignorant, madam,” replied Bond, gently pushing her so that her back was to the wall, and he was between her and the street, “but I fear I have to tell you that whatever it is, I can hear it too.”

You can? Ah. That means they're really strong. I was sensing something powerful, but—

But what, brother? Would you belittle us?


Eyes were appearing in the darkness all around them now, and Bond felt Ellen shrink into the small of his back. Unconsciously, his hands went to his bow tie, adjusting it; if there was company, a butler ought to make himself presentable.

Uh... crap. Pigzie Doodle span animatedly on the spot. I can't even count you all. Look, these guys have nothing to do with me. I'm... I was leading them here so that you could devour them.

And what about yourself? The voice was female, Bond decided, although it was hard to tell. He thought it came from the yellow-red eyes just in front of him, the ones that stood a little apart from the others – as if their owner was feared or loathed by her fellow Ghosts. As if, he realised with a sinking feeling, she were the leader.

Me? Pigzie Doodle laughed uncertainly. I, um, ate earlier. Full banquet of childhood memories at the Jubilife Airport, and agony for afters.

The lead Ghost's eyes blinked, and rolled upwards in amused exasperation.

Ghosts aren't so selfless as to help even their brethren, she said. You have some clever ploy, little brother. Her voice was low and predatory now; Bond felt Ellen shaking like a leaf behind his back. He had to confess that he was quite alarmed himself, but he stood firm and waited to see if Pigzie Doodle could sort it out. If not, he might find himself forced to intervene. What trickery do you have planned, little Duskull? asked the Ghost. What glorious deceit?

It's a plan to make my name echo through the ages, replied Pigzie Doodle frankly. Evidently he had decided that honesty would be the best policy. I want to be known, and remembered. Two thousand and eighty-four years already, and no one knows my name. I say it's about time I changed things.

How tedious, sighed the Ghost. Another Duskull who wants more than his immortality. You Old Ghosts are so... tiresome.

Ah. Does that mean I die now? inquired Pigzie Doodle.

Perhaps even Bond's heart might have skipped a beat here – but he was dead, and the organ in question had long since rotted away to nothing. Consequently, we shall never know whether the dialogue managed to push him across that fortified boundary that separates a butler from his emotions.

It does indeed, agreed the Ghost. But not by my hand. You're just a Duskull, after all. No, she continued, burning eyes snapping around to stare straight through Bond, I want that child.

Ellen. Bond might have known it would come down to this; it had been known for centuries that most Ghosts' preferred prey was children. Alive, they were tempting; dead, he suspected, they were irresistible.

He sighed. It looked like he would have to intervene.

“Madam,” Bond said politely, clearing his throat, “I regret to inform you that the young mistress is not currently available for eating. She has important business to conduct in Veilstone. Kindly stand aside.”

The unseen Ghost's eyes widened, and a furious murmuring broke out among her acolytes; obviously, it was not the done thing for the prey to resist like this.

Stand aside? the Ghost said incredulously. Did you just tell me to stand aside?

“It was a polite request, madam,” Bond corrected. “It would not be my place to tell you to do anything. After all, I am but a butler.”

Uh, Jeeves? You might want to stop that. She can consume you slowly or she can consume you quickly, and believe me, you want quickly.

Bond did not hear Pigzie Doodle, of course, and Ellen was currently in no fit state to convey the message. Hence, he simply continued to meet the Ghost's stare, and thought quite hard about what he was going to do next.

A butler? Now I really must devour you, said the Ghost hungrily. All that suppressed emotion... the rage and frustration of years and years of service, both in and after life, compacted into a little pill no larger than one of your fingernails. I will hang your soul from my neck, and drink it slowly over the next hundred years. Imagine! A century of ecstasy...

All right, calm down, you're making me hungry, said Pigzie Doodle peevishly. If you're going to devour them, get on with it so I can escape while you're busy.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something, little brother? The Ghost spat the last word with such force that something dark flashed between her and Pigzie Doodle, striking him between the eyes; he collapsed in on himself and fell to the pavement like black rain, the skull-shaped plate of his face clattering down a moment after. For a moment, his eye flared crimson and his mental voice degenerated into a string of bloody images – and then the light went out and he fell silent.

Bond stared. Ellen wound her arms tightly around his waist and held on like a baby monkey.

That's better, said the Ghost. I do loathe the Old Ghosts. Always trying to make themselves seem more important, making themselves seem bigger than they are. It's fraud – and not even convincing fraud at that. She paused, perhaps savouring the moment. Now, then. Shall we get down to business?

“Madam, I have made my position clear—”

All at once, the Ghost's eyes jerked away from his to scan the sky, and around her, some of the smaller Ghosts started to disappear into the night, startled.

That *****! hissed the Ghost. She's back again! And she knows no one can stop her... She'll eat the butler – but she may leave the girl, which is something – but the butler! The *****!

Bond stared at her, bemused. What exactly was going on here?

“May I enquire as to what is happening?” he asked politely. The Ghost whirled and fixed her eyes on him.

You won't survive, she said savagely. She's coming. The new girl. I hope this is the last night she hunts here; we don't like her type here. The Ghost turned and addressed those of her followers who were still there. Well, don't just float there! She's coming, and I suggest you get out of here if you want to make it to dawn.

There was a flurry of vague wind sounds, and the spectral eyes disappeared. Bond waited a moment, but nothing happened; he could neither see nor sense anything hostile approaching.

“It would seem,” he said, “that we have escaped unscathed.”

Ellen dared to peek out from behind him, found his words to be true and stepped away hurriedly.

“Um, yes,” she said. “Of course.” She fidgeted for a moment, then looked up at Bond pleadingly. “Can we get a motor-car now?”

Ugh. Yes please, said Pigzie Doodle, his eye flickering back into life. And can someone pick me up? I can't quite seem to hold myself together right now. I'm not sure what that Mismagius did to me, but it was strong.

Ellen asked Bond to pick him up, and Bond knelt to scoop him into the curved plate of his skull-face. Surprisingly enough, nothing leaked out from the eye sockets; evidently the Duskull still had energy enough to keep himself from falling down there.

Ah, that's better. The pavement's filthy – I think I have chewing gum stuck to my left lower incisor. And – oh. Oh.

Ellen paused. This did not sound like a good 'Oh'. This was not the 'Oh' of an excited child opening a Christmas present. This was the 'Oh' of someone who has just noticed something very, very bad indeed.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is it, Ishmael?”

Why did those Ghosts leave? he asked. I was out cold for that bit, so why did they leave?

Ellen looked up at Bond. She hadn't really taken in anything the Ghost had said.

“Bond, why did the Ghosts leave?”

“Madam, they said 'she is coming', whoever that might refer to,” replied Bond. “They seemed rather afraid of her.”

That would make sense, said Pigzie Doodle grimly. OK. Run.

“What?”

RUN!

Ellen burst into a run, and Bond, working out what must be happening, followed after.

“Does 'she' refer to another Ghost, yet more powerful than the last?” he inquired of Ellen. In his arms, Pigzie Doodle rambled:

I can sense her too. My God. I've never felt anything like her. This one's older than me – much, much older, and that's saying something. Oh God, this hurts. She's like – like white gold, like Jadis, like mercury...

He trailed off, and Ellen told Bond:

“Yes. I – I think it might be...”

“In that case,” began Bond, but whatever he was about to say was lost, for at that moment she arrived, and, as Bond might have put it, their situation became somewhat uncertain.
 
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Knightfall

Blazing Wordsmith
Wow..it has been waaaay too long since I've posted here, but I have returned none-the-less!
I think I'll save my apology for the end of this review, let us begin!

“Pearl, we have almost exactly forty-eight hours before a bomb of devastating potential goes off somewhere in this damp and Gothic city, and we have no idea where it might be. I think that anything as minor as sleep can be safely disregarded under the circumstances.”

“They never show this in the movies,” I complained.

It's true, they never show the fact that characters sleep, or rest, usually it's all action or whatnot.

“Here,” replied the Kadabra. I blinked; I was sure he hadn't been there a moment ago. It must, I decided, be my current state of fatigue that was responsible; I'd had a pretty tiring day what with the two near-death incidents and the break-in at Courmocan High. “How did you not see me?”

“I – it's been a tiring day,” I said. “Uh, where are we going?”

I agree; constantly being on the razor edge of death does have negative side effects on the human body and psyche.

“So we looked for biotechnology concerns in Pastoria—”

“.....There are fifty-four biotechnology companies of one sort or another based in Pastoria, but the only ones that have a vaguely pyramid-shaped building were that and Anthea Laboratories.”

Fifty-four? Wow, I didn't expect there to be so many biotech labs in that rain soaked marsh puddle. I guess it's the cooler/humid climate that makes it a sutible enviroment for that sort of thing. Also, I'm pretty sure Anthea Labs. is a reference to something...I just can't put my finger on it.

Oh well, food for thought.

“And of those, only the Lebowski Institute does any work on humans,” Iago added. “Anthea is just an experimental concern attempting to sequence new crops.”

Just what experiments are they running on said humans I wonder....

“Whoa,” I said, staring out of the window. “I never knew that there was anywhere so modern in Pastoria.”

“They don't advertise it,” said Iago. “They rely on the Goth tourism. That and the hippies who come to watch Pokémon at the marsh, and they don't particularly like glass buildings either.”

Once again, I wish your description of the cities actually matched the games, they would be so much more interesting.

“Do we break in?” I asked, looking around nervously.

“We don't need to,” replied Ashley. “Someone already did it for us.”

He pushed the door lightly, and it swung freely open.

It makes your day so much easier when you don't have to force open a door....and disarm a security system armed to the teeth with futuristic weapons. So many lasers....

And most of all when you know that the only way you are likely to escape is if Robin Goodfellow decides to come back for you.

Ahhh, what sort of mischievous activites has our favorite master thief gotten everyone into now, I wonder?........Ah, screw it! IT'S PUCK!!!!!!!!!!!...and Kester too.

I did, and turned on the lights to reveal three people tied to office chairs, thoroughly bound and gagged, and blindfolded for good measure. At the sound of our voices, they all started squirming and mmphing through their gags.

“What the hell?”

Three people, held captive in an office in the early morning...I have now idea what this means. I can only share Pearl's mindset.

“I know,” agreed Ashley. “Bizarre, isn't it?”

“Should we kill them?” asked Iago, which made all three fall silent again.

“We're not going to kill them. Why is that you feel this need to kill everyone we meet?”

“I know.” Iago glanced at them. “I just wanted to scare them.”

This part made me laugh, I just love all the crude and slightly dark humor in this fic.

“Aren't we going to untie them?” I asked.

“No,” replied Ashley sharply. “These people can't be trusted not to go straight to the police as soon as they're free; we really don't need anyone finding out that we broke into a genetics institute at quarter to one in the morning on a quest to save Pastoria. It'll cause a lot of unnecessary interference, Lydia.”

I don't think anyone who is doing illegal activities is very keen in letting anyone go after they have wittnessed them doing said illegal activities.
And the false identity idea was brilliant.

“Thank you, Herr Spatzendinger. May I compliment you on how well you're hiding your accent?”

Iago glowered, but, not to be outdone, countered in a heavy German accent.

“Ach, vell, you know. I try.”

I've stopped trying to keep count of how many times your fics have made me laugh, thank you.

I looked down at the old man, tense in his bonds, and wondered:

Now where the hell do I start?

The retired military veteran, the hardest type to crack in an interrogation, this should be interesting.

Midnight is a curious time. When it comes around, when the two hands of the clock meet for a perfunctory minute at the twelve, one finds oneself uneasy in the streets, forever glancing over one's shoulder to ward off the stalking shadows. In the West, it has been named the witching hour; in Sinnoh, where witches have never been particularly feared, they call it the ulñanacar, the 'hour of the dead'.

Yet another piece of Sinnish culture I would have never known if not for your fics.

OK, said Pigzie Doodle, glancing around nervously. I think we got away with it. Just two streets that way and—

And what, exactly?


The Duskull froze, every molecule of his gaseous being stopping dead in midair. He looked almost solid.

This happens every time, you never say you're in the clear for anything! Even if you are clearly in the clear, you don't say it! It's like asking God to cause the very sort of bad thing to happen!

Cal, he said in Nadsat.

Indeed.

Eyes were appearing in the darkness all around them now, and Bond felt Ellen shrink into the small of his back. Unconsciously, his hands went to his bow tie, adjusting it; if there was company, a butler ought to make himself presentable.

Representing the classiness of the upper class even in death, I like Bond even more.

He sighed. It looked like he would have to intervene.

“Madam,” Bond said politely, clearing his throat, “I regret to inform you that the young mistress is not currently available for eating. She has important business to conduct in Veilstone. Kindly stand aside.”

The unseen Ghost's eyes widened, and a furious murmuring broke out among her acolytes; obviously, it was not the done thing for the prey to resist like this.

It is a little known fact that manners and politeness are more effective aganist ghosts than holy water.
Kill them with you manners, Bond! Kill them with your manners!

Stand aside? the Ghost said incredulously. Did you just tell me to stand aside?

“It was a polite request, madam,” Bond corrected. “It would not be my place to tell you to do anything. After all, I am but a butler.”

..................Words cannot express the total epicness that Bond is demonstrating right now..... Bond is my new hero...

That *****! hissed the Ghost. She's back again! And she knows no one can stop her... She'll eat the butler – but she may leave the girl, which is something – but the butler! The *****!

Bond stared at her, bemused. What exactly was going on here?

A question that most likely won't get answered until the next chapter, and even than it will be a vauge explaination. I doubt if anyone will ever know what "exactly is going on" in these fics.

“In that case,” began Bond, but whatever he was about to say was lost, for at that moment she arrived, and, as Bond might have put it, their situation became somewhat uncertain.

My new hero must survive the next chapter, I don't know how, but he better.

That felt great, I've been waiting to do that for a while now. School and my own fanfiction project have kept me from replying.
I'm sorry for my absense.

Back to other matters, that really sucks that the next chapter will be delayed, believe me I get the feeling. I hope you can reconstruct the missing portions of the chapter, good luck on that, honestly.

Well, that's about all I have to say...great chapter, even greater fic.

Yep, that about sums it up,

Knightfall signing off...;005;
 
PM about this chapter = YAY!
I mean, now we have to wait for the next chapter, but still...

“Do you think he'll come back to get us out of here?”

Kester considered. On the face of it, the answer seemed quite obvious.
The crew from TTMGTDTU! Huzzah!
I agree with knightfall completely, the false names scene was uttterly hilarious. :) Pity Iago didn't have a chance to take the mick out of anyone.

But not by my hand. You're just a Duskull, after all. No, she continued, burning eyes snapping around to stare straight through Bond, I want that child.

The reason I pick this out is because you forgot to italicize (is that how you spell it?) the Mismagius' speech.

So yeah, another great chapter as always. I agree with knightfall on Bond's epicness with dealing with the Mismagius, although I'll admit I was surprised when Pigzie Doodle turned out to not have been destroyed.
*settles down to wait for Cutlerine to defeat her naughty version of OpenOffice*
 

Ga'Hooleone

Who's laughing now?
Since from what I've read, you really like references, so I'mma assume this is Skuld we're referring to here as the all-powerful ghost.

@knightfall Anthea was the name of one of the caretakers of N, if that is what you're referring to.

Well, back to silent reading and educated predictions for me I guess! I like the way you pulled that cliffhanger, it was beautiful haha.
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Wow..it has been waaaay too long since I've posted here, but I have returned none-the-less!
I think I'll save my apology for the end of this review, let us begin!

It's true, they never show the fact that characters sleep, or rest, usually it's all action or whatnot.

Yeah. Pearl has a lot to learn.


Fifty-four? Wow, I didn't expect there to be so many biotech labs in that rain soaked marsh puddle. I guess it's the cooler/humid climate that makes it a sutible enviroment for that sort of thing. Also, I'm pretty sure Anthea Labs. is a reference to something...I just can't put my finger on it.

Oh well, food for thought.

The climate has nothing to do with it. If you must know, it's because back in the eighties, after Ingen's collapse, a rival company called Sorghum Genetics bought up the remnants of the company and relocated to Sinnoh, a country with notoriously lax bioethics regulations. They settled in Pastoria, and three years later, the rumours of the monsters running wild on the moors started up. Since then, a great many biotechnology concerns have been attracted to Pastoria because of Sorghum's presence and success, and the loose laws.

As for the reference, it sounds a bit like both 'Angel Laboratories', from The Thinking Man's Guide to Destroying the World, and Aperture Laboratories, which needs no introduction. I drew the name 'Anthea' itself from, for no particular reason, Five Children and It, the classic children's novel by Edith Nesbit, and from its two sequels (which get progressively weirder and weirder, by the way). Oh yeah, and the laboratory that they're actually going to is a reference too; it doesn't make any sense, but it is.

Once again, I wish your description of the cities actually matched the games, they would be so much more interesting.

The games don't provide enough description, so I make Sinnoh my own way - which is to say, I utilise the 'make them sort of realistic but not really' technique.

Representing the classiness of the upper class even in death, I like Bond even more.

It is a little known fact that manners and politeness are more effective aganist ghosts than holy water.
Kill them with you manners, Bond! Kill them with your manners!

..................Words cannot express the total epicness that Bond is demonstrating right now..... Bond is my new hero...

Mm. Bond is, it seems, quite a popular character, and I can see why. He is cool in both the modern sense and the older sense of the word.

A question that most likely won't get answered until the next chapter, and even than it will be a vauge explaination. I doubt if anyone will ever know what "exactly is going on" in these fics.

Even I don't know exactly what's going on; I know what the end is (roughly) but it's quite difficult to fully comprehend without writing it down.

PM about this chapter = YAY!
I mean, now we have to wait for the next chapter, but still...


The crew from TTMGTDTU! Huzzah!
I agree with knightfall completely, the false names scene was uttterly hilarious. :) Pity Iago didn't have a chance to take the mick out of anyone.

The reason I pick this out is because you forgot to italicize (is that how you spell it?) the Mismagius' speech.

I keep missing that. Thanks for spotting it.

So yeah, another great chapter as always. I agree with knightfall on Bond's epicness with dealing with the Mismagius, although I'll admit I was surprised when Pigzie Doodle turned out to not have been destroyed.
*settles down to wait for Cutlerine to defeat her naughty version of OpenOffice*

Well, I couldn't have him killed just like that, could I? He hasn't served his purpose yet. Besides, no one could've eaten him if he'd been destroyed; I assume the Mismagius was saving him for one of her cohorts, or possibly a snack later.

As for OpenOffice... well, it's working again now, but I've still lost the chapter. I've rewritten about half of it, but it's slow work, I'm afraid. There was some good stuff in the previous version, and I keep having to stop and try to remember it.

Since from what I've read, you really like references, so I'mma assume this is Skuld we're referring to here as the all-powerful ghost.

@knightfall Anthea was the name of one of the caretakers of N, if that is what you're referring to.

Well, back to silent reading and educated predictions for me I guess! I like the way you pulled that cliffhanger, it was beautiful haha.

That's Bond for you. The man has a gift; he does cliffhangers like no one else.

Huh. Back to writing, I suppose. Got to get this chapter back on track!

F.A.B.
 
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Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Chapter Twenty-Six: In Which Crasher Wake Reappears

'Much like the mods and rockers of 1960s Britain, the Goths and hipsters of Sinnoh are violent enemies, and have been ever since they discovered each others' existence. Perpetually warring over which subculture is the more nonconformist and counter-cultural, they have been responsible for the largest gang wars of recent Sinnish history – the most infamous, the famous Sunyshore battle of 2009, resulted in sixty-nine arrests and left fourteen people in hospital. However, the fights rarely last very long: the hipsters cannot remain long all in one place, because otherwise they stop being hipsters, and so they tend to disperse after half an hour.'
—Emilia Hawthorne, The Tourist's Guide to Sinnoh

The city at night. In the south, the chimneys of the industrial district cut across the eye of the moon; in the west, the townhouses of the rich gaze smugly down from their lofty perches in the Coronet foothills. Most are asleep in bed, and those who are not are inside, sheltering from the cold and the Ghosts. Another night in Hearthome.

Through the night came a blurring orange comet, blitzing through the streets like a bullet, trailing blue lightning in its wake. It tore down a residential road, setting a horde of tame Growlithe barking wildly, and hurtled into a park, scattering the Shinx that had come out to feed. It zoomed across ponds, whizzed past factories, flew by Pokémarts.

Whoa, thought Puck to himself. I'm getting some serious déjà vu here.

He came to a halt by a distinctly sinister-looking car dealership and looked back down the street; if he was expecting pursuers, he was relieved, for it was empty.

I think I've lost them, he said. Good. Spiffing, you might say – but that would be tantamount to asking for a kick in the balls, so you probably wouldn't. He drifted higher up into the sky, and observed with interest a small stand-off occurring in a nearby street. Hey, look at that, he said. Ghosts – the human kind. You don't see many of them around these days. And a Frosla— He broke off abruptly. Hang on. Is that...?

Puck flew a little closer, and was rewarded by a faint, twisting pain in the core of his being – the wrenching ache that indicated his sense for other Ghosts was being overwhelmed.

Thundurus' spiky tail, he said, surprised and not a little alarmed. It's her. Puck flew closer still, and winced as the pain intensified dramatically. Yep. Definitely her. He backed away hurriedly, climbing higher into the night sky. Time to leave, I think. I'm not particularly interested in a reunion with her.

And with that, the Rotom shot away in a bright line of plasma, an orange star detached from the firmament, falling away to the horizon like a distant meteor.

---


Pastoria had never looked so nice: morning dawned and brought with it cloudless skies, without a hint of impending rain. Unfortunately, I really didn't have the energy to appreciate it – Ashley had only let me get to bed at about three o'clock and even with eight hours' sleep, I felt tired beyond all reasonable belief.

“Where the hell is all my energy?” I moaned sleepily at the ceiling. “How can I be this tired?”

All at once, I heard footsteps in the corridor, and I groaned loudly. That would be Ashley, wouldn't it?

There was a knock at the door.

“Pearl?”

Dead on. I closed my eyes and grimaced.

“All right, Ashley. Give me a minute.”

“You can have fifteen and then I need you downstairs,” he said. “It seems Crasher Wake has caught up with us.”

That woke me up.

“What?” I cried, sitting up. “What do you mean?”

“I went for a walk early this morning,” he told me, “and saw a taxi coming down the road, sagging heavily on the right. Curious as to what could be causing such a bizarre phenomenon, I followed it to the traffic lights and peered in at the window.” So deep was the following sigh that I heard it clearly through the door. “You can imagine what I found there – Wake was staring out at me. I made away as swiftly as I could, but I was close to the hotel and he turned up in the lobby a few minutes later, asking after me. He had the taxi door wedged around his waist; it seems he'd destroyed it while getting out. Huh. It would have been funny, had he not been so very annoying.”

“So what do we now?” I asked.

“We are to go to Pastoria's main police station,” Ashley replied. “Wake wanted me to come immediately, but I said I would wait for you to wake up first.”

“Oh!” I said, oddly touched. “Thanks. That was nice of you.”

“I assure you, it's more selfish than it sounds. I don't particularly want to face Wake without support.”

“That's still nice,” I said. “It's gratifying to be chosen as someone's moral support.”

“Oh no, it's purely massive support. In order to balance out Wake's one hundred and fifty-six kilograms, I'm going to need to add both Iago's forty-three and your fifty-five kilograms to my forty-nine. Though even with that, I think he's going to dominate the room.” He sighed again. “Anyway, I'll see you downstairs.”

I glared at the door.

“It's fifty-three,” I muttered crossly, and gave his retreating footsteps the finger.

---

She was tall, and cold, and unimaginably beautiful.

And Ellen knew at once that they were all going to die.

The ice-white apparition before them was terrifying – not because of any defect in her looks, but precisely because of that chill beauty she possessed. Those glittering eyes; that shining skin – even her shape, long and curved and curiously boneless, seemed without peer in the entire human race. Ellen, Bond and Pigzie Doodle were looking at perfection.

And true perfection is impossible, and so it was that Ellen fainted dead away in fear.

Oh no, breathed Pigzie Doodle. Jeeves, grab the kid and get out of here.

Bond did not move. He could not hear the Duskull, it is true, but any butler in his right mind would have immediately sprung to his mistress' aid in such a situation, and he remained standing there, staring straight ahead into the Froslass' eyes.

No no nonono! cried Pigzie Doodle. Don't look at her! Just grab the kid and get me the hell out of here!

The Froslass drifted back slightly, extending a hand, and Bond took an uncertain step forwards.

OK then, ditch the kid and just save me! We'll work out a system of winks for communication – just don't look at her and get the hell out of here!

Bond did not break his gaze. He hadn't so much as blinked throughout the entire time that the Froslass had been in his field of vision, and now he took another step forwards.

Oh, Christ, moaned the Duskull, ineffectually trying to pull himself back into a single cohesive shape. Don't you get it? She only seduces you so she can EAT YOU!

Whether the sudden sharp increase in the volume of Pigzie Doodle's voice had finally broken whatever barrier kept it from Bond's mind, or whether some other unknown stimulant checked him, Bond stopped abruptly, one foot still in the air. He lowered it carefully to the ground, cleared his throat and said, without removing his eyes from the Froslass:

“Madam, if you would be so good as to step aside, my mistress and I would like to pass.”

The Froslass froze. She had been doing this for three and a half thousand years, and this had never happened before. Had she heard correctly? Had the ghost-man really just said what she thought he had?

Since no reply seemed forthcoming, Bond repeated the request.

“We are travelling along this pavement, madam. Would you please step aside? My mistress is the last representative of a very old and important family, and I'm sure you would understand as a fellow member of society that she therefore cannot be kept waiting.”

Bond had based this presumption that the Froslass was a 'member of society' partly on the status that the other Ghosts seemed to accord her, and partly out of an instinct for flattering those who were close to killing him. It did not seem to be having much effect, however; apparently, their aggressor was still somewhat stunned by the fact that he was resisting her. Bond failed to see what was so extraordinary about it; after all, he was a butler, and no butler worth his salt ever lets his emotions get the better of him – even if faced with the best succubus that Hell has to offer.

He's... what the hell? Pigzie Doodle's eye spun wildly in the puddle of his body. You're resisting it?

“Madam?” repeated Bond again. “If you would be so kind...”

The Froslass's ancient eyes narrowed, and she spread her arms. Bond noted the swirling ice crystals gathering in her palms, and hurriedly picked up Ellen with his free arm.
“In this case, madam,” he said rapidly, stepping out into the road, “I must regrettably push past you. I hope you won't take it personally—”

The first Ice Beam hit the ground an inch from his heels, and Bond broke into a run, tearing down the street at a speed only attainable when one's continued existence is under extreme threat. From behind him came an ear-splitting shriek that burst the bulbs in the streetlights and sent a startled nightjar flapping from a tree, and a moment later Bond felt a wave of preternatural cold bearing down upon his back.

He resisted it! cried Pigzie Doodle weakly, staring wildly around. Can you credit it? I mean, he's been dead seventy years, but you wouldn't have thought the libido would've decayed that much...

“It would seem,” Bond muttered to himself as the street blurred past at breakneck pace, “that things have become tense again.”

With that, he devoted his energies wholly to running, and it would be no exaggeration to say that the longest night of Bond's afterlife was now well and truly underway.

---

Amazingly, Wednesday was still on duty at reception, and I had to wonder if the guy ever slept. He was leaning on the counter and talking animatedly to a man in thick glasses and his mousey wife, looking nothing like someone who had just spent at least fifteen hours (and probably more) on duty in a terminally dull job.

“...and so you see, that idiot killing that blasted otter was the worst possible thing,” he was saying in that rumbling, accented voice of his. “We couldn't go anywhere until we'd covered every last hair of its skin in gold. But,” he went on, “you didn't come here to listen to an old man ramble about his younger days. What was it you wanted?”

“A – a room, please,” said the man, looking slightly disconcerted.

“Ah, all right,” said Wednesday. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No. Is that a problem?”

“Yes, I'm afraid. There are no rooms available at present. Sorry, but you'll have to try somewhere else.”

The couple left, and I went up to the desk.

“Miss Gideon,” said Wednesday. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Ashley – the man who was with me – around here anywhere?”

“Mister Lacrimére? Yes, I saw him go into the restaurant earlier. He was probably going to avail himself of our all-morning buffet breakfast – as you may wish to as well,” he added courteously.

I thanked him and went in search of Ashley in the hotel's gloomy Gothic restaurant; I found him sitting opposite a rather jittery-looking man, separated from him by a small ocean of coffee cups.

“Ah, Pearl,” he said, noticing me. “I'm sorry I wasn't in the lobby; I'm having some trouble getting Mister Samson here to move.”

Mister Samson actually appeared to be having some considerable difficulty in stopping moving, from the look of him; I wasn't sure how much coffee he'd drunk, but from the look of him and the empty cups it was enough to give a Blissey a heart attack.

“Uh, hi,” I said. “What's going on?”

“When Wake found the hotel, he left this man from his Gym here to watch over us and make sure we come to the station,” explained Ashley. “His name is, as I've said, Samson, and he's a sailor by trade. He's also been drinking coffee here since half-three in the morning, and is consequently a little wired, as they say.”

“He's out of his sodding mind on caffeine,” said Iago more bluntly, appearing from somewhere to lounge against the back of a nearby chair. “Look, just tip him out of the chair into a cab and let's get on with this. I don't want to spend any longer with Wake than is absolutely necessary.”

“Right.” Ashley turned back to Samson. “Hello? Can we go now?”

All at once, Samson burst into life, springing to his feet and nearly overturning the table.

“Go? Yeah! Let's go! Come on! To the police station! Go!”

So saying, he ran so fast out of the restaurant that he didn't have time to open the door, and knocked it open with his face. This didn't seem to worry him unduly, and he waited for us in the lobby, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, without looking in the slightest like he was in any sort of pain.

“Oh joy,” said Iago. “I can tell this guy's going to be fun to have around.”

“Iago, would you do me the largest of favours and shut up?” asked Ashley sweetly. “Thank you. Now, come on. The sooner we leave, the greater the chance of us getting to the station before Mister Samson manages to do himself any serious injury.”

We left, Ashley guiding Samson gently through the doors, and after a short ride in Samson's car (during which Ashley insisted on driving, on the grounds that Samson was in no way fit to take the wheel) we pulled up outside the Pastoria Central Police Station, five doors down from Wake's ridiculously over-the-top ziggurat of a Gym and twelve up from the army recruitment office that had been blown up last year. We put Samson in a taxi home and went inside; here, at the merest mention – and sometimes even sight – of Ashley, we were waved through layers of security without question, and ended up in a modern-looking office that seemed to be chiefly occupied by a large quantity of Crasher Wake.

“Ashley!” he cried in a voice so vast it was a wonder it fit in the room. “Good to see you.”

“Yes, it's an absolute pleasure,” replied Ashley in that dry way of his. “Who is this?”

He looked past Crasher to a woman so small in comparison that I hadn't noticed her at first; she looked oddly familiar, but I couldn't place her face.

“D.C.I. Siobhan Rennet,” she said, extending a hand. “It's an honour to meet you, Mister Lacrimére—”

“Please, call me Ashley,” he replied, shaking it. “Lacrimére is only my surname for legal reasons; it's very difficult to obtain a Sinnish passport with only a forename.” He smiled, and for a brief moment seemed to turn on a high-powered beam of charm: his face lit up with a divine, dazzling beauty, and for a dizzying second I think everyone in the room – even Iago – fell half in love with him. Then the moment passed, and he was once more ordinary Ashley Lacrimére, as distant and dispassionate as ever. “Have I met your brother?” he added, as if nothing had happened. “He works in the Jubilife force, doesn't he?”

I realised then that that was why Rennet looked so familiar: she was related to Nathan Rennet, the inspector who'd interviewed me back at the Hinah District station. It seemed so long ago now; had that really just been the other day?

“My cousin,” corrected Rennet, who now, partly because she had lived in awe of Ashley for so long and partly because of his blast of handsomeness, seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “He's at the Hinah District Station.”

“Mm.” Ashley nodded. “That'll be it.”

“Um... should we get down to this bomb business?” asked Rennet. “I mean – that's why you're here, isn't it?”

Ashley gave Crasher a look.

“Wake, did you not tell D.C.I. Rennet—”

“Call me Siobhan—”

“Did you not tell Siobhan why I was being called here?” he finished.

Crasher looked sheepish.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “It slipped my mind.”

“I see,” said Iago acerbically. “That wouldn't be hard, would it? I mean, what with its incredibly small size and all.”

“Yeah,” agreed Crasher, apparently missing the insult. “A small point, easy to forget and all that.”

Iago squeezed his eyes shut.

“Give me strength,” he muttered, and slumped back against the wall.

“But don't worry!” Crasher went on, turning to Rennet (with some difficulty, as he was wedged pretty firmly into the corner). “Ashley will find the bomb. After all, he caught the Zodiac Killer, didn't he?”

Rennet frowned.

“But I thought that was never solved—”

“That,” said Ashley, pinching the bridge of his nose in despair, “was highly classified information, Wake. And it wasn't catching as such, it was more of a... a tense battle to the death between man and machine. Anyway,” he said, moving on swiftly, “you are correct, Siobhan, I am here to investigate the bombings. I suppose it's too much to ask that Crasher told you what I asked him to look into, is it?”

“Those three names? Ernest Sargasso, Anne Richards and Nestor Schultze?”

“Oh. He did.” Ashley nodded his thanks at Crasher; if there was any mockery in the gesture, it was so subtle that I missed it, and therefore so did he. “Excellent. Pearl, Iago, you weren't awake at the time, but when I said I would come to the station later, I told Wake to use the intervening hours to investigate those three people we found.”

“I thought we were going to do that?” I asked, though I was secretly quite relieved; I thought that divining the old man's life would probably have been a little too much for an amateur detective like me.

“The police can do it faster,” he replied. “They have more resources and more manpower; we would have lost a whole day in following up the leads, whereas I suspect that Siobhan might have results already.”

“We do,” she confirmed, spreading some documents over her desk. “We put everyone we could spare on it, and we've already got quite a bit of information. The biggest part is that they were all found early this morning tied up in the Jeffrey Lebowski—”

“Yes, we know that,” said Ashley impatiently. “That's where we found them; they were left there as a clue for us by Team Galactic.”

“Ah. OK, that's one mystery solved.” Rennet paused. “Could we go openly against Galactic, do you think? Mount a proper police inquiry and raid their premises?”

Ashley shook his head.

“You wouldn't come up with anything,” he replied. “There will be full deniability, I'm sure; if pressed, they'll throw all the blame on the grunts they have on the ground and say it was nothing to do with them – and I'm certain that they'll have ample evidence prepared to prove that that's true. No, if we want to catch the Galactics, we'll have to work beyond the law – which means I do it.”

“Right. Uh, the people. Well, the other thing about them is that they're all criminals.”

“I suspected something like that,” said Ashley. “Carry on.”

“Ernest Sargasso – the older man – he's a retired soldier. He served in the Sinnish contribution to the UN force in Korea during the war, and although it was never proved, it seems pretty likely that he committed a few war crimes – rapes, murders, that sort of thing. Once he got back he was pulled in for a series of petty thefts and vandalisms over the years – even one count of assault – but he was smart, and we never had anything to pin on him for certain. Then – well, do you remember the Branck case?”

We all did; it had been big news a couple of summers ago. A fifteen-year-old girl, Emilia Branck, had been murdered (and possibly raped, police had said) on a walking trip through the Celestic highlands, and her body hidden in a tall tree, where it remained unnoticed for months until one of the decaying wrists snapped and a hand fell onto a family picnic. The killer had never been found.

“He was the number one suspect when we started investigating that,” Rennet told us. “Everything pointed to him – but we just couldn't find any hard evidence, and we gave him up to investigate Chris Durrell. Though he didn't turn out to have done it, as you know.”

“Nice guy,” I commented. “Are they all like that?”

“No,” said Rennet. “Ann Richards is just an ordinary shoplifter. Not quite compulsive, but she's certainly at it a lot – thirteen convictions over the last five years. Mostly things from the World Bakery Store on Kammer Street – Linzertorte and stuff.”

“What's a Linzertorte?” asked Crasher.

“The Linzertorte, one of the oldest known recipes in Europe, if not the world, consists of a very short and crumbly pastry base topped with fruit preserves, most commonly redcurrant jam,” explained Ashley. “It is topped with a lattice of thin pastry strips and often eaten at—”

“It's like a big jam tart,” I told Crasher, seeing the look of confusion crystallising on his face.

“Ah,” he said. “OK. Go on.”

“That's about all we have on her as a criminal,” continued Rennet. “Richards doesn't seem to have much else against her; other than the shoplifting, she's an unremarkable citizen.”

“There's no such thing,” proclaimed Ashley. “What about Schultze?”

Rennet hesitated.

“I don't really know how to put this,” she admitted. “I've never come across anyone like him before.”

“Oh?” Ashley's eyes lit up. “Now, this sounds interesting. Do continue.”

“Frankly, he's insane,” said Rennet. “He thinks he's some sort of vampire or evil wizard or something – calls himself the Great Magyor. From what he's said and the journal he had on him, he's come to Pastoria to start building an army of the dead to destroy the living.”

“Fascinating. Have you tried contacting his parents?”

“We called his home address in Sunyshore, but there was no answer. Apparently he and his family are pretty reclusive – his parents more than him, since he's seen around Sunyshore a fair bit with some of the rougher Goths. He's been arrested a couple of times, too, for knife-fighting and drugs.”

Ashley nodded.

“You haven't let him go, have you?”

“No, we thought you might want to talk to him and we need to get him seen by a psychiatrist anyway, so he's still here,” said Rennet. “We had to let Sargasso and Richards go though, I'm afraid – we didn't have any grounds for holding them.”

“I know. Don't worry about it.”

Ashley fell silent and checked the time on his phone.

Did you want to speak to him?” asked Rennet.

“No, not right now,” said Ashley. “Thank you, Siobhan, you've been most informative. Keep looking into the lives of those three people – find out absolutely everything you can, no matter how irrelevant it may seem – and I'll be back later to hear it.”

He turned to me.

“Pearl, since you're liable to attempt to spy on me and otherwise be annoying if I don't invite you along, feel free to join me.”

With that, he opened the door, and probably would have walked out if I hadn't grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Wait! Ashley, where are you going?”

He sighed.

“I forget I hadn't told you,” he said. “Come on. We're going to the ice cream factory.”

---

Far to the north, further north even than Snowpoint, where the icebound forests give way to cliffs and the roaring ocean; where the skuas and the gannets shriek wild cries into the face of the wind and swoop screaming at the waves; where the occasional Sealeo hauls itself, worn out by the currents, to the stony scrap of beach at the base of the towering rockface – there, where there always seems to be a storm lashing at the deep in bleak, blind fury, and where authors get carried away on wild flights of Dickensian descriptive fantasy – there, a great ragged shape was silhouetted against the blank white sky, riding the blast like a spectral galleon at anchor.

Saturn blinked.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” confirmed Mars. “Yes, it is. Would you like to look through the binoculars?”

“Not really. It would be a bit disheartening.” He took them anyway, and peered out of the window of the jeep and across the empty space beyond the cliff. Yes, that was definitely what he thought it was, and it was definitely their target.

“What on earth is she doing, do you think?” he asked.

Mars shrugged.

“How am I supposed to know?” she replied. “She must do this often, or the boss wouldn't have told us to bring the Golbat.”

Jackson yawned in the back seat, and pressed one broad paw to the back of Mars' seat, an indication that he was now awake and desired food; she pushed it away, irritated.

“Not now. You eat too much as it is.”

Jackson's eyes flew open, and then immediately narrowed to thin slits. Eat too much? Him? That simply wasn't true. He wasn't fat at all. In fact, he was pretty damn svelte for a Purugly of his age...

He subsided into angry, rambling thoughts, and promptly forgot his hunger – which suited Mars fine.

“Anyway, I don't think we should fly out there and try and take her in the air,” she said. “It's too risky.”

“Agreed.” Saturn looked out of the window again. “But when are we going to get a chance? We've been here for two hours now, and she hasn't stopped doing this. She must be frozen solid by now.”

“She'll come back to land sometime soon,” Mars said. “She can't stay out there all night, or she really will freeze solid. We'll get her, don't worry. We just have to wait.”

Just then, the shape bucked under the impact of a particularly strong gust of wind, then turned and soared away overhead, speeding south with an ancient, bone-chilling roar.

“Like that,” said Mars, and Saturn gunned the engine. After several days of hunting and hours of waiting in freezing cold cars, it looked like the chase was finally on.

---

“OK, so are you going to explain this whole 'ice cream factory' thing to me or not?” I asked. “Because I don't see one around here, and I can't even begin to work out why we need to go to one.”

We were walking down a particularly Gothy-looking street, where the shops sold mainly black things with silver spikes on and silver things with black jewels on, and where virtually everyone in the crowd looked like they'd just come from the set of a Tim Burton film. This wasn't my world, and I felt ill at ease; from the looks I was getting, the people here didn't particularly appreciate being treated to a view of the latest in Sinnish fashion.

“We're making a stop to buy something on the way,” Ashley told me. “It's down here.”

“What are you buying? A goat's skull and some bat-shaped earrings?”

“Pearl, I can quite easily revert to treating you abysmally if you want me to.”

“OK, OK.” I sighed. “Why do you have to be so mysterious all the time?”

“He's an immortal shape-shifting detective,” pointed out Iago. “I think he probably has the right to be mysterious if he wants to.”

“Stay out of this,” I told him sharply. “You just make things worse.”

“Well, screw you too,” he said amiably, and startled whistling happily to himself.

“Come now,” said Ashley. “There's no need for such blatant hostilities. Let's keep our emotions under control, shall we?” I was about to deliver a cutting retort, but before I'd even got my mouth open he exclaimed, “Ah! We're here.”

I looked around, but saw no shops that looked like the sort that Ashley might ever consider entering.

“Are we?”

“Yes, we are,” he affirmed. “Give me your credit card, please.”

What?”

“Well, I have a limited allowance from the League and you have a considerably larger one from your father,” he explained with an air of infinite patience. “It makes sense for us to conserve my funds, doesn't it?”

“You mean I have to pay for everything? It makes sense for you, maybe.” I clamped my fingers down tightly on my bag. “You're not having it.”

Ashley smiled, turned and started to walk away.

“You probably ought to have done that a moment ago,” Iago told me.

“Done what?”

“Grabbed your bag.”

I looked down at it, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary; I looked up, and saw Ashley raise his hand to display one of my credit cards over his shoulder.

“What the—?” It took my mouth a minute to catch up with my brain, and then I cried: “Hey! Give that back!”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than he vanished into the crowd – and thanks to his long, dark coat, he blended in pretty well among the Goths. I searched fruitlessly for him for a moment, gave up and stamped my foot instead.

“Now that's what I call petulant,” observed Iago. “Foot-stamping and all. I suppose there's nothing like a spoilt rich girl for acting like a brat.”

“I'm perfectly justified in acting like this!” I cried. “He just stole my credit card!”

“He's borrowing it,” clarified the Kadabra. “I'm sure he'll give it back. And you know Ashley – he's got morals and all that, so he'll only take the money he needs from it. You won't get it back to find a hundred thousand dollars are missing or anything.”

“I'd better not,” I said darkly. “Look, that still doesn't excuse it—”

“See, if it was me,” Iago went on thoughtfully, completely ignoring me, “I'd steal everything that was on it and flee Sinnoh to pursue my lifelong dream.”

I waited, but it seemed that was all he was going to say.

“You're supposed to ask 'What's your lifelong dream, Iago?'” he said, slightly annoyed.

I sighed.

“What's your lifelong dream, Iago?”

“I'm going to retire to an island in the middle of the ocean,” he said. “Miles and miles away from any civilisation – a little craggy rock in the middle of nowhere. Then I'll build a big Gothic castle on the mountainous bit (there has to be a mountainous bit; it's important) and divert a river to run through it, travelling through a series of channels cut into the floor of the corridors. There'll be a grate at either end of the channels, so the barracuda don't swim out of the castle. Oh yeah – there are barracuda. That's what the channels are for. I'll put barracuda in them, and feed my political enemies to them. Of course, there's always the possibility that I won't have enough political enemies to keep my battery – that's the name for a group of barracuda – alive, so I'll have to set up a source of human flesh. I'll probably establish a little village in the forest on the island, and keep everyone inside trapped there by fear by having a genetically-engineered barracuda-bear patrol the woods. Actually, if that sort of technology is feasible by this point in time, I'll get a butler with a barracuda head. If it isn't, I'll make do with a regular butler and a trained Charizard. I'll also spy on the villagers, watch their culture and mythology evolve, and turn it into a hit soap opera.”

I stared at him.

“Jesus. You've really thought this through.”

“I know,” he replied, apparently without noticing my surprise. “Kadabra tend to do that, and I have quite a lot of time on my hands.”

“You also have a weird fascination with barracuda,” I pointed out.

“They're the most perfect fish in the ocean,” he replied. “I love them. They combine elegance and beauty with fearsome jaws, size and speed. What's not to like?”

“You are really weird.”

“Why is it that people always think I haven't noticed that?” He snorted. “Seriously, Pearl. Do you really think I could be a Kadabra who sounds like a Jamaican, used to be a world-class con artist and now lives under the protection of the Sinnish Pokémon League and not know that I'm weird?”

“OK, OK! There's no need to be so aggressive.”

“It's the best defence. Plus, I'm keeping you distracted and entertained while Ashley's away.”

“This is pretty far from entertaining—”

“Oh, no. Pearl's annoyed.” He clapped his hands to his cheeks and opened his mouth wide in mock horror. “Whatever will we do?”

I looked at him for a moment, considering whether punching a Kadabra would result in my arrest on combined charges of assault and assumed racial prejudice; eventually, I decided it would, but only if someone saw, and resolved to hit him the next time we were alone.

“I can't believe people as pointlessly nasty as you actually exist.”

Iago laughed, which produced a sound almost impossible to recognise as laughter and which caused passers-by to give us a wide berth.

“Stick around with Ashley and you will,” he said, with a sharp-toothed grin. “I guarantee it.” He looked up. “And speak of the devil, here he is now.”

I glanced down the street, but could see no one but the Goths; Ashley's hair was brown, which was fairly distinctive among all the black, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

“Where?” I asked. “I don't see him.”

“Right,” said a Goth, detaching himself from the crowd and coming to stand by us. “Here's your card back.”

I looked at him again, and froze, eyes wide in surprise.

Ashley?”

If I hadn't heard his voice, I probably never would have guessed it was him: in the few minutes he'd been gone, he had apparently dyed his hair, put on a hell of a lot of make-up, pierced his ears and completely changed his wardrobe for one with more of an emphasis on black, studs and skulls.

“You're a Goth,” I said, which was the first thing that came into my head and therefore sounded extremely stupid.

“Not really,” he replied. “It's a disguise.”

“You were fast,” commented Iago. “A new record, I think.”

I turned to him.

“He's done this before?”

“All the time,” said Ashley. “Cynthia likes it – and my continued liberty rests on keeping her happy. Haven't you noticed that she only wears black? She'd quite like to be a full-on Goth, I think, but it would be inappropriate for the Champion to be seen to be taking sides in the Goth/hipster war.”

“I wouldn't mind,” said Iago. “Let the Goths win, I say. They can't be as annoying as the hipsters. It's not humanly possible.”

Just in case this was some bizarre dream, I blinked hard – but when I opened my eyes, everything looked exactly the same as before. This was real all right; it just didn't seem to make any sense.

“OK,” I said slowly. “So you're disguised as a Goth. Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of this visit to the ice cream factory,” answered Ashley. “I need to pretend to be The Great Magyor.”

“Who?”

“Nestor Schultze.”

“Who?”

“The mentally unstable Goth boy.”

“Oh, right. The psycho kid.”

“Yes, all right. The 'psycho kid'.” Ashley spread his arms. “What do you think? If you'd never seen his face, could you confuse us?”

“Definitely,” I replied, staring at him.

“You're sure? I modelled the style of Goth on what he was wearing when we saw him last night, but I couldn't get a Cradle of Filth T-shirt, so I was not certain I would pass—”

“Ashley? Seriously. You look fine. And by fine I think I mean scary.”

“Excellent. Here's your card back, and let's go.”

I replaced my credit card in my purse without even thinking about how much he might have spent, and trailed after him down the street, still vaguely shell-shocked.

“How did you have time to dye your hair black and pierce your ears?” I asked at length. “I can see how, if you knew exactly what you were getting, you could buy the stuff and change, but you didn't have time to do that much.”

“My hair colour is mutable,” Ashley replied in an offhand manner. “I would have thought our little adventure in the warehouse in Veilstone would have taught you that I have quite a sophisticated command of my body's shape and appearance, Pearl.”

“You can change it at will? Oh, God, I'm jealous.”

He smiled, amused – something that was made significantly creepier by the fact that his lips were now as black as Iago's heart.

“Yes, I thought you might say that. I imagine you change yours relatively often.”

I did, actually. Last month my hair had been green, which hadn't suited me as much but which had let me spy on someone from within a bush without being seen at one point with relative ease.

“As for my ears, every time I have them pierced they heal over within moments of having the needle withdrawn, so I just forced the spike of the earrings through the lobes,” he replied, in such a casual voice that you would never have known he was describing something unspeakably painful. “It aches a little, but it will stop once I take them out.”

I shook my head.

“Jesus. You're weird.”

“Actually, since you called me weird too, two out of three of us in this group are weird and therefore constitute the norm,” said Iago. “So you're weird, Pearl.”

“Shut up,” I replied.

“How eloquent,” he retorted snidely, but said no more; it seemed he'd vented his quota of spleen for today.

“Have we finished fighting?” asked Ashley. “Good. Taxi!”

---

In Hearthome, something was breaking the silence.

It roared around corners and thundered down streets, skidded across plazas and zoomed over zebra crossings, all with a heedless disregard for anything in its path; its tyres crunched on tarmac and squealed on concrete, and its passengers hung on for dear life.

Ellen was convalescing in a semi-solid pile on the back seat, and Pigzie Doodle was desperately trying to gather himself on the plate of his face; Bond, however, was sitting bolt upright, spectral knuckles white on the steering wheel, every ounce of his considerable stores of concentration bent upon one object: getting them and the car to the station intact.
For they did not drive alone that night. They had a pursuer, and she was possessed of the capability to hurl both beams of ice and ominous balls of shadow at them. And she was, Bond thought as he swerved around a statue, very unstinting with both.

He had been driving for fifteen minutes now, and he still hadn't found the station; the problem was, he had no idea where it was, and had just been heading in the same general direction that they had been travelling in before. Unfortunately for him, it seemed the Froslass knew the streets somewhat better than he did, and kept appearing unexpectedly at the side or in front of them, from which position she seemed to be a much better shot.

Another impact made the car rock on its wheels, and Bond raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

“Dear me,” he murmured. “I fear this car will be quite unusable when we are done with it.”

You're telling me! cried Pigzie Doodle. For God's sake man, listen to me! Open up your – your inner ears or whatever and listen! Take a left here and then – no, I said a left – oh, sod it all, we're going to die.

Bond, wholly oblivious to the Duskull's pessimistic ramblings, turned left and came face to face with a sign proclaiming that Sinnish General Gas was examining a mains pipe up ahead, and would he please use another route—

Bond, unwavering, drove straight through the sign.

Uh, you do know what that sign meant, right? asked Pigzie Doodle nervously. There's going to be a big hole in the road. A really big hole, if it's a mains pipe. Jeeves, please tell me you're not driving into a big hole in the road—

Bond noticed a big hole in the road.

“Ah,” said he, noticing also that the speedometer told him they were travelling towards the big hole at seventy miles an hour. And “Ah,” said he again, noticing also that their Ghostly pursuer was gaining on them from behind. And “Ah,” said he a final time, noticing, as they drew near, the extreme depth of the hole.

There was no hesitation in Bond's eyes as he pressed his foot down still harder on the accelerator.

Oh no, breathed Pigzie Doodle. Oh no. Nonononono. Don't you even think about it—

Bond went one better than thinking about it: he did it. One of the car's front wheels passed over a sign resting at an angle, and the right half of the chassis followed it up and off the ground; at terrifying, giddying speed, the sinister black car flipped over sideways, flying through the air and descending, now upside-down, now sideways, towards the road on the other side—

—only to finish turning and land, with a spectacular impact that flung even Bond a little way from his seat, on all four wheels once again, having turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees in midair.

“I see,” said Bond thoughtfully, not allowing the car to slow even for a moment. “This motor-car must be designed for use in stunts.”

Holy cal!
screamed Pigzie Doodle, hysterical now. Are you serious? Are you actually sodding serious? Cars can't do that in real life! And then, his hysteria suddenly evaporating: But I suppose we're avoiding the Froslass now, which is... um, which is great. Uh, keep it up, Jeeves. Bond. Whatever your name really is. A thin tendril of darkness rose timidly up from the puddle of his body, bearing his eye on top. I... hey! We're really close to the station! Right here! Turn RIGHT!

By a happy coincidence, Bond did indeed turn right, just as twin Ice Beams shot through where its rear window had been a second before, and a moment later he brought the motor-car to an elegant, skidding halt next to the ticket office.

The man inside stared out at an apparently empty, completely ruined car, and said timidly:

“Hello?”

A moment later, the doors of the car sprung open, and something white swooped out of the sky with a fearsome screech; at this, the ticket man decided it would be best to close the booth, and lowered the steel shutters over the window, closing out whatever insanity lurked outside. He must, he thought, sitting trembling behind the counter, have been mad to have taken the night shift here. He'd heard the stories, just like everyone else – of Ghosts that came in the night, eager to drain the minds and souls of any human they met – but he'd thought they always happened to someone else, and now they were here, real and bursting into his life with screams and wrecked cars...

Leaving the ticket man to his private misery, Bond sprinted for the platform, Ellen over his shoulder and Pigzie Doodle cradled in the crook of one arm. It wasn't as elegant as he would have liked, but when one was running for the life of one's employer, he supposed that no half-decent butler could do anything else.

His eyes shot up towards the electronic display hanging from the roof, and the quick mind behind them instantly divined its purpose.

“There's a train leaving in one minute from Platform Two,” Bond read to himself. “How fortuitous.”

A shriek reminded him of their pursuer, and he jumped off the edge of the platform down onto the tracks, throwing Ellen and Pigzie Doodle up to the other side and climbing up himself. Millimetres from his coat-tails, a Shadow Ball exploded as it hit the rails; shards of wood and iron sprayed high into the air, but Bond ignored them and snatched up his burdens once again.

“This is Platform Two, is it?” he muttered, looking around in distaste. “Hm. I'm not entirely sure I approve.”

This was said in regard to the fact that Platform Two, like the rest of Hearthome's main railway station, was made mostly out of concrete – but there was no time for aesthetic critiques now, Bond knew, and he ran for the train—

—only for it to start moving, just as he came close enough to press the button for the doors.

Sprinting alongside the train faster than he had ever been able to in life, Bond threw first Ellen, then Pigzie Doodle aboard; he was about to leap for the door himself, but the edge of an Ice Beam clipped his left heel and he stumbled, almost falling. In that one moment, the train began to accelerate, and the door vanished into the night with alarming speed.

Bond raised both eyebrows. It was an extreme reaction, but the situation called for it.

Recovering his balance, he ran along the platform as if the hounds of hell were after him – and indeed, something almost as horrific was. Cheered by the sight of her prey flagging, the Froslass redoubled her efforts, and now Bond's view of the train was obscured by dark flashes and shining crystals. He had been about to leap, but could no longer see where he was jumping; wary of falling and forever losing the train, he pulled back at the last moment.

A quick glance ahead confirmed a suspicion of his. He was running out of platform. Bond switched his gaze back to the train, and it became apparent that things were even worse than that: the train was pulling away from him, and now he was level with only the last carriage.

Three yards to the end of the platform, and a Shadow Ball hit the carriage, making it rock on its tracks. Bond sped up still further, pushing his ectoplasm to the limit.

Two yards, and he was level with the lights on the back of the train. The Froslass crowed in triumph; she knew that now there was no way her prey was escaping her.

One yard, and the train was ahead of Bond now, further than his arms could reach.

The end of the platform—

—and Bond leaped out from the edge, grabbing wildly for something, anything at all to arrest his fall—

—and his left hand closed around some sort of pole, some metallic protuberance on the train's back, and he hauled himself clear of the tracks, up the side and onto the roof.

Bond turned, straightened his tie and watched the Froslass shrinking into the night, her screams of fury fading with the increasing distance. He bowed as best as he could while clinging to a roof (after all, that was merely common courtesy) and then inched his way along the train, pressed flat to the steel to shield himself from the wind, until he reached the open door, where he slid down and into the carriage.

He sighed with satisfaction, shut the door and carried Ellen and Pigzie Doodle to the nearest empty seats – which were very near indeed, as the carriage was wholly unoccupied. A moment later, Ellen, who was looking more solid and human-shaped, blinked uncertainly and sat up.

“What happened?” she asked, looking around. “Oh! We got to the station. Did – how did we escape?”

Bond's shoulders moved in an almost imperceptible shrug.

“I simply drove us here, madam. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Oh. Good.”

And the train rattled on into the night, bearing its passengers westwards – and out of Hearthome.
 
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Oh, Christ, moaned the Duskull, ineffectually trying to pull himself back into a single cohesive shape. Don't you get it? She only seduces you so she can EAT YOU!

Whether the sudden sharp increase in the volume of Pigzie Doodle's voice had finally broken whatever barrier kept it from Bond's mind, or whether some other unknown stimulant checked him, Bond stopped abruptly, one foot still in the air. He lowered it carefully to the ground, cleared his throat and said, without removing his eyes from the Froslass:

“Madam, if you would be so good as to step aside, my mistress and I would like to pass.”

The Froslass froze. She had been doing this for three and a half thousand years, and this had never happened before. Had she heard correctly? Had the ghost-man really just said what she thought he had?

Bond is, truly, ONE HELL OF A BUTLER.

Bond went one better than thinking about it: he did it. One of the car's front wheels passed over a sign resting at an angle, and the right half of the chassis followed it up and off the ground; at terrifying, giddying speed, the sinister black car flipped over sideways, flying through the air and descending, now upside-down, now sideways, towards the road on the other side—

—only to finish turning and land, with a spectacular impact that flung even Bond a little way from his seat, on all four wheels once again, having turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees in midair.

I REPEAT, ONE HELL OF A BUTLER. :D

“What happened?” she asked, looking around. “Oh! We got to the station. Did – how did we escape?”

Bond's shoulders moved in an almost imperceptible shrug.

“I simply drove us here, madam. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Oh. Good.”

Just...SO MUCH butler epicness.

“Seriously, Pearl. Do you really think I could be a Kadabra who sounds like a Jamaican, used to be a world-class con artist and now lives under the protection of the Sinnish Pokémon League and not know that I'm weird?”
I'd forgotten the fact he has a Jamaican accent. When I read this, I went back and read his little ramble on his lifelong dream in a Jamaican accent, and it was even funnier than the first time round. XD

This was real all right; it just didn't seem to make any sense/

Weird slash there.

The section where Mars and Jupiter were in the north
where authors get carried away on wild flights of Dickensian descriptive fantasy
was very interesting, but I noticed that you referred to Jupiter as "he" all the way through, so you might want to fix that.

So yeah, another awesome chapter as always, made even better with the revealing of Bond's true epicness. By the way, I remember you using something called Nadsat in TTMGTDTU, and you use it again here occasionally, but what is it?
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Bond is, truly, ONE HELL OF A BUTLER.

You have no idea how much effort it's taken for me to hold back on the Kuroshitsuji references. Only Puck is allowed to make those, you see, and he hasn't met them yet.

I'd forgotten the fact he has a Jamaican accent. When I read this, I went back and read his little ramble on his lifelong dream in a Jamaican accent, and it was even funnier than the first time round. XD

I keep forgetting that too, actually, but it makes most of what he says hilarious.

Weird slash there.

The section where Mars and Jupiter were in the north was very interesting, but I noticed that you referred to Jupiter as "he" all the way through, so you might want to fix that.

So yeah, another awesome chapter as always, made even better with the revealing of Bond's true epicness. By the way, I remember you using something called Nadsat in TTMGTDTU, and you use it again here occasionally, but what is it?

Thanks for catching those mistakes - I'll go correct them. (When I wrote Jupiter, I meant Saturn.)

As for Nadsat, it's a neo-slang invented by Anthony Burgess for use in his famous book A Clockwork Orange. Fantastic book, great language. All the best droogs use it. I mean, if you don't, you're practically asking to be whipped in the gulliver with an oozy.

F.A.B.
 
You have no idea how much effort it's taken for me to hold back on the Kuroshitsuji references. Only Puck is allowed to make those, you see, and he hasn't met them yet.

*waits impatiently for Puck to meet Bond so that Kuroshitsuji epicness can ensue*

All the best droogs use it. I mean, if you don't, you're practically asking to be whipped in the gulliver with an oozy.

OK. Better go look that book up then, hadn't I? :)
 

DarknessInZero

<- Es mío! MÍO!
For Puck's sake....

I cannot believe it. I have missed SO FRICKIN' MANY CHAPTERS!!

Sorry, but school hacks away at my time. Oh, well. I haven't even finished to read what I missed.

Talk to you later.
 
Yes! I finally caught up!

Wow. Bond is...one hell of a butler(I'm not sure if you already made that reference, so I'll do it).

I have to say, this is great. Much better than 96 percent of the stuff on fanfiction.net.

So I'm guessing by your signature that Giratina will play some role in the story. Hmm...

PM list please?
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
Yeesh. It's been so long, and I've been so busy, but I'm finally back. I'll try and get a chapter up sometime soon, or I might end up forgetting about the story. Which would be a crying shame.

Yes! I finally caught up!

Wow. Bond is...one hell of a butler(I'm not sure if you already made that reference, so I'll do it).

I have to say, this is great. Much better than 96 percent of the stuff on fanfiction.net.

So I'm guessing by your signature that Giratina will play some role in the story. Hmm...

PM list please?

Thanks. You've been added to the list.

For Puck's sake....

I cannot believe it. I have missed SO FRICKIN' MANY CHAPTERS!!

Sorry, but school hacks away at my time. Oh, well. I haven't even finished to read what I missed.

Talk to you later.

Tell me about it. I've been so busy that there's going to be plenty of time for you to catch up.

*waits impatiently for Puck to meet Bond so that Kuroshitsuji epicness can ensue*



OK. Better go look that book up then, hadn't I? :)

Yes. It really is an excellent book.

F.A.B.
 

Cutlerine

Gone. Not coming back.
An oddly serious chapter, this time. Serious, and full of Pinter. Pinter Pinter Pinter. Say it enough and it stops sounding like a word.

Interlude: Recently


The year is 2008. In three years' time, I will meet Pearl Gideon for the first time. Now, I am meeting a different woman – no, not a woman. She is seventeen, still a girl, and she has come to view the monster she has inherited. I was warned she would be coming, and told to be nice. For once, I shall do as they say: she is young and naïve, and I am old and cunning, and I know that I can make her believe we are friends, or more than friends. And when she does that, she will let me go, and I can set my head back on my shoulders and see what new wonders have crystallised in the world outside. I can visit my enemy, in her house in Eterna City, and ask her how her daughter is. I can do so much – but only if I am free.

She approaches, and I concentrate, refining my eyes, my nose, my mouth into perfect versions of themselves, smoothing out every last flaw and enhancing every asset. In half a second, I have the most beautiful face on Earth, and as soon as the girl looks at me I know I have caught her.

I can't help but smile. This is far too easy.

“Ashley,” says Lucian, eyeing me with distrust, “this is Cynthia. She's the Champion now.”

I meet her eyes. They are grey, like mine; however, where mine are dull and cold with age, hers glow with youth and excitement.

“Cynthia,” I say, through cracked lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope we will get along better than your predecessor.”

Cynthia smiles, and my fate is sealed. In one week's time, my head will leave the vault for her office. Two weeks after that, I will be whole again, and one night after that, I will sleep with her. The morning after that, I will realise with a sense of dread that I am falling in love with her.

---

The year is 2009. One year ago, I met Cynthia Buckley for the first time. In two years' time, I will meet Pearl Gideon for the first time. Everything happens in autumn. All you have to do is follow the signs, and you will find a spine of leaves running through my life.

I am sitting in a kitchen, talking to my enemy. Her name is Alicia Walker, and fifteen years ago I ruined her life. I also ruined mine, but that is no concern of hers. I have many lifetimes to ruin; she only has one.

She wants compensation, she says. I nod. It can easily be arranged, and I would gladly give it even if it could not. What would she like? Of course. Money. Would she like a nicer house, a better car? Would she like her daughter to go to a good school, too? Would she like funds set aside for her later in life, so that she can do whatever she likes with her short human existence and remove one worry from her mother's head? Yes, that would be good too. Is there anything else I can offer? Yes. I could leave and never see her again. That would make the deal complete.

I hesitate, then nod. The contract on the table is amended, and I sign it. As I leave, I see a framed child's handprint on the wall. It is the size of my palm, and I reflect that I no longer have any conception of a time when my hand was that small. I remember it happened, but the nuances of it elude me.

I feel stupid. I wait until I have walked a block from the house, and then I cry. It is the first time in four hundred years.

---

I do not know what the year is, but everything is dark and I have forgotten my name.

---

The year is 2010. Two years ago, I met Cynthia Buckley for the first time. One year ago, I signed a contract and cried. In one year's time, I will meet Pearl Gideon for the first time. It is autumn again. Everything is linked; everything follows the same twisting fractal patterns. You just need to live long enough to see the shapes crystallise in the chaos.

I have just awoken from uneasy dreams of things past and things that may yet be. My heart is beating hard in my chest, and I remember now why I gave up sleep. I hate the dreams.

It is dark, but I can see everything perfectly: the framed print on the wall, the pattern on the curtains, Cynthia's hair, winding in long blonde rivers across the sheets. I can hear her heartbeat, a slow, steady pulse, and the breath of the Hoothoot outside. I can smell stale human bodies and distant sewage, and the delicate aroma of approaching rain.

I turn my head away and shut out the world, staring at Cynthia's face instead. I imagine it growing old as I stay young, the anguish increasing behind it. I tell myself that she cannot be different from the others. Everyone will hate me, in the end. Everyone will hate me and fear me, and then everyone will die. A list of names, stretching from now until doomsday, flickers through my mind: Amanda, Sally, Jane, Zyrie, Michael, Harvey – and hundreds more, the result of four hundred and fifty years of weakness. All dead.

Cynthia stirs in her sleep, and her arm snakes over my hip and around my waist. For a fleeting moment, I know what I should do: push it away, get up and leave. I will disappear completely, vanishing into the wilderness, and find someone who needs a God.

But I do not leave. I pull her close instead, and wrap my arms around her, feeling the warmth of her living flesh through my cold skin. Now, for tonight at least, I forget the future and the past, and drown myself in the moment.

I suppose I am a fool. But then again, who isn't?

---

Chapter Twenty-Seven: In Which We Discover the Importance of Being Gothic

'Sinnoh has a long and rich religious and mythological tradition, which has been almost completely obliterated by its readiness to embrace Western modernity. In fact, so complete was its conversion that by 1880, the state religion was Christianity and most of the current generation had never heard of Palkia, Arceus or Corthenus – names that would not be revived until the traditionalist revival of the 1960s.'

—Cynthia Buckley, The Undiscovered Land: Sinnoh Before Garborn

The ride was forty minutes of steadily-mounting depression as we drove through a series of increasingly derelict and run-down neighbourhoods; at the end, we were left standing in front of a pair of rusting iron gates in the centre of an industrial district that appeared to have been left to rot sometime around the year 1955. If the factory beyond them had ever produced ice cream during my lifetime, I would have been incredibly surprised; it looked old enough for everyone who had ever worked there to have died by now.

“This place is nasty,” I stated. “You'd better have a really good reason for dragging me out here.”

“Actually, you wanted to come,” Ashley replied. “And I never claimed this ice cream factory was still operational.”

Still operational? It looks older than the Lost Tower!”

“And that's not necessarily a bad thing,” he snapped, and I realised that he was older than the Lost Tower, too.

“Uh – no, it isn't,” I admitted. “I mean, my house is, like, three hundred years old, and I think it's great. Anyway,” I continued, changing the subject, “why are we here again?”

Ashley checked the time on his phone.

“We have twenty-six minutes,” he announced. “We have time. This way.”

He crossed the road, skirting a large pothole as he went, and Iago and I followed him for half a block down the street. After a while, he turned a corner and stopped, waiting for us to catch up.

“You wanted to know why we're here,” Ashley said. “This” – here he held up a folded piece of paper – “is why we're here.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“The paper he took from Schultze's wallet last night,” said Iago, frowning. “Ashley, what does it say?”

“'Magyor',” read Ashley, unfolding it. “'The meeting will take place at the abandoned Happy Miltank ice cream factory at half past one on Friday. I look forward to meeting you in person.'” He replaced it in his pocket, and said, “I think that's worth investigating, don't you?”

“So that's why you didn't want to question him until later,” I said. “You wanted to see what this was.”

Ashley shrugged.

“Something tells me this is worth looking into,” he told me. “And once I have that sense, I find it very difficult to leave a thing alone. You'll notice that the writer of the note has not met Schultze in person, so I think I ought to be able to fool them. We are roughly the same height and build, and I can do his accent easily enough.”

“What's my role in all this?” I asked eagerly.

“Stay back and don't give us away,” replied Ashley. “I hardly think the Great Magyor would ever be seen in the company of someone like you.”

It was disappointing, but it made sense; it just wouldn't be possible for me to join him. I was about as Gothic as a rubber duck.

Fine,” I sighed. “I'll stay out of the way.”

“I'll watch from the shadows,” said Iago. “You've been leaving me behind too much recently, Ashley. I need to keep a closer eye on you.”

Immediately, my suspicion that Iago was the Galactic mole flashed into my head: did he suspect Ashley of trying to hide things from him? I watched Ashley's reaction carefully, but saw nothing other than a casual nod.

“As you wish,” he said dryly. “It is your job, after all.”

“That's right, and without it I go straight to jail, so I need to do it properly.” Iago gave him an odd look.

“I'm perfectly well aware of that,” replied Ashley, with the faintest of smiles. “And as long as you don't compromise my disguise, I have no problem with you watching.”

“Good.” Iago rubbed his hands together. “Is it me, or is it getting colder?”

“It is,” I said, pointing at the black clouds gathering in the west. “Looks like the sun can't last in Pastoria.”

“More rain? Christ, wasn't it enough to rain all yesterday and last night?”

“Evidently not,” said Ashley. “Iago, get into position in the factory now. The person I'm meeting will probably turn up early and wait for me, so you need to get there before them if you want to hide.”

Iago nodded.

“Good idea,” he said. “But you have to come with me and stand just across the street, so I can still see you.”

“If you think it necessary.”

“I do.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“I'm not sure. Perhaps you could buy some coffee or something and wait?” suggested Ashley.

I looked around, and saw nothing but the endless wasteland of ruined factories.

“From where, exactly?”

“Alas, that is a question you must answer for yourself,” said Ashley, with a hint of the old sarcasm in his voice. “Pearl, I will tell you all that transpires, but now we have to go. Do what you will; I shall find you again.”

He turned and walked briskly away, his new coat catching a gust of wind and flying up behind him like the wings of a crow; Iago hurried after him, and as I watched them go, I couldn't help feeling like I was alone, that there was nothing really that connected me to them. They lived in a world of nocturnal investigation and clandestine meetings; I lived in the day, my existence predicated almost entirely on fashion and alcohol. All at once, I felt stupid: how could I ever expect to have participated in their world, to have solved any part of this mystery, to have ever done anything that they would consider worthwhile? Perhaps I should go back to Jubilife and beg the university not to kick me out, or perhaps I should just go right back to home to Corvada and forget the whole thing ever happened.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the feeling passed, and I remonstrated with myself for being so ridiculous: my life was at stake as much as anyone else's here; I had a right to be here. Besides, this was easily the most interesting thing ever to happen to me. I wasn't going to give it up just like that.

“But I still have no sodding idea where to get a coffee,” I muttered crossly, and trudged away in search of a café.

---

In the sky, the sun made a valiant last stand against the encroaching thunderheads; in the streets, people began to eye the clouds with unease, reaching for umbrellas or doubling their pace; in the Pinter Café, Liza drank hot chocolate and wondered how long she was going to have to stay in this miserable city.

“Is it time yet?” asked Tristan.

“No,” replied Liza shortly.

“Is it close?”

“Yes.”

“OK.” Tristan shivered a little. “I don't like waiting here. I mean, if the Diamond doesn't solve this, we all—”

“Don't mention it,” interrupted Liza, looking around to make sure no one had heard. “It's secret, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And I don't like being here any more than you do,” she continued. “It's not the danger – if anything, this mystery's probably too easy for Lacrimére – but this place is depressing.” She finished her chocolate, contemplated ordering another one and decided she'd have a blueberry muffin instead. “It's like a monument to the love of death.”

“I think that's why it's popular.”

“With Goths, yes. It's not a place for normal people.”

Tristan seemed to accept this, but Liza was now less certain herself: did she really consitute 'normal people'? Her memory only went back seven months, and those seven months had seen her kill more people than lived in the whole of Celestic Town – to say nothing of her occasional flashes of recollection of past years. She had a sneaking suspicion that 'normal' was not a word that could ever be applied to her.

Still, she wasn't a Goth, so she didn't care for the Victorian gloom that pervaded Pastoria. Normal nor not, that was something she could decide on.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked a helpful waiter, appearing at her side from nowhere.

“Yeah. Can I get a blueberry muffin, please?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“No. Thanks.”

The waiter paused for a long time, and Liza had just begun to get a sense of what was being left unsaid when he walked away.

“What was that about?” asked Tristan, looking puzzled.

“The weasel under the cocktail cabinet,” replied Liza, surprising herself with her own knowledge. “Come on. This is a themed café, remember.”

“It is?”

“Yes, you imbecile, it's— you know what? I can't be bothered.”

A moment later, the muffin arrived.

“Here you are, ma'am.” The waiter paused significantly. “I used to serve muffins all over the world. Well, all over the country.” He paused again. “I served them here once.”

With that, he left again, bringing mint tea to the elderly couple two tables away.

“OK, what was that about?” asked Tristan. His brow was so deeply furrowed with confusion that he could have held a coin with his forehead. “I really don't get this—”

“It's Pinter,” replied Liza. “What do you expect?”

“What the hell is Pinter?” asked Tristan in frustration, far too loudly; he drew disapproving stares and a very long and ominous silence from everyone else in the café.

“Tristan,” said Liza at length, “shut up.”

Cowed by the strangeness of the attack, Tristan did, and a few minutes later, his phone rang.

“Hello?” Immediately, he went pale, and handed it silently to Liza.

“What is it?” she asked, knowing exactly who was calling.

“Why can't I get you on your phone?”

“The battery broke. What is it?”

“Just a little status update,” came the reply. “We're almost done here, so if you can get back by tomorrow evening, we'll begin on Saturday morning.”

“Really? You're done?”

“Yes.” Cyrus sounded breathless, as if just saying the words was as exciting as the deed itself. “We'll have the chain by Sunday evening, I think, and then I thought we could get to the Pillar and set everything up by Tuesday morning.”

“And then we can wipe it all away,” said Liza. She was looking at the muffin, but her eyes were focused on something far more distant. “Every last dashed hope.”

“Everything,” agreed Cyrus. “And the world ends with a whimper, to give way to the new.”

“Nothing to look for any more,” Liza continued, as if she hadn't heard. “No need to search, because there are new lives to be had. Authentic existences.”

“Yes, there are.” Cyrus paused. “Now, finish up there and come back to Veilstone. I think the Diamond will have the mystery solved before the time limit, but it no longer matters; by the time he does, we should have a strong bargaining chip to keep him out of our affairs until they are so far advanced that there's nothing he can do.” Another pause; perhaps the atmosphere of the café was leaking down the phone line. “I'll see you there, Liza.”

“See you.”

Liza slid the phone shut and gave it back, eyes still unseeing. Then she glanced at the clock over the counter, came to a decision and stood up.

“Right,” she said to Tristan. “Come on, we're leaving.”

“It's time?”

“Yes. Come on, I need to change before we get there.”

She strode over to the counter and settled the bill; as she was counting out the money, the waiter said:

“You know, you could stay here. We have no women here.”

“That would leave my associate there without a woman in his group,” countered Liza. “The irony would be wonderful, yes, but he's too stupid to be left on his own. He'd probably manage to choke on his own breath.”

With that, she turned and almost ran out of the door in her haste, leaving a slightly nonplussed waiter behind her and trailing a rather confused Tristan in her wake.

---

There was a question on Bond's mind. It was a question of some importance, and one that he was slightly concerned about the answer to.

Namely: where on earth were they going?

He had not looked at where the train he had so hastily boarded was actually heading, nor did there seem to be any sign on board; from the rising hills and mountains through which they had been winding for the last couple of hours, they were heading west, but the twists and turns of the track to avoid the mountains had made it very difficult to work out which city they might be travelling to.

Beside him, Ellen was asleep, curled up into the seat-back; she might not need to sleep, but Bond thought it could hardly be bad for her. She was still young, after all, even if she had been in existence for decades, and was due her rest. On his other side was Pigzie Doodle, now reconstituted and hovering uneasily above the cushion.

I don't like this, he said abruptly, though no one heard. We're going west, which is exactly the opposite of where we want to be going. It's like trying to go from Moscow to St. Petersburg by way of Adelaide.

He drifted up to the window, peered out and sank down again, dissatisfied.

Nothing but sodding mountains, he grumbled. Did I ever tell you about me and mountains? There was no reply. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. It's not like you can hear me.

Bond, oblivious to the Duskull's attempts to communicate, glanced at Ellen to make sure she was still all right and settled down into thought. They had considered jumping off the train and heading back towards Pastoria to get the right one, perhaps hitching a lift on a train passing in the opposite direction, but if no such train were to pass, they would have a very long walk ahead of them, and it would delay them even more than heading to wherever they were and coming back again on the next train. In short, there was nothing to be done but wait – but it would be nice if they at least knew where they were going. One could prepare more easily if one had that much information at least.

“I suppose there's nothing we can do,” Bond said at last, leaning back into his seat. “Never mind. There can't be much further until we arrive.”

Well, technically you're right, Jeeves, but I like to know where I'm going. The last time I found myself on a train at random, I ended up in City 17. And I ain't no Free Man, so you can guess how that went. Pigzie Doodle sighed. I do realise you can't hear me, but I also find it hard to stop talking. Centuries of travelling alone does that to a person. Anyway, did I ever tell you about Mombasa? There was me, this Gastly and a Misdreavus called Sandy, and we thought it'd be a good idea to possess a couple of elephants...

As the train rattled on, his story continued, growing steadily more unbelievable and sadly no less unhearable.

---

Ashley leaned against a wall across the street from the abandoned factory, in the shadow of an alley-mouth; the only hint that he might have been there was the shine of the light on his spectacles. (He had put them back on so that he could see more clearly; he would remove them for the meeting.) Had you passed, you would not have noticed him; it was not due to the dark colour of his clothing, but rather his unnatural stillness, like that of a chameleon waiting for flies. No mammal could be so utterly motionless; not even his hair moved. The very air around him seemed to be dead; it was as if he had rusted in place, become no more than an extension of the wall.

Ahead of him, five minutes before the appointed meeting time, a figure in black crossed the road, climbed nimbly over the gates of the factory and dropped to the cracked tarmac on the other side. A second later, she was out of sight, and Ashley removed his glasses, slipping them into his pocket. He had seen what he needed to.

“A familiar gait,” he remarked to himself. “And I think that might be a wig.”

He crossed the street himself, felt his ears to make sure they weren't healing and forcing the earrings out, and jumped to the top of the gate; he balanced there for a moment, one foot on a corroded spike, and then dropped down, landing lightly on the ground below. He strode towards the doors, flung them open and advanced into the dark corridor beyond.

“You've been very naughty,” he said, pushing through another door and passing onto the factory floor. Without his glasses, everything was blurry, but he could still see straight through the dark, to the iron-beamed ceiling high above, and to the figure at the other end of the hall line, past the hulks of once-great machines and the broad, rusting vats. For some reason, his gift had enhanced his vision but not cured his short-sightedness. “You've made me waste a lot of Pearl's money on this disguise.”

“You saw through mine quickly,” replied the figure, turning to face him.

“I recognise your posture and the way you walk,” Ashley said, slowing to a walk and putting his glasses back on. “And you're wearing a wig, I think.”

“I'm not, actually.” She felt at her hair. “It's gone black.”

“How does that happen?”

“I dyed it. I think.” The figure frowned. “I'm not sure.”

Ashley drew level with her in the dark and sighed, taking hold of her arm.

“Who are you, Liza?”

“It doesn't matter,” she said, shaking him off. “I'm just here to make you waste time.”

“Let's waste some time, then,” said Ashley. “Come on. Come outside, and we'll sit in the sun.”

He moved to leave, but Liza remained where she was, and he turned to look back at her.

“What is it?”

“What are you up to?” she asked suspiciously.

“You intrigue me,” he told her truthfully. “I'd like to talk to you.”

“I'm not going to tell you anything.”

Ashley smiled.

“You can believe that, if you like,” he said. “Come on.”

Liza hesitated, then followed.

“You planted the note on Schultze?” asked Ashley conversationally, as they walked back to the door.

“Yes. When we kidnapped him.”

“Hm. I – oh!” While they were inside, the gathering clouds appeared to have burst, and now the rain was battering the world outside as if it were trying its best to kill it. “Ah. Well, we can sit here, I suppose.”

Ashley looked around the lobby, found the upper half of an office chair and set it upright on a crate for Liza to sit on; for himself, he dragged part of a broken desk over and dropped onto it with a satisfied noise.

“Please,” he said. “Sit.” Liza sat. “Good. Now, you want to waste my time. That's fine by me; we both know that I am going to solve this mystery and disarm the bomb before it goes off. I also happen to want to have a nice talk with you, because I want to find some things out about you. So you see how everyone's objectives coincide here – wonderfully convenient, I think.”

“I said I wouldn't tell you anything,” repeated Liza, though she sounded less certain now. She was already confused; she was an easy target. A little longer, and Ashley would have her.

“We are alike, you and I,” he said. “Out of place. Adrift.” He smiled. “I think there's more, too.”

“What? Where are you going with this?”

“How much do you know about me?” asked Ashley, changing the subject. Liza was highly intelligent, but he could tell she wasn't herself right now; keep attacking from different angles, keep wearing her down, and he would have her mind in his hand. All the while, keep up the stare, keep up the smile, and grind her willpower down. There had only ever been a few people Ashley could not break, and Liza, he knew, would not be one of them.

“Everything,” she replied. “We know everything.”

He nodded.

“My origins?”

“Yes.”

“You know how I became this way?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you seek?”

“No—”

“Are you single?”

Liza started.

“What? What kind of question is that?”

Ashley gave her an innocent look.

“I'm finding out about you.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Because I'm curious.” Ashley smiled again, more gently. “I take it you are single, then.”

Liza stared at him, confused. Her hands were twisted into a fidgety ball in her lap, and she had one foot pressed down atop the other; if she would just raise her hands to her mouth, Ashley thought, she would look like Carpeaux's vision of Ugolino. That was a sure sign he was getting to her.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, composing herself with a visible effort, forcing both feet flat on the floor. “Look, I'm going to stay here to detain you, but whatever weird tricks you use, I'm not going to—”

“You already have,” said Ashley matter-of-factly. “There's a fracture at the heart of your consciousness, isn't there? A hole in your head – a door, is it? A door at the back of your mind, where the memories hammer on the wood and howl to be let out.”

It might have just been the Goth make-up, but Liza seemed to have gone very white.

“How do you know about the door?” she asked.

“I am a detective now,” Ashley replied. “But I was once more. If we go back to the earliest days – well, you know what I was.”

“A God,” whispered Liza. “Jesus Christ. He was right. You really are...”

Ashley grinned broadly.

“Oh yes,” he said. “There's more of us, you know – there always were. You know the rule of three? Three Nornir, three heads of Cerberus, nine rivers of Hades, twelve labours of Hercules – and three Old Gods of Sinnoh. Mythology must always work in threes, Liza.”

Liza swallowed hard, and Ashley could see her knuckles standing out white through the skin of her hands.

“What do you want?” she asked shakily.

“Exactly what I said a moment ago. I want to know everything about you, Liza, and if you don't tell me I shall have to make you.” Ashley paused. “And I don't think you would particularly enjoy that. So, whenever you're ready...” He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, and Liza licked dry lips.

“OK,” she said softly, voice cracking. “OK, I'll tell you everything. Just don't – please don't – you know...”

Ashley nodded calmingly. His yellow irises were growing, spreading out to drown the whites of his eyes in pools of incandescence.

“It's all right,” he said consolingly. “I shan't hurt you. Now, go on, Liza. Tell me everything...”
 
Ohhkay. I take it Liza is connected with one of the Creation Trio like Ashley is (presumably) connected to Dialga. Umm. Which one...

You were right, this is weird. I thought Ashley was just using Cynthia-actually having feelings for her would never have crossed my mind.

Cynthia is not a true Goth- a true Goth would want to make the country take side against the hipsters.

"shan't?" Exactly how old is Ashley?

Anyway, great chapters!
 
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