#indigo whenever you want me to do more of these either suggest them outright or mention me in the op tags i enjoy the brain food

[dorminchu]

WIPs [James Bond, Pokémon Lost Silver]

Wahey! Here are two mostly brand new scenes below the cut, just to prove I'm not dead! Note: Please view the post on the main page for correct formatting.

INSULT TO INJURY CHAPTER I: A THOUSAND DETAILS [REVISED]

Graduation from Oxford was a quick, unemotional affair. Madeleine had no extended family to invite—no one else of import, besides her short-term friends. The matter of her attendance was something to be addressed and then forgotten about. It was a little tragic. She tried not to let this show on her face when she had to make her commencement speech.

The ceremony went along as expected. Things were not as interesting when she could pretend her life was just as safe and boring as anyone else’s. As she was wrapping up an individual figure in the stands, no more remarkable than any other, caught her attention. It was an older man, perhaps in his early fifties, hidden partially behind sunglasses and a smart dress-hat. With a nauseating thrill she recognized his hat as well as his smile, the angles in his face a little more pronounced. To Madeleine it was like he was sneering. She did not let this discovery rattle her. If she hesitated it was on account of the crowd and her nerves and nothing else.

But when she was done, succeeded at the podium, she could only think: How long has he been standing there? Why didn’t I notice? They did not speak to one another, as it would surely draw unwanted attention. Not that it mattered. His presence was enough of an affront; why give him further opportunity to wound her pride by acknowledging him outright?

“I’m sorry,” she’d said to her roommate, “I’m really not feeling well. Just take me home.”

Even then, when she was perfectly alone, the memory of him took up residence where physical space would not permit. She tried to dredge up some residual emotions for the man who less so resembled a father and more an anonymous pen pal in recent years. Perhaps it was best for his pride if she continued to avoid him, rather than put him in a situation that would force him to admit his own daughter's indifference.

Her cotenants would be out for a while, glad to be around other normal people who didn’t skirt around crowded rooms, casing the doors and windows. Most of them, by now, thought Madeleine to be frigid, or else exceedingly studious. They’d given up a long time ago trying to invite her along on group dates—it was a losing proposition. She did not drink anything. She didn’t talk unless someone initiated and then she was perfectly reasonable. She would quietly, scrupulously vet what was offered. The other women were under the delusion that she was trying to compete with them, and the men were usually uncomfortable being scrutinised without a lick of pretence. Madeleine found it a little funny, but she was the only one.

So she didn’t mind being left behind. Most of the time. She looked around the room. It had served its purpose during her enrolment. Now it seemed intolerably small, like a holding cell. She had never thought about it this way before. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere else.

At times such as these, she almost wished she hadn’t decided to go straight-edge—then, maybe, they would keep some alcohol in the flat. She had no friends she could call on without inviting scrutiny. The only other comparable colleague was Arnaud, a fellow Sociology major in her year. She found him tolerable enough to engage in polite conversation, though she did not want to give him or anyone else the wrong idea.

Or, hell, why not? She could use a drink.

⁂

Three years to that day, they were still talking. Well, her colleagues at Oxford would have likely referred to them as friends-with-benefits with a healthy measure of condescension—but this was misleading. It would imply some level of emotional investment. For Madeleine, he was a means of insurance. Whenever he turned up dead or missing, she’d know it was time to move on. Now, Madeleine was not completely heartless. She had taken Arnaud’s advice and transferred over to the 8th arrondissement, with the understanding that they would be rooming together. And Arnaud was easy to get along with and she could afford him the same courtesy. She had someone to come home to and he knew enough about her work ethic from their college years, and her demeanour, to not ask where she had been. She knew enough surface-level information about him that she could still keep up appearances with his friends, as well as her own colleagues at the office—to be discarded, once he outlived his purpose. The clinic was within walking distance from the flat. Open to the general public, rather than more exclusive clientele, but that suited her fine. Each day bled into the next and the seasons changed in rote, predictable manner. She’d go to bed and wake up thinking: Maybe today will be it. They’ll come to collect me. But it had been three years. The lack of apparent danger soon directed her thoughts towards various methods of escape. Usually, Madeleine found solace in identifying the root of other peoples' troubles; a faulty marriage brought on by substance abuse, or more permanent debts that could not be repaid so easily. Most were less extreme and involved simple conversations that were, in Madeleine’s view, no more impactful than the change in weather. She kept no photographs. She had a work computer that stayed in the office. She stuck to using burner phones. She did not discuss her life before Oxford or the Sorbonne with anyone. The only décor was a pot of faux flowers from an elder client; for her falsified birthday, of course. There was even a little hand-written note. The longer the pot stayed on her desk, the more disingenuous Madeleine felt. She'd investigated it a few times when she was alone, looking for wires, but never could prove her suspicions. She got rid of it anyway, just to be safe. The client never brought this up again but Madeleine could souse the hurt in her eyes the next time they met.

LOST SILVER: HIDDEN

Part of the wall had a give to it like rotting flesh. It caught on his fingers, porous and thin. Momentarily freed from the push of the unown Gold threw his body into the weak spot.

It didn’t stick to his skin but tore as like wet paper. Clean break.

Falling forwards into an empty void. Crashing on all-fours. The unown were gone. Ground had no texture but simply existed beneath him, impossibly smooth and cold. There was no light from the tunnel behind him. All the sound fell away from his ears. He felt himself screaming just to hear something but could only feel the physical strain in his lungs and throat. Unown frequency reached him through tinny speakers—overridden by static. He put his hands to his ears. It did not stop. He could feel the blood pounding in his head. Suddenly the tiny screen lit up. His hands caught on plastic. He clutched it desperately, staring into the harsh, inexplicable light of the LCD screen. A voice broke through static:

“Where do you think you are?”

Gold froze. He—

—falling forward again. Jerked out of time and space as though by an ally’s Teleport—familiar loss of footing followed by an abrupt solidity beneath his knees. Shock giving way to nausea. The last time he’d teleported anywhere was at the behest of the old guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and his abra, back at Indigo Plateau. He doubled over. His chest felt tight. He began dry-heaving, desperate for air—the serrated, raw feeling in his throat and chest told him he’d been screaming.

Dry, dusty earth beneath his fingers was baked over. The fresh air he drew into his lungs tasted warm. It was dusk. A thin layer of perspiration on his face and his palms. His stomach settled gradually into queasiness. He didn’t remember teleporting or what he had been doing before his arrival. He couldn’t recall why he was here, either.

“Hey, kid. Finally awake?”

Gold blinked. He straightened himself out and tried not to look as shaken up as he felt. The man in a lab coat and glasses looked down at him impatiently.

“We’ve been waiting for the last hour.”

Gold had no idea how to respond. His legs were shaky. He held up a hand to wave off any attempts at sympathy. “Teleport,” he got out hoarsely.

The man scoffed. “I don’t need an apology. I’ve got all the notes on my desk about what to expect down there. Nothing a tough guy like you can’t handle. We’ll be inside whenever you’re ready.”

The aide was nicer. “Gold, right? Prof. Oak’s told me about you.” She looked around his age, maybe a couple years younger. Her hair was dyed an intense shade of blue and pulled into twin ponytails. She was dressed for the season—just a pair of bright yellow athletic shorts and sleeveless red shirt, white jacket. Her body was toned—Gold had the fleeting thought that she could have been his twin, but her accent struck him as native to Kanto. She had her own POKéGEAR, too; clipped neatly on her bag, rather than on her wrist.

“Oh, uh—has he?”

“Only good stuff, don’t worry.” She extended a hand. “You can call me Kris. That other guy is Mr. Ito.”

They shook. Her gloveless hand was warm and soft, which surprised him. Gold noticed her belt—two standard pokéballs, a moon ball and a lure ball respectively. “You’re a trainer, too?”

“I’m more of a researcher. Lately I’ve been working on the Unown Mode feature of the POKéDEX. We’ll have to set yours up first, before you go down there.” She reached out towards the ‘DEX at his hip, suddenly very businesslike. Gold hesitated. She smirked. “What? I’m not gonna screw it up, I’ve done this enough times by now.”

“I never said—”

Kris inclined her head without waiting for an excuse. With a sigh, Gold handed over the POKéDEX. Kris walked over to the nearby desk. She clicked on a lamp and studied the screen for a few seconds. She whistled. “Wow! They weren’t kidding. Two-hundred and fifty on—” Mr. Ito clicked his tongue and she scowled “—yeah, okay.” She toggled through the settings with an air of aggression that suggested this was not the first time she’d been reprimanded. Gold’s amusement was undercut by the hope she didn’t break any of the buttons. Then again, he knew from firsthand experience that it could take a lot of punishment. “You’re pretty handy with that.”