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Mable really wanted a coffee.
She paced around her office like a Furfrou bored with its toys. Analytical reports and strongly worded emails dissolved into scribbles as soon as she laid eyes on them, so what’s the point of looking at them? She chewed the inside of the mouth, reckoning the slight pain was better than performative productivity. Fletching songs and sunlight filtered through the dusty blinds, and Mable wished the day would end already.
Days at the Pokémon Research Center melted together. Conduct research, review results, argue with the idiotic mayor about the Wild Zones, try to promote her research reports to possible volunteers. It was all pointless, Mable soon realized. She had successfully avoided one prison by subjecting herself to another.
Coffee wasn't the best solution to her problem, and a one o’clock coffee break would definitely screw her sleep schedule, but Mable didn’t care. Her life was already one big mess, what was one more inconvenience? A jolt of caffeine from coffee so black and bitter that it’ll burn her taste buds would be a welcomed distraction.
Mable headed to the break room, following the scent of rancid coffee grounds. When she reached the break room, it was almost empty, save for two people lingering near the countertop. Mable recognized them. One was a heavy-set man who worked with the fossil restoration team. The other was a petite young woman who recently took up an internship with the research center. They spoke to each other in concerned tones, their bodies blocking Mable’s view of the coffee machine.
“Hello,” Mable chimed as she entered the break room. She secretly hoped the pair would have moved, talking their conversion to the table in the concerned. Instead, the intern gave her a nervous wave while the man ignored her entirely.
“You guys also got hit with the afternoon coffee craving one, huh?” Mable said with a thin veer of politeness. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll serve myself and leave.”
“Ah, well—” The intern stammered. “There’s a bit of a problem—”
“The coffee machine broke,” The heavy-set man said. He stepped aside, revealing the wounded coffee machine. A pool of brown liquid was growing underneath the machine, and steam bellowed out from its top lid. “Someone will probably fix or replace it. Eventually.”
Mable resisted the urge to groan. Yet another little problem to remind her how crappy her life was. “That’s fine,” Mable said, trying to keep her voice cool. “Do you mind doing a favor then? I really need a cup of the good stuff now, and I’m tied up in some business. Do you mind picking up an order for me? If you also want to order something, I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh. Thank you.” The intern perked up. “Do you drink an Ember or Flamethrower Roast?”
The heavy-set man lazily put his arm in front of the intern. “Nah, don’t. We’ve got our own work to catch up. Acting Director Rieger can go by herself.” His gaze fell downward, right here an ankle monitor was attached to Mable’s leg.
The intern followed his gaze; shock plastered on her face. “But why–
“You know, forget it,” Mable said. It wasn’t like her parole was much of a secret. Her face felt as hot as a burnt cup of coffee. “I shouldn’t be drinking caffeine at this time anyway. Thanks.” For nothing, she didn’t add as she turned to the door. The man didn’t say anything to her, instead leaning into the intern’s ear. Mable heard the intern’s horrified gasp from down the hallway.
As she stomped back to her office, Mable suppressed the urge to turn out and reprimand the grunts— her co-workers— for their disrespect. She had been nothing but amicable, yet that buffoon had aired out her dirty laundry before she even left the room. She was more than willing to let her past lay in rest with the ultimate weapon, though others felt the need to dig it up.
And for what? Mable didn’t know. All she knew was that the longer she worked at the center of research, the longer the illusion that was her second chance began to fade.
Reaching her office, Mable slammed the door shut. “Imbeciles,” she seethed. She kicked a trash can with her ankle monitor laden leg. It rolled to the other side of the room, stopping at the feet of another individual.
“What the hell are you doing here?’ Mable approached the stranger. His back was turned to her, staring intently at the array of photos on the wall. Each in their frame, the photos depicted every director of the research center since its founding. The man’s fingers creased the photo of Mable’s predecessor.
“I know this man.” The intruder’s voice was hauntingly familiar. He turned to her. Mable swallowed her shock as the intruder asked, “Where is he?”
Mable didn’t say anything. The man before her shouldn’t be alive. He should be buried underneath tons of pounds of dirt, his grave marked by the charred remains of the ultimate weapon.
He looked so different from the last time Mable saw him. His once voluminous fiery red mane had been shorn and bleached white. One of his eyes was sealed shut and others had an iridescent gleam to it. Instead of a well-tailored suit, he wore mismatched clothing likely snatched from the trash. Ceased leather loafers held together by fraying twine, a grimy puffer one size too small, and pants whose original color had faded into a muddy brown. The man before her looked like someone Lysandre would have uplifted from poverty once upon a time. And yet—
“How are you here?” Mable asked, wincing at the wobble in her voice. “You’re not supposed to be here. The explosion— “
“I asked you a question first,” Lysandre commanded. His good eye met hers, devoid of recognition. “Where is the man in the photo?”
“He’s away on an overseas research trip.” She gestured to the photo. “That’s Professor Sycamore.”
“Sycamore.” Lysandre grimaced. “No, that’s not the right name.”
“You used to call him by his first name. Augustine.” Mable motioned to her– Professor Sycamore's— desk. “Take a seat. I’ll explain as much as I can. It’s not much, but I got some cup noodles lying around.”
Lysandre nodded. “Understood. And thank you for the meal.”
Mable snatched two cup noodles from her desk drawer and darted out of the office before Lysandre could get settled. Her co-workers had thankfully abandoned the break room, and even the coffee machine was gone, though a ring of brown residue remained. The electrical kettle that took its place looked equally pitiful with its knotted electrical cord and crooked handle. Still, it was in working order. As Mable poured hot water into the cups, her hands trembled and her tongue threatened to slide down her throat.
That man wasn’t Lysandre; she tried to convince herself. He couldn’t be Lysandre. Lysandre would never subject himself to crappy salty noodles or wear wrinkled clothes. Surely, he had to be some confused vagrant with a passing familiarity with Professor Sycamore. Or maybe an illusion, caused by an infestation of ghosts lurking in the ceiling, feeds off her emotions.
And yet, Mable couldn’t lie to herself. They powered the ultimate weapon with Legendary Pokémon known for giving and taking life and imprisoned a mountain of a man who lived for 3,000 years. Whether any of those factors played a role in Lysandre’s survival, Mable couldn't be sure. What she could be sure of was that five years of presumed poverty had done little to wear down his regal aura.
Lysandre was staring intently at her chair when she returned to her office. “That wasn’t there before,” he said, pointing to a dart board with the mayor’s face pinned to the wall near Mable’s desk.
She shrugged. “Well, Professor Sycamore has been away for a while. I figured I’ll make myself comfortable.” As she slid into her seat, she placed one of the cup noodles and a plastic fork in front of Lysander. Instantly, he started picking it.
“So, your memories are gone, huh?” Mable asked. His inability to recognize her or Professor Sycamore was more than evidence regarding the state of his mind. She wondered, though, was his amnesiac a consequence of the ultimate weapon’s misfire, or a divine punishment from one of the Legendary Pokémon they scorned?
“Fragmented" is a better description. Individual feelings and isolated moments, I can recall. But I am left to assume the rest.” Lysandre said. Mable tried not to react as he downed a forkful of noodles. “I was a leader of an organization. I believed that the world’s resources were limited. So, I resorted to genocide to resolve a problem that only existed within my head.” With his eyebrows furled, he looked a little more like his old self. “I was a foolish man, burdened by his own ego.
Mable rolled her eyes. “Team Flare was fueled with nothing egos. Remember how Xerosic and Bryony kept arguing over who had the largest IQ,” she chuckled.
Lysandre gave her a quizzical look.
“Sorry about that. Xerosic and Bryony were among Team Flare’s leadership. As for me–” Mable offered her hand to Lysandre. “I’m Mable Rieger. Current acting director of the Pokémon Research Lab and former admin of Team Flare.”
“You were one of my people.” He didn’t reciprocate Mable’s attempt of handshake, instead opting to glance at the visor displayed on her desk. “And what became of the rest?”
“The authorities rounded us up. The feds caught Aliana, Bryony, Celosia and I when we attempted to flee from Genosenge.” Mable sunk back into her seat. “We were all offered plea deals. Confess our crimes, give up our research, and learn to play nice for a lighter sentence. The rest were too stubborn to take it.”
It wasn’t exactly the truth, but a detailed explanation wouldn’t have done Lysandre’s splintered memories much good anyway. The authorities hauled the admins into a cool dark hallway and shoved them each into separate cells. Through thick metal bars, Mable couldn’t see much beyond the empty cell across from her. Echoes reverted through the hall, too faded for Mable to make out its origin. If Aliana or Bryony or Celosia had bothered to call out towards the rest, she wouldn’t have known. If they noticed that she hadn’t bothered to call out to them, she wouldn’t have known.
After knowing how long, she was led into the dim introjection room, furnished with only two wobbly chairs and a table missing a leg. The officer hadn’t bothered to look at her as he sipped his coffee.
“How about this?” He asked between sips. “You confess everything and release your research to us, and we can move forward with a lighter sentence. Maybe even a plea deal with the judge is feeling generous. Remain silent, and well, you know.”
Mable knew. Not just about the consequences of what would happen, but also about the prisoner’s dilemma. If all the admins confessed, it was unlikely they would all receive plea deals. If they remained silent, well, the court could prosecute them on charges they didn’t know of. A two-person prisoner's dilemma was already complex enough. Four people had too many outcomes to keep track of.
The best outcome was for all patients to cooperate. To trust the others would intuitively act in the other’s best interest. Though, Mable was unsure if anyone in Team Flare could act selflessly.
They had tried and failed to kill the rest of the world for their benefit. Xerosic and Malva disappeared in the aftermath. And Lysandre was gone. So, what was one more selfish action?
Was it the right choice? Sitting in Professor Sycamore’s office, staring at what became her former boss, Mable wanted to think so.
“Xerosic spent some time trying to finish the Expansion Suit project before turning himself in and Malva fled from Kalos entirely,” Mable continued. “Some grunts got away, but Team Flare died alongside you.”
Lysandre set his empty cup down and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t recall any of those people you mentioned. Still, that’s no excuse for abandoning you.”
Mable shrugged. “Don’t apologize for that. Being presumed dead is more than a valid excuse.”
Most of Team Flare had managed to execute before the ultimate weapon exploded. Amidst the roaring of footsteps and the ultimate weapon firing, Mable faintly remembered seeing some poor grunt on the ground, struggling to pull themselves up against the tidal wide wave legs. Once the dust settled, first responders had found charred twisted corpses underneath the rubble. They’ve recovered barely intact bodies whose mouths were frozen in an eternal scream and pulled bones off rebar. Though numerous pathologists had tried to identify every corpse found among the rubble, there were too many too far gone. Too burnt, too destroyed, too inhuman looking to name the poor victim. Given he was last seen before the explosion, Mable assumed Lysandre was among the nameless corpses.
“How did you survive anyway?” Mable asked, examining Lysandre’s body. His thick, layered clothing covered most of his skin, though there weren’t any burn marks creeping onto his hands and neck. His sealed eyelid was rounded and pristine, inciting it the eye underneath hadn’t been gouged. The hair on his head disproved any notion of any scarring on his scalp. Team Flare Secret HQ had been reduced to its foundations, yet somehow Lysandre got away with nothing more than amnesia and a lame eye.
“My benefactor recused and nursed me back to health,” Lysandre replied. “I am in their debt.”
“And your benefactor is?”
“That is not for you to know. At least, not right now.” There was a hint of levity in the voice, as if the identity of his benefactor was more of a joke than a mystery. “The worst of my physical injuries have passed, though I have barely begun in terms of recovering my memory. Hence, my reason for coming here.”
Lysandre’s head swung back to the wall of directors, to Professor Sycamore’s photo. “I felt drawn to this place, drawn to my subconscious memories of Augustine. I recalled fragments of my growing disillusion being contrasted with someone else’s boundless love and compassion. Had I shared my burden with that someone—” His voice cracked. “I do not want to repeat the mistakes of my past, even though I can barely recall them.”
Mable nodded. She knew there was a time when Lysandre and Professor Sycamore were close to each other. Stopping by each other’s offices, suggesting they take a quick coffee break, and spend almost up to an hour chatting. She knew that around the time Lysandre laid the foundations for Team Flare, their gossip sessions shortened down to thirty minutes and then to fifteen, then to five. Still, that never stops Lysandre from bemoaning Professor Sycamore’s fate.
“Such a brilliant light that shines on too many people,” he had said one day after Professor Sycamore had visited Lysandre Café. He had kept his usual stony expression throughout Professor Sycamore’s visit, though it softened as soon as his friend departed. “It’ll be mercy that the ultimate weapon will snuff him out before the world does.”
Whatever they were to each other, Mable didn’t know or care. Whatever that relationship it was or could have been had been buried five years ago.
“I think he’ll forgive you,” Mable replied. “You know it, thanks to him, I’m in this position.”
It was Professor Sycamore who petitioned Mable to join the Pokémon Research Center. A perfumed letter and a passionate speech about how he would accept the burden had done wonders in convincing her probation officer. On her first, Professor Sycamore warmly greeted her at the center’s doors, while other researchers either averted their gaze or stared blankly at her ankle monitor.
She and the professor worked together on identifying newly discovered Mega Stones. When their efforts yielded new discoveries, she would always deny his offer of a celebratory dinner. She would excuse herself when Professor Sycamore attempted to introduce her to passing visitors and hesitated to attach her name to any research papers. Professor Sycamore's pleasantries and warm invitation were touching, but Mable knew deep down they wouldn’t change anything. She had a certain image, and although she changed her wardrobe and workplace, people wouldn’t forget what Team Flare had burned into their minds.
So, Mable was surprised when Professor Sycamore offered her his position.
“Why me?” Mable had asked. They were sitting in his office at the time. His open windows invited Pidgey’s perched on wind stills to watch and passersby on the sidewalk to listen in. At the very least, he had the decency to ask her behind closed doors, away from the curious eyes and ears of the other researchers.
Professor Sycamore gave her a charming smile. “Because you’re a hard-working, intelligent woman who deserves to be recognized for her efforts.”
“And I barely avoided a felony conviction for conspiracy and terrorism.” Mable groaned. “I don’t deserve this.”
“You’re probably right.” Professor Sycamore's smile remained pristine, though his fingers fiddled a Key Stone laying on his desk. “But you deserve a second chance.”
Mable snorted. “Second chance my ass.”
The professor sighed, his smile finally dropping. “Mable. Do you regret your actions?”
“Yes? No? Maybe?” Mable said. She stared at the Key Stone nestled in Professor Sycamore’s fingertips. “I don’t regret having actually acquired knowledge. Knowledge is power they say, and Mega Evolutions are nothing but an outburst of power.”
“And they’re proof of a powerful bond between person and Trainer,” Professor Sycamore stressed.
“Yeah, sure. Anyway, my prior research has been useful when it comes to analyzing newly discovered Mega Stones. But---” Her teeth clenched. “Were the methods wrong? Yes, I will admit that. And there’s no undoing the acquisition of knowledge.”
“But you could do some good with your discoveries. Not to justify your prior misdeeds, but to demonstrate you have learned to be better.” His smile reappeared on his face, though it wasn’t the same as before. The corners of his lips curled too high, and his eyes turned dark and still. “Not everyone gets a second chance. You should take this opportunity before it slips past you.”
At the time, Mable thought Professor Sycamore was offering general advice. People loved to talk about second chances and becoming a better version of themselves. People mess up all the time, though very few of them committed a sin as terrible as attempted mass genocide. But now, Mable wondered if his advice was more personalized than she thought. Something Professor Sycamore told her because the true recipient of his words was nothing more than a memory.
“I could let him know that you’re alright,” Mable told Lysandre. “Professor Sycamore took me in, so it’s not like he has anything against Team Flare.” Or you, she didn’t add.
“No. I appreciate your intentions, but I– I’m not ready.” Lysandre blinked away the tears forming in his good eye. “I thought I was but finding you here– It is easier to atone amidst the presence of strangers.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Mable replied. “I’ll keep your secret, but if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
An awkward pause filled the air. Lyandre’s lips twitched before bunching up. Mable watch, unsure to say herself. Back when they were Team Flare, their conversions had been professional, compromising mission reports and updates on the ultimate weapon. Conversions that were for exchanging information and nothing more. Even if they had managed to succeed, and they were among the last of the human population. Mable would never have imagined having a quiet talk with Lyandre.
With each passing second, their past drifted farther and farther from their present. What else was there to say about it beyond acknowledging their failings?
“I must be going now.” There was a creak in Lysandre’s voice as he shot up from his seat and hurried to the door. “Thank you for the food.”
“Wait, hold on,” Mable got up and followed him. Lysandre stood still as she scrambled to say, “Stay there and give me a few minutes.”
She grabbed the spare tote bag she left hooked on the coat hanger and darted around the third-floor office space, filling with whatever Lysandre needed or could use. Water bottles, dried snack mixes, and an unclaimed thermos from the break room. Wet wipes are kept in the custom closet. A pair of gloves snagged from the lost and found box and knit blanket kept hidden in the bookshelf for cold office days. A Goomy-shaped sticky note with her and Professor Sycamore’s contact information hastily written on it just in case.
It felt absurd to offer formerly famed philanthropist Lysandre a bag of basic supplies. His eyebrows went up in shock as she said, “This for you.”
He pushed the bag away. “This is far too generous.”
“You were a generous man once.” She shoved the bag into his chest. “Maybe, eventually, you’ll be able to give again.”
After a moment of hesitation, he took the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Lysandre gave her a small nod and even smaller smile as he exited the office. Mable didn’t follow him, opting to linger by the door. She heard the elector ding, the opening and closing of its door, and its rickey descend. Just like that, Lysandre was gone.
The next few hours were bizarrely normal. She finished her now cold noddles. She responded to the mayor’s annoying calls, forcing herself to sound as passive and polite as possible. She read reports, authorized new projects and even reorganized some office files as if her presumably dead boss hadn’t reappeared. Eventually the sunlight grew too weak to pierce through the blinds and birdsong gave way to ghostly chiming. Once the clock hit five o’clock, about to shut the office lights when she heard a knock and a bark at the window.
Pokémon bumping up against the window wasn’t too uncommon, though a bark was unexpected. Against common sense, Mable approached the window and opened the blinds. Whatever made the noise was gone, though Mable saw a green and black blurry leap off a nearby rooftop. In the wind still, there was a dented can with a crumpled note attached to it.
Liquid sploshed inside when Mable picked up, and although she was curious about its contents, she directed her attention to the note. Written in crisp cursive, it contained a short message.
Thank you. -L
Mable left the note on her desk and took the canned drink with her. As she left the Pokémon Center Research behind, she cracked it open and took a swig.
It was coffee. Lukewarm, sweet coffee with notes of vanilla and hazelnut. Not Mable’s usual order— she liked her coffee as dark and hot as a Houndoom’s coat— but she couldn’t fault Lysandre for it. If it was the best he could offer her—the best the consequences of their actions could offer either of them—then she’ll gladly take it.