PROLOGUE

The sky was a mouldy grey colour. Clouds were festering in clusters low to the ground making it impossible to see anything below out of the aeroplane window. Lance grabbed the hem of his cloak, balled it in his fist and scrubbed - with unnecessary force - at the oily fingerprints plastered across the thick acrylic, no doubt from the last inhabitant of the seat he was currently residing in. However, instead of improving the view, it merely impeded it more, smearing the grease across the whole window. Glaring at the marks as though they had done him a great injustice, he gave it up as a bad job and began rummaging around in his pocket for his iPod. He proceeded further into his dark mood as, in the process of his search for the small, rectangular device, his Pokénav slipped out of his trousers and clattered noisily to the floor beneath his seat. Growling, he bent forwards, snatching up the gadget and stuffing it back angrily where it belonged before slumping in his seat, arms folded huffily across his chest once the earphones were securely in his ears. Several passengers - who had been eyeing him shamelessly before he'd even taken his seat two hours before - finally averted their eyes while the teen fumed in his seat with an expression of loathing for the world on his face. Lance hated flying. It gave him an unpleasant sensation in his stomach and made him dizzy. The reason for his being in the plane, however, was not helping this tingling in his gut.

Lance nodded his head subconsciously to the beat of the song currently blaring out from his iPod and tuned the rest of the world out to think. This meeting he'd been called to was sudden. And if there was one thing the Pokémon G-men didn't do, sudden was it. These things were usually arranged at least thirty-six hours in advance and he'd never known, from what he'd been told about the organisation from the other members, for the leaders to call a meeting as sudden as this one. Then again, he was new.

He ran his hand through his spiky, red hair thoughtfully. Something had happened. He'd read it in the tone of the hurried email he'd picked up at six o'clock this morning, expecting to go to school. Jacobs' secretary only hurried her emails if she was being shouted at, and Jacobs only shouted if something was wrong. Lance backtracked and began thinking of the recent tasks he'd been assigned; a small raid with three other G-men at the Lake of Rage - and even then, he was only observing -, headline examination and a small computer hack on the S.S. Anne to uncover a drug smuggling involving an awful lot of Wigglytuffs. The only thing which struck him as being immediately ominous was the headline examination, and even then; this had been a mission - no, job given to him over a month ago. Headlines that old do not cause meetings this urgent seven weeks after they'd been recycled from everyone's minds.

The plane jerked violently and Lance sat bolt upright, alarming the woman sitting next to him. His hand flew to his belt before remembering that his Pokémon had been placed in the compartment above his head as a matter of law; another thing he hated about flying. He listened grouchily to the captain droning on about turbulence that was going to 'shake things up' for the foreseeable future and all passengers should remain in their seats.

Turbulence, he thought, bitterly, resuming his slouched position in the turgid plane seat. Dragonite could fly through a storm better than this smart-arse captain.

The one thing that irritated him the most about being a member of the Pokémon G-men was that they could afford all the technical equipment such as teleportation devices and complex transmitters but fall short when it came to the basic needs that the members required.

"They tell me I'm not allowed to fly on Dragonite but couldn't even buy me a bloody business class plane ticket!" he remembered howling down the phone to Amy this morning as his mother rang her hands at him for the use of bad language. "Tight-arse is redefined by my boss, the old sod."

Lance remembered wistfully the laughter these statement preceded these exclamations and felt a pang for his best friend. He remembered, with another unpleasant pang, trying out the same remark with Jennifer, his other best friend, and instead of the raucous giggling he'd received from the vivacious blonde, he'd received a small snicker before a disapproving "Lance!" in a squeaky voice she used when either deliriously happy or tipsy. The longing for his friends grew stronger when he recalled that hilarious night spent on his birthday when he and Amy were secretly spiking Jennifer's drinks with shots of various alcoholic beverages and watching, with growing amusement, as her actions became more animated and her speech became slurred and a lot louder than was considered normal.

Those were the good days from when he cared about school. From a foreign time where responsibility didn't exist and he could see his friends all the time. From when terrorist organisations had no place on the angst list of school crushes, social status and coursework.

From when his mother could wash his socks and he wouldn't be laughed at for it.

The plane landed badly and threw Lance head first into the seat in front. Apologising profusely to the person in said seat, who had been sipping from a bottle of ice-cold water at the time, he got up and reached up into the compartment, felt his way towards the five round objects he'd been itching for the whole duration of their time apart. Replacing the Poké balls in their rightful places - his belt - he made his way towards the exit. The other passengers stood back to let him pass, their eyes goggling as the youngest Johto Champion ever stalked past, cape swishing out of sight around the corner.

Once Lance had breezed his way through customs, he stood waiting, impressively intimidating anyone who dared look his way without even lifting a finger. His stance, he liked to think, was one of the things about his which made him all the more striking; his hair streaked across his head, concealing one of his hazel eyes and half of the other; his face, a clean slate blank of emotion; his cape held between each finger and thumb which was then wrapped around him, concealing his Pokémon and body beneath. He liked to think that he looked like a dragon when he flung his arms away from himself, the cape acting as the impressive, blood-red wings. He frowned slightly as he remembered one of the G-men - Wallace, he seemed to recall his name being - telling him quite happily that he looked more like a gender-confused Zubat. However, despite the fun-poking he endured, he had one fall-back point: he was tall. Very tall, considering his age. And whenever the other G-men took pride in poking the sleeping dragon with sticks, he always felt better knowing that he could match their height if it came to a physical brawl.

His eyes darted to his left where a balding man with a beer belly had caught his attention. He depicted the precise description of the taxi driver which he was told would take him to route 118; his head was shiny from the sweat that was glistening atop it, his eyes, small and bright, blinking rapidly from behind thick spectacles. His fat, sausage fingers were holding a white cardboard sign depicting one word on it which caused Lance to grin internally at Jacobs' dry sense of humour.

YOU.

Lance strode briskly over to the man and watched him cringe at his presence; he was a good eight inches taller than him. "You're looking for me, I take it?" he asked, his voice slightly gruff from the altitude of the plane journey.

The man blinked again - it was started to get on Lance's nerves - and spoke in a weedy voice, "Yes, Master. Route 118?" Lance was furious as he felt the use of the word 'master' tint his cheeks a pale fuchsia.

"Um, yes- oh, for…" Lance felt his pocket begin to vibrate violently, "Give me a second." He filled his tone with as much of an apology as he could muster and extracted his Pokénav from the mess that were his earphones. Raising an eyebrow at the caller ID, he answered. "What time is it?"

"The time?" The voice sounded confused. "It's not time yet-"

"So it's don't-call-me time." Lance worked his voice to it's limit to try to pull off the authority and flawless confidence that the other G-men managed to pull off without turning a hair.

"Munchkin." The voice sounded pained and irritated now and as it's volume dropped considerably Lance clocked; the voice's owner was undercover "You're at the airport. Ten-or-so feet to your right is the 'Mr Mime's Smoothie with Limes' stall. That's where I am- don't turn around," The whispered urgency in the tone rose as Lance's head twitched. "Bloody newbie. How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?"

Lance's eye twitched at this and he proceeded to lower his voice to a hiss when he spoke his next words, though taking care to address this particular G-man with his undercover name in public. "Jonathan, cut the crap. What the hell are you doing there? That stall is rubbish. You should be at McDonalds or something." Lance could feel the cogs in his head whirring in overdrive as he tried to make speaking in code sound genuine.

"I'm enjoying a drink and waiting for my girlfriend, who is flying in from Kanto this afternoon. Not sure why; she's being a total bitch at the moment. The baby must be due."

I'm undercover and watching out for people who I've been told should be kept an eye on. Not sure why; I haven't been told anything. I'll see you at the meeting in one hour.

"Ah, so she is coming over then?"Ah, so you heard about this one too then?

"Yeah, I wasn't really expecting it, but hey! It's saved our relationship, this trip has."Yeah, I wasn't really expecting it, but hey! I'm seriously worried about it.

"Good for you." Lance said, distracted by his mental translations but a little more so by the irony. "By the way, have you used a water stone on your Evee yet, or is it a fire stone?"

Are you definitely coming to the meeting then or will you not be done yet? Because this one is going to be big.

He fought down a smirk as he caught the bewildered look at his change of tone on taxi driver's large face. The lack of his neck didn't help this adopted look.

"Probably the water stone, but I have to say that Jolteon is a highly powerful specimen." the voice replied, slowing down slightly as he spoke the code.

Yes, but not if my target comes into sight.

"Say hi to her for me."

Jacobs will be pissed if you're late.

"I will. Now sod off."

I know. Now sod off.

Lance smirked at the tone of voice which packed so much more unpleasant meaning into those simple words as he snapped the small, red gadget shut. He then turned to the small man, who still looked like a Remoraid had slapped him in the face. "A cousin who I haven't seen in a while," Lance mumbled, fighting the urge to slap the man himself just to stop him from blinking so fast. "He's meeting his girlfriend in a stupid airport."

"Oh." The man's voice matched his scalp; oily. "Well, shall we, er, I mean, would you like to leave now?"

"Why not?" replied Lance, coolly intimidating, watching with a shrewd eye as the terrified driver grabbed his shoulder bag for him and hurried off towards the exit across the vast waiting room, got trapped in the rotating doors. Lance allowed his face to split into pure delight as he watched the bumbling man walking round and round, his bulbous drinker's nose squashed against the glass while he tried to dislodge his tie from the door's handle. Lance barked a laugh as he made his own, much smoother way towards the car park, where his taxi awaited him.

For the seventh time in the space of twenty-three minutes, Lance felt himself lurching violently forwards as the cab came to yet another poorly-conducted halt. However, instead of being at a set of traffic lights the fat man had neglected to notice and then changed his tiny mind at the last second, this particular jolt was, Lance recognised, the final one. The route 118 sea could be seen from the dingy cab window, the waves gently caressing the sand on the shore. Children were playing with what looked like smaller versions of Marills and some weird variation of a Sentret all across the beach and a few looked like they could be engaged in battle. Finding this exceedingly odd as it was a Wednesday, Lance grabbed his bag from the seat beside him and leant forward to speak to the driver. "Thank you for the ride, sir."

The fat man began to blink again, as though a man was pointing a gun between his eyes and yelling at him to do it. He opened his mouth and Lance spotted several fillings in his back teeth. "Err, the fare, Master."

It was Lance's turn to blink.

He turned his red head up to where the fat man was now squinting and felt his jaw drop. "I… I thought…"

"…it was covered with my cost?" The blinking had now stopped and been replaced with the crease of amusement in the man's eyes at the look on Lance's face. "No. That was not paid for, Master."

Lance decided that he preferred the blinking.

He glared furiously as the cab drove off, the smug look on the fat man's faced burned into his retinas. Now he had the extra weight of guilt on his shoulders for the moment when his mother opened up her credit card statement and saw the result of Lance's emergency-mum's-card-details-remembering. He swung his bag moodily over his shoulder and straightened up, looking around the area. It was then that he realised how beautiful Hoenn was. The sea was the brightest blue he'd seen in a long time, next to Gyarados, crystal clear and sparkling with the refracted sunlight. Palm trees littered the edge of the small hill leading up to a big city, the leaves dancing in the wind, whispering their own songs who's lyrics were secret to all but the wind. The beach was one of those rare scenes which Lance had seen on postcards and said, dismissively, "Like that hasn't been airbrushed!" Only now, here for his first time in Hoenn, he now appreciated how peaceful the place looked.

Too bad that he couldn't vacate here when he had a meeting to attend about terrorists plotting to uproot this image Hoenn had obviously worked so hard to create.

Lance turned and began to walk down by the small parade of shops, looking in each window for the sign that would tell him what he needed to know. As he walked, he revelled in the lack of stares and whispers and finger-pointing which he got in Johto; being the champion was like resigning your life to be put on public display. For the first week, it was great. Then it got old and he could sympathize perfectly with the celebrity stories that he'd heard about when the star in question had punched a journalist in the face. One he would never forget was Whitney, the Goldenrod Gym leader, grabbing and twisting the testicles of a reporter who'd dared to ask her about her then-recent break-up with her boyfriend. Since that moment, Lance - and every other male high-ranking trainer in Hoenn, now that he came to think of it - had crossed his legs whenever she walked into a room with him in it. He grinned as he remembered the look on Whitney's face in the Daily Thorn newspaper, actually laughed aloud as he then remembered the look on the reporter's face…

His laughter dissolved on his tongue when he looked right and saw the sign he'd read on the email. He sighed and walked in.

The smell of cooking fat smashed into his nose like a tidal wave as he stepped inside. The café going by the name of QuickBitez was small claustrophobic; ten tables for two were crammed along one wall - plastic with a thin film of grease coating each top. The floor was the stereotypical black-and-white-check and patterned vaguely with damp round spirals which were probably from the end of a mop dirtier than the floor itself. At the counter, a woman with a silly paper hat on stood below the lit up menu, chewing bubblegum which she blew a bright pink bubble with, before it popped over her nose. She used her manicured nails to peel it back off and pop it back in her mouth, her entrancing gold hoop earrings swinging back and forth as her jaw masticated ferociously. Lance stepped forward and stood in front of the counter. The earrings swung as she turned to look at him. Up close, she - or 'Cynthia' as her nametag read - was far less attractive; her hair darkening at the roots and too heavy eye makeup. The only person Lance knew who could pull off eye makeup heavier than a sumo wrestler was Jennifer. Over the woman's shoulder was a dingy beige door surrounded by cookers and chip pans which lead to a back room. That room was where he needed to be.

That was, if he could remember the correct code…

"Yes?" Her voice was sharp and pointed. Like her nails.

"Uh-" Shit! He thought. Shit, shit, shit! There had been a specific instruction. He'd been told this once before and he couldn't remember for the life of him what it was…

The woman had asked him something. "Sorry?" He asked, dazed by panic.

"You're a trainer, right?" she asked, clicking the plastic on her fingers against the till.

"Uh, yes." Lance was half in the room, half at a far away meeting when Jacobs was telling him about the different codes for different meeting places.

"You were on the telly last week!" She exclaimed, looking exultant. "You're the youngest champion ever, int'ya?!"

"Um-" It was there… Half there… "Yeah…"

"What will you be having, Mr. Champion?" Cynthia seemed thrilled to be serving the 'youngest champion ever' and was practically bouncing on her toes. She leant forwards, accidentally on purpose popping open a button on her QuickBitez staff shirt, exposing a lot of cleavage. Lance leant back, feeling his face turn scarlet. She was no doubt a good five or six years older than him and had just told him that she knew of him because he was the youngest champion ever. Youngest.

Swallowing, and trying to avoid looking down, he leant forwards, placed his right hand on his chin and rested his left hand next to his right elbow, he clicked his nails - not as loudly as Cynthia's plastic creatures - on the surface three times.

"Chips and a burger to eat in and three barbeque sauces. Hold the onions twice." He said, his vocal chords slightly hoarse from the embarrassment of a moment before.

Cynthia's eyes widened slightly in what Lance later realised to be recognition. "Well then, young sir-" She winked again and Lance now suspected his features were the same colour as his hair, "-you should come through to the back. I'll take your order through to you…" She jerked her head behind her and winked again.

"Th-thanks." mumbled Lance, and he slipped past her, still dazed, towards the dingy door where the news of what had happened awaited.

As he drew closer to the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of hushed conversation in voices he recognised. He looked back at Cynthia, who was still eyeing him shamelessly all over. Feeling a last pinch of heat tint his cheeks, he knocked three times on the door and entered.

The room was cleaner than the café but not by much. The carpeted floor had the odd wine stain here and there and mud from people's shoes was ground into the fibres. The ceiling was low and the blinds - several broken - were pulled down, the only decent source of light in the room being the hanging light. The smut in the base of the lampshade told him the owner of this place didn't come here often - either that, or they never could be bothered to clean. In the centre of the room was a relatively large table that could seat - he guessed - about ten people, easily the most expensive and the best piece of furniture in the whole café. Straight-backed plastic chairs surrounded it and in three of them - playing cards and now looking at him - were some of the other G-men.

Wallace sat at the end of the table, immaculately dressed with style, his white trainers resting on it's top. His hair was still the same shade of turquoise it had been since he'd dyed it and he was twirling the beret, which usually sat atop his head, on his index finger.

Red was on his left, his back to the door, and he'd turned around to see who had entered. His appearance came as a shock; his black mop of hair sat messily atop his head underneath a black baseball cap and he had an unlit cigarette between his lips, one of which had recently been split viciously. One eye was black and puffy with a slit for him to see through and there were similar bruises around his neck, particularly on his windpipe. Despite the state of his face, his clothes seemed unscathed so these wounds were obviously older than they looked. In one hand, Red held a lighter; in the other, his cards.

On the other side of Wallace, another G-man sat. Lance didn't know him very well - mainly because he hadn't had to tell him to fuck off once due to bullying like the others did - but he knew that he was called Steven Stone and was an extremely powerful trainer. Steven had naturally scruffy silver hair, grey eyes and a handsome face. His features were defined yet gentle and it made him look very mature Lance had always thought. He was wearing a black suit, with purple zigzags down each side of the jacket, and a red neck-scarf tied neatly around a white shirt. Upon catching eye contact with Lance, Steven averted his eyes to Lance's shoulder and nodded at him without smiling before dropping his last cards in the centre of the pile on the table.

"Three Queens," he stated, gently.

"Pffeat." Red's accusation was muffled by the cigarette he was trying to light.

Wallace smirked, leaned forward and flicked over Steven's cards. His smirk vanished into a flabbergasted jaw drop. "How the hell do you do that?!"

"I've been putting three queens down for the past four turns, Wallace," Steven still wasn't smiling. "and the one time I actually put them down, I got called for it."

Red swore and threw his hand face up on the table before turning back to Lance. "Come sit down, Munchkin. I didn't expect you to be here. Shouldn't you be at school?"

Lance pulled a stink face and skulked around to the opposite side of the table to avoid sitting next to Red, instead sitting on Steven's right. Wallace grinned appreciatively at this and turned to Steven, sharing the joke. Steven was staring blankly at the splayed cards on the table, his eyes out of focus, and Wallace's grin faded rapidly. Lance inclined his head slightly, eyes trained on Wallace in a silent question, but he glared back and shook his head slightly. He gave up and turned to Red. "My God. You look like microwaved shit."

"Language, Munchkin!" barked Wallace, gathering up the cards preparing to shuffle, "Think what Mummy would say if she heard you talking like that!"

Red sniggered and took a deep drag on his cigarette, eyeing Lance with a look he'd never worn before when dealing with him. It looked calculating, but impressed. "Microwaved shit, eh? I like that… I'll remember that one." He exhaled the smoke as he spoke and it twisted in ghoulish patterns against the light above the table. "I was undercover and I got found out."

Lance felt his eyes widen. "How the hell did you get out of that?"

"Wouldn't've, if Steven hadn't came along," said Red, raising an invisible glass to Steven, who looked up and nodded again, acknowledging the toast. "Saved my arse, he did."

"What happened?"

Red leant forwards and opened his mouth to speak but stopped when the door opened. All of us looked up to see the entrant.

Wallace burst out laughing.

Blue was standing in front of us, a gawky pair of shades on his face and his brown hair, usually gelled messily, was slicked back over his head, neatly parted and looking frankly ridiculous. To complete this appalling adopted appearance, he was wearing a blue shirt patterned with various exotic flowers with khaki shorts and lurid yellow flip-flops. There was no mistaking it: this was the look taken on by middle-aged men having a mid-life crisis.

One of the flip-flops came off Blue's foot and hit Wallace squarely between the eyes. This was the end for Red, who took his fist out of his mouth and roared with uncontrollable laughter. Steven's mouth twitched into a tiny smirk before flickering back to impassive. Wallace noticed this and grinned encouragingly, clapping Steven on the shoulder while throwing the yellow thing back at Blue. Red chuckled appreciatively as it hit Blue in the stomach and left a slightly sandy footprint on the disgusting shirt. Lance laughed openly as Blue removed his other shoe and prepared to shoot Red between the eyes with it when he stopped, pushed up his sunglasses and stared aghast at him.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

Steven folded one arm across his chest and placed a forefinger and thumb on the bridge of his nose. Red frowned.

"Jacobs will make me talk when he gets here," he replied, tapping his cigarette ash on the carpet. "I'm not repeating it."

"Kay." Blue sat down beside red and nodded at Lance. "Y'alright, Munchkin?"

"Will you all stop bloody calling me that?!" Lance burst out in outrage, "I'm seventeen!"

Blue, Red and Wallace raised their eyebrows."

"… Next month," he amended. "But seriously, stop it."

"You need to get laid, Kid." Red puffed a smoke ring into Lance's face, which reddened to the colour of a beetroot concoction. A nanosecond later, Red had jerked forward, a look of pain in his eyes, and he reached under the table to rub his shins.

"Aww! He's so darn cute!" cooed Blue trying to pinch Lance's cheek while the latter swatted his hand away. Lance noticed once the cheek-tweaking had abided somewhat that Wallace had remained unusually quiet and was looking sideways at Steven, a wary expression on his face. Steven had remained with his eyes closed, finger and thumb around the bridge of his nose, but his posture had stiffened considerably.

"Pass us a cigarette, will you?" Blue had picked up on this as well and was now glaring at Red. The latter made a pleading expression laced with an apology and tossed the packet out of his shirt pocket at him. Blue used his own lighter and lit-up, adding a fresh vat of smoke to the room and a stronger smell of tobacco.

Wallace began to talk animatedly to Blue and Red about contests - something which were apparently all the rage in Hoenn at the moment - but Lance didn't feel the urge to join in. They'd probably rebound him out anyway with a crude jibe or two. Apparently, Steven had no desire to join in either; he was playing with a loose thread on the hem of his jacket, looking totally lost in his own head. Lance knew Steven was quiet, but this was unnatural; up close, he looked like someone who was on the verge of becoming seriously ill. His eyes had bags under them, his face a little slimmer than the last time Lance had seen him and he needed a shave.

"Steven?"

He looked up, his grey eyes looking rather glassy. "Yes?" He sounded dreadfully tired.

"Are you OK, mate?"

Steven didn't answer straight away, he seemed to be pondering on how to answer. "If I'm honest with you," he began, shifting slightly in his chair so he was facing Lance, "No. I'm really not." He tilted his head slightly. "But I'll be alright. Thank you for your concern." He smiled - a genuine smile - and to Lance it looked like he hadn't done so in a long time. The muscles in his mouth looked like they were working a little too hard, as though they'd forgotten how to do it. "And yourself?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine… Unimportant, really…" he turned his head and watched the older G-men banter playfully.

Steven flicked his eyes to follow his gaze, "Don't be stupid. You're the youngest champion of Johto in history. Of course you're important."

"You're champion of Hoenn," Lance turned it around, "And you're a damned sight stronger than me, don't deny it. Actually…" Lance cocked his head as something in his brain clicked, "How long have you been champion?"

"Two weeks." Steven ran a hand through his hair. He noticed vaguely that he had a ring on each finger but this was mostly ignored, for his jaw was on the table.

"I swear you-" Lance began, but Steven shook his head.

"I started the league three months ago. Jacobs knows my Dad and that's how I got inducted into the G-men."

Something was dawning on Lance. "Then… you're almost as new as me? How come they don't take the piss out of you?!"

"Three days your senior," confirmed Steven and then, with a small smirk that could be passed as a twitch of the upper lip, he continued, "And they leave me alone for two reasons. One: Wallace and I have been best friends since I can remember and two: I am much harder to get a reaction out of."

Lance scowled. "You forgot the third one: you could kick each and everyone of their arses with your eyes closed."

"You underestimate them and overestimate me." said Steven, but he smiled all the same.

"How old are all of you anyway?" Lance asked, wondering how he could've failed to ask this before.

"Wallace is nineteen - twenty in two months, Red is twenty-two and Blue is twenty-four."

"And you?"

"I have two years on you."

Before Lance had a chance to do the maths, the door banged open for a third time and the whole room fell silent. Jacobs slammed the door behind him with his foot and headed quickly for the opposite end of the table to where Wallace was. He was an intimidating man, despite his height, with light brown eyes and thick, dirty-blonde hair cut short. He had the physique of a well-built man gone slightly to seed - he was long past his fighting day - and usually wore suits without a crease anywhere. This was how anyone who knew him could tell that at this moment in time, something was wrong. His tie was slung around his neck and his shirt was untucked, top three buttons open, revealing a few wisps of dark chest hair. He slammed his computer down, opened the screen and span it around so it was facing all the people present. They all stood up and leant forwards to see the headline on the news website.

FOUR BREAK-INS AT SLATEPORT SHIPYARD; DEVON SUSPECTS FOWL PLAY.

Lance wracked his brains for a moment. Devon… the company that practically owned Hoenn's market: Steven's father's company.

Steven and Wallace were the first two to sit back down. They were looking at each other, a resigned look in their eyes. It was at that moment when Lance clocked they had their own suspicions to why this meeting had been called, and - by the looks on their faces - they were correct.

"This is not good." That was one of Jacobs' faults: he stated the obvious far too much. Red gave him a 'no shit' look and Blue rolled his eyes. Jacobs shot them both a condescending look and continued. "It looks like each of these break-ins were for the same thing and it links right back to Devon. These thieves did not ransack the part of the yard where the newly made ships were tethered; they turned over the workshop and took nothing."

A small ripple coursed through the room. Lance felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I've spoken to the police in Slateport personally," Jacobs went on, beginning to pace, "and they've told me that the culprits were careless: fingerprints were all over the place; in total, seven sets. Despite this, only one have been identified. The name of one of the scumbags who did is Holland Rosenby…"

Jacobs span his computer around, tapped a few more keys, span it back around displaying the custody picture of a scrubby man with straggly ginger hair and a stubbly jaw.

"He's an ex-convict. I use the term 'ex' loosely and this is why: At three a.m. this morning, Rebecca sent me the results of that phone call Red intercepted last week." His face darkened with his next words. "It turns out the media is holding back on us."

Wallace hissed at this and Blue exhaled smoke a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. Jacobs smiled at the former despite the stress of the situation and said, "Settle down, Meowth! It wasn't a huge shock anyway; I knew something was fishy when Lance came back with nothing from the headline examination - Lake of Rage was no where to be seen - but like I said, it wasn't the holding back that shocked me. It's the nature of what they were holding back."

Lance let both his arms drop forcefully on to the table. Everyone in the room turned to look at him but he was oblivious to everyone except Jacobs. He was looking at him, his mouth slightly open.

"They couldn't have!" he said, shock coating his words. Red cocked his head before wincing and rubbing his throat. Jacobs looked sufficiently impressed with Lance and nodded his approval before turning to stare at the rest of the G-men gathered.

"It's nice to see that Lance has caught where the wind is blowing. Oh, and Steven, but you're always five yards ahead of the crowd, so it doesn't count. And Wallace, you know too… Come to think of it, it's just you two at fault." He pointed his index and forefingers at Red and Blue. Another one of Jacobs' faults; he doesn't think before he speaks.

Steven sighed, but not at Jacobs.

The big man went on. "There's been a mass break out at Mauville Prison."

"Fuck off!" Blue burst out. Red's cigarette dropped from his mouth and Lance shut his own. His theory was correct.

"That was pretty much what I said," Jacobs nodded, gravely. "Holland Rosenby was one of the prisoners who escaped. There were fourteen in total. All of them convicted under the same charge."

"Terrorism," murmured Wallace.

"Some of the men and women belonged to the terrorist organisation that goes by the name of Team Aqua. They've been lying low for a while now, ever since the bent government employees were ratted out and their dirty funds were cut off, but they've just recently become restless and these break-ins at the shipyard are just one of the many signs that Team Aqua have started stirring up trouble."

Lance noticed that both Red and Blue had taken very deep drags on their cigarettes at exactly the same time, both their eyes closed. Blue surfaced first from his sudden need for nicotine in his system and looked straight at Jacobs. "Some of the men and women? Some?"

Jacobs nodded gravely. "Some."

"Then-"

"Not all of them were from the same terrorist group."

"Oh, Christ."

"Team Magma have also been a bit more active than is considered healthy."

"Why do they all have to shit on us at the same time?" Blue stubbed his cigarette out on the table in front of him. It hissed gently as it was crushed out of shape. Lance felt sorry for the person who's table it was.

"Well, that's the story as it stands," said Jacobs, before turning to Lance. "And this is the part where I tell you what we're going to do about it. Red," - he turned his whole body to face the latter - "How are you feeling?"

"I'm alive, if that's what you mean," Red replied, stonily.

"Care to share?" Jacobs took a seat at the table and steepled his fingers under his chin, looking expectantly at Red, who growled and leant back in his chair.

"It's simple," he said, "I was searching the cargo in one of their high-jacked ships for stuff that could tell us what they're trying to do. I didn't know they had CCTV down there - I mean, seriously; what boats have CCTV in the cargo section, I ask you! - and I got caught." He began massaging his left wrist as he continued, "They put me in some room and began interrogating me about who I was working for and all that cliché bollocks. I didn't say a word so they kicked my face in. Thick as shit these blocks were though; didn't take my Pokémon away. So, Espeon put them to sleep and sent a message to Steven through that big blue Pokémon… Metagross, I think it's called? And I went to the deck."

"Well done, Genius," murmured Wallace, sarcastically.

Red shot him a filthy look. "Yeah, I know that now. Anyway, I was saying; I went up to the deck and the Grunts were all over the place. I had no way of blending with them because they all had their Pokémon out and I… well, I looked like this, didn't I?" He gesticulated towards his black eye vaguely, "Basically, I was fucked. I had twelve Zubats on my back in about a second. Espeon went around biting ankles, but there were honestly too many of them. Even Charizard couldn't take all of them out, though he damn near did I'll give him that with knobs on… That said, I would've been royally fucked if Steven hadn't been in the area." He took a moment to grin at the teen himself, who merely nodded his welcome. "He really saved my arse back there."

"What about the cargo?" Jacobs pressed, though looking considerably unnerved by the tale of Red's narrow escape, "Did you find anything?"

Fault number three; work comes before health concerns.

Red scowled at Jacobs with a look which clearly said; Thanks for the love, Jackass! and said, "Nothing except a few bent radios and a caged Gyarados-"

"You left the Gyarados there?!" Lance exclaimed. Steven cocked his head at him and Jacobs nodded.

"Quite, Red. Quite."

"Um, hello?!" Red looked considerably pissed now, "I had three ribs broken and I got bitten on my thigh by a Growlithe! That's why I left it there! I was trying to get it out when I got caught."

Lance closed his mouth, feeling guilty. Jacobs nodded sympathetically and asked again, "How are you feeling?"

Red sat up and turned to look Jacobs straight in the eye. "Like microwaved shit." He looked at Lance and winked, to which he replied with an appreciative grin.

Jacobs waved his hand at him, "Go home. I had no idea you were this bad. Rest up and I'll be in contact with you soon. If I'd known you were this bad, I wouldn't have asked you here."

Red's reaction was a little delayed; it looked like he hadn't quite realised what his boss had said. He sat up and with a short goodbye of "Guv," he tilted his baseball cap and stood up, wincing. It was only then that Lance noticed the crutch resting by the door, which Red grabbed huffily and stuff his right arm into. He clasped hands briefly with Blue and Wallace, clapped Steven on the shoulder and grinned at Lance again before hobbling out of the room. The door swung shut behind him and Jacobs shook his head guiltily.

"I shouldn't have asked him to come…" he murmured, rubbing his temples. "He's a mess."

"Don't feel bad, Sir," said Blue, "You didn't know. I think the only one who did know was Steven and he's been… er…" Wallace was shooting daggers at him and he drifted off, inspecting a cluster of mould on the ceiling. Jacobs glanced at Steven, who was now cracking his knuckles and staring pointedly at his lap. Lance glanced from one to the other around the table before he realised he was the only one in the dark in regards to the stepping on eggshells around Steven.

"Moving on," Jacobs slapped his hands on the table and all attention was diverted back onto him, "You must be wondering why all of you were asked here today. Well, my answer to you is that because you are all champions of your various regions - save you, Wallace, and Red too - and you can relay what's happening to the members of your own leagues. That said, I'm still not comfortable, as it's not safe to have large gatherings of such prodigious young men like yourselves; I have a feeling we're being watched."

"Gee, thanks, boss," Wallace drawled, sarcastically, inspecting a fingernail with irritation. Jacobs ignored him.

"Blue, I want you to keep an eye on Kanto - a more keen eye than usual that is - and the activities of all imports and exports there. Both Aqua and Magma will need funds after the cut over here and there's no saying that they won't go fishing in another region's pocket." Blue nodded curtly. "I would also like you to keep an eye on the headlines. See if you can spot anything. Lie low from the spotlight if you can."

"Naturally," agreed Blue.

"Questions?"

"No, Sir."

"Then take care of yourself and watch your back when you leave this place."

"I'm wearing a stupid outfit. I'll be fine."

Lance sniggered and Blue shot him a filthy look. He got up and clasped hands with everyone still seated - except Lance, whom he cuffed round the head - before leaving the door, sunglasses back in place on the bridge of his nose. Jacobs waited a second or two before turning back to Lance, Steven and Wallace.

"Wallace. Steven." He looked at each of the G-men in question. "You two are going to keep a very close eye on Hoenn. Wallace, I need you to go to Slateport and tell them what's happened. Tell Captain Stern to tighten security. I need you to there right away. Email me as soon as you've had the conversation. Lie low there for a few days and I will contact you."

"You're the boss." Wallace replaced his beret back on his head and yanked a Poké ball from his belt. He nodded at Lance and Jacobs and then turned and gave Steven a man-hug. Steven returned it and muttered something to him, and he muttered back. Steven broke the hug quickly and Wallace straightened up, nodding one last time at Jacobs before leaving the room.

"Now." Jacobs leant right forwards in his chair, looking straight at Steven with a gentle expression that Lance had never seen before. "Steven."

Steven turned to him and Jacobs drank in his appearance like Lance had done.

As Lance looked at him again, he realised something that disturbed him some what. This was what misery looked like: The look that someone was tired of life and wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again. The forced smiles which never reached the eyes and the lack of any emotion but the one they didn't want to show. His brain was aching to know what had caused Steven to look like he did now - which, frankly, was dreadful - but at the same time, he didn't want to know at all.

Jacobs smiled kindly at Steven and said, "How are you, Son?"

Lance shifted back in his chair a little, feeling like he was intruding on a conversation which was not for his ears. He examined the ceiling while Steven answered, "I'm OK, thank you, Sir."

Jacobs scrutinized him for a second and shook his head. "That would be good to know if it wasn't clear that you're lying."

Steven blinked. "OK, Sir. I'm terrible."

"Much better." Jacobs tilted his head. "How long-"

"A month." Steven cut into his question so that Lance would have no way of ever knowing what it was.

Jacobs shook his head sympathetically. "Try not to think about it, Lad. That I can help with."

Steven's lips twitched into a smile, but the wrong sort of smile. It was deeply cynical and the look did not suit him at all.

Jacobs seemed to agree. "Don't look at me like that, Steven. Listen, you may not think I understand but I do, OK? I do know what you're going through and it hurts like fuck, but I can assure you; if your mind is elsewhere - even for five minutes - it'll do the world of good for you."

Steven had gone a bright scarlet and was looking at the floor. Lance assumed it was a combination of embarrassment that he, Lance, was listening to this and the fact Jacobs was saying it at all. Steven looked up a moment later and looked straight at Jacobs. "What do I have to do?"

Jacobs smiled encouragingly and sat back, steepling his fingers once more. "Good boy. Now, as you know, both Magma and Aqua have taken a great deal of interest in Devon Corporation. We've had worms before in other companies and, let's face it; it would be catastrophic if we had one in Devon. Get Mr. Stone to run a full-scale check on the backgrounds of every single employee across the whole of Hoenn. Tell him that anyone the slightest bit suspicious should have a personal interview with him. If there still are doubts, refer them to you."

"Sir." Steven nodded once.

"The next bit is a little more tricky…" Jacobs drummed his fingers together. "In fact, I think I'll speak to you about that alone…" Steven nodded as he turned instead to Lance. "Right, m'boy. I have a big proposition for you!"

Lance felt himself spark like electricity with excitement. Big proposition? This meant a serious job! Something really useful! His break in the G-men! He leant forwards expectantly. "Yes, Sir?"

"Now, Lance. There's something I need you to understand before I ask you to do this. It will incredibly dangerous - suicidal, you may even say. You can never relax; if you're caught, they'll kill you. Look at Red: one little slip up and he ends up alive because of pure luck, and look how strong he is! You will be out of your comfort zone twenty-four-seven. You won't be able to talk to anyone, sometimes not even me and certainly not your family or friends. All you'll have is your Pokémon and your own wit. If you understand that - and think about it very carefully - and the fact that once you're in, there's no going back, are you in?"

Lance didn't answer straight away, for he knew he'd be a fool if he did. What Jacobs was saying sounded terrifying. He couldn't imagine not being able to speak to his mum or being away from Amy and Jennifer. Or anyone really. He'd never been one to revel in his own company, and if he was with people whom he didn't know or trust and had to put on a made-up face for…

He took a deep breath and said, "I'm in."