Lieutenant Haru walks into the hangar like he owns the air in it—back straight, hands easy, the kind of posture that says he’s ready for trouble but honestly can’t be bothered to care. His face is all quiet creases and closed-off expression, and his buzzcut is so severe it’s barely more than stubble. He’s older than I am, and it shows, though not in the washed-out way most officials age. Haru’s weariness feels earned—the sort that sticks after years of refusing to give up. His uniform is spotless, every line sharp, Team Plasma badge on his breast catching just enough light off that odd blue P. Two guards trail him in lockstep, both looking younger and jumpier by comparison. The three of them all have their belts loaded with Pokéballs—three each. No one’s trying to be subtle about who calls the shots here.

  He doesn’t look at me. He looks through me, cataloguing the group in a single sweep before barking a command that’s probably meant to be less humiliating than it is.

  The other recruits stumble to their feet, shuffling out of their huddle and forming an uneven row in front of the workstation. The security guard who had been overseeing us fades back into the perimeter, his job now rendered obsolete. I take my time standing, letting the space between myself and the others widen, then close it with a practiced, unhurried stride. There’s no value in being first; there is only the risk of being noticed.

  Haru surveys us. Not the way a teacher surveys a classroom, or a foreman inspects new labour. It’s the look a customs agent gives luggage, searching for that whiff of decay, that tell-tale leak or stain. His eyes land on me, and I do what I’ve practiced: look just enough like a problem to be worth his time, and not one iota more.

  "Line up, shoulder to shoulder," Haru says. His voice is raspy, the Unovan accent sanded flat by years holed up underground. The five of us obey, a herdier-eared row of conscripts in unremarkable clothes. I note the others’ reactions. Fear, bravado, dissociation, and—at the end of the line—a scrawny woman with the trembling focus of a Nickit in an open field.

  Haru paces in front, hands clasped behind his back. I notice his left thumb is bandaged. Recent, maybe a knife injury, or a training mishap. He stops in front of me. His eyes flit to my shoes, my hands, my face. Then, his voice:

  "You’re Kuro. From Castelia."

  I nod.

  "Zara sent a note. Said you’re sharp, but you like to talk."

  I say nothing. I am not supposed to like to talk. I am supposed to be a tool.

  Haru moves on. One by one, he interrogates the rest. He does not bother with names, only city of origin. He wants to know who is local, who is foreign, who is running from something. He barely pauses at each face before sweeping past, hands locked behind his back like he’s preventing himself from reaching for something on his belt. When he’s done, he gestures to the woman nearest the workstation, and one of his guards steps forward with an armful of folded fabric—white and grey, thick-collared, the distinctive cut of Team Plasma’s knightly livery. The guard moves down the line, tossing a bundle to each of us in turn. The clothes hit my chest with a soft, institutional thump. A second guard rolls out a large industrial bin on battered wheels and parks it beside us.

  “You’ve got one minute to strip and suit up,” Haru says. “Anything but underwear goes in the bin. You won’t get it back.”

  There’s a shuffle, then compliance. The others move with the embarrassed haste of people who haven’t undressed in public since school swim classes. I watched their hands, the way they glanced at each other, then away—all wasted motion.

  I gave it three beats, controlling the breath on the way out. Then I started on the jacket buttons. My hands moved casual and methodical, but my focus never broke. I kept my shoulders loose—any tension would draw an eye. I undid the left cuff, then the right.

  Pulling my arm back from the sleeve, I gave the elbow a subtle upward shift. That was all it took. The familiar weight of the burner phone caught the slide and dropped silently right into my palm. My grip stayed light, just enough pressure to hold it without showing strain.

  I crushed the jacket and the rest of my old clothes—shirt, undershirt, trousers—into a tight ball, the device masked in the centre. I used the backward swing of tossing the wad into the bin to pivot and snatch the waiting uniform components. The phone was already shoved deep into the new pocket before the cold, stiff material even settled in my hands. It was hidden, nearly invisible, and no one would think to look for it yet.

  I reached for the new uniform. It was a layered assembly: I pulled on the black under-suit and trousers, followed by the light, icy-blue tunic that slit down sides. The synthetic material felt oddly soft yet restrictive. I secured the heavy black waist cinch and pulled the light hood up over my head. The cut of the tunic wasn't precise; it was theatrical, giving way to the massive white and blue shield emblem centred on my chest, tailored for intimidation.

  The long, light-blue gauntlets were the final pieces, not fingerless, but rigid around the forearms, designed more like armour than a tool. I pulled them on, the tough synthetic material covering my hands entirely. As I ran a hand down the outer seam of the trouser leg, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric, no one noticed the quick brush of my fingertips against the slight bulk of the phone in the pocket. It was a fast, tactile confirmation: secure. Just a man adjusting his gear, but the message was registered: I was operational.

  I looked down the line: the others are transforming. The local kid from Driftveil stands awkwardly, his uniform several sizes too big, sleeves bunched at the wrists. The Nickit-faced woman has already tied her hair back, expression settling into something colder now that she’s behind the mask.

  Haru surveys us, expression unchanged. “Better,” he says. “You look like grunts now. Follow.”

  We fell in line behind him and his guards. He led us past the containers and vehicles to a small anteroom made from welded prefab walls—it felt more like a shipping container than an actual office. The air inside was heavy, hot, and dry, with a faint smell of bleach. A row of ancient laptops, all running the same sluggish system, lined a battered folding table.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Haru leaned against the wall, arms folded, and jutted his chin at the computers. “Sit. You’ll complete the orientation modules. It’s policy.” He said the word policy with a twist, like he’d just started following it himself. “You,” he added, spinning toward me. “With me.”

  I left the others exchanging confused glances and quickly stepped behind Haru as he moved down a side corridor. One of the guards dropped back to watch them, keeping half an eye on me, his mouth set in a bored line. We passed through a second set of security doors; Haru swiped his badge and pressed his thumb to the scanner, bandaged hand and all. The guard stayed put.

  The corridor narrowed, the light dying to a brutal fluorescence that sheared all colour off the cinderblock walls. We stopped at a steel door with a punch code lock. Haru keyed it open and motioned me through.

  It was a service lift—the kind meant for heavy cargo, not people. He stepped in; I followed. The doors shut with an ironclad sigh. Haru pressed for the sub-basement.

  The ride down was silent, broken only by the whirr of hydraulics and the faint, underlying hum of the bunker’s ventilation. I kept my shoulders squared, focused on a spot just above his left ear. Haru smelled faintly of old cigarette smoke and aftershave, mixed with something else—maybe metal filings. He didn’t speak until the doors parted on a vast, low-lit storage level.

  “It's not all propaganda,” he said then, as if continuing a conversation. “We do things differently here, Kuro. Not like in Castelia, with their street theatre. Your file says you can think. So let’s see if you can count.”

  He led the way out onto the concrete floor. Rows of steel shelving stretched into the gloom, each one loaded with crates and sealed containers. Everything was stenciled with Plasma’s mark or blank save for serials and barcodes. I counted hundreds, maybe thousands, of boxes on this level alone. Forklifts and dollies stood to the side, silent as statues.

  Haru stopped at the first aisle. Waiting there was a woman in a full grunt uniform, but she lacked the expected bulk. She was tall and slender, hair cropped close, her pale face unreadable behind a pair of battered safety goggles. Her posture was too straight, her gloved hands delicate. She could have been anywhere between seventeen and forty, and looked like she could outlast anyone here in a staring contest.

  “This is Marrow,” Haru said. “She’s intake supervisor. You’re her shadow until your group finishes orientation.” He gave Marrow a nod. “He’s yours.”

  Marrow didn’t blink. “Follow,” she said, and moved off immediately, not looking back.

  I fell in just behind her. Haru watched us go, then disappeared back into the elevator. No farewell, no threat. I filed that detail away.

  We walked for a full minute, winding through a maze of pallets and overflow. Marrow moved with the silent efficiency of someone who loathes distraction, maybe even her own existence. When she finally stopped, it was at a battered metal desk nestled under a tangle of exposed pipes. The surface was stacked with old but functional laptops, each grimy from years of use, a rough-edged barcode scanner sitting next to a smudged label printer. A tower of manifests leaned precariously on one corner, threatening to avalanche at any provocation.

  Marrow didn’t offer a word, just flicked a power switch with her thumb. The laptop creaked awake, screen bleeding to life. She stabbed at the touchpad, brought up a spreadsheet that scrolled endlessly down the screen. Then she handed me a clipboard and a roll of blank sticker labels, her finger tapping a highlighted row near the top.

  She points at the first entry with a pencil: Case 4491-NT, contents: “Poke Balls (Rattata for lab).” She stands, walks to a pallet twenty metres down the aisle, and expects me to follow. I do, falling into step just behind her.

  The crate was already open at the top, the inner foam folded back to reveal a field of red-and-white spheres, stacked with clinical precision. Marrow didn't hit the magnetic pop of a release; instead, she produced a small, handheld diagnostic scanner from her belt, resembling a thick, black smartphone.

  She ran the scanner over the first ball in the top row. The screen instantly populated with data: Serial Number, Checksum, and Status: Captured. Below that, centred in the readout, was the species: RATTATA.

  "Confirm the serial against the manifest," she ordered. She then handed me the scanner. "Validate the next two at random."

  I reached into the crate. The cold metal of the Poké Ball felt alien against my gloves. I placed the scanner over the third ball in the row. The data sprang up—clear, instantaneous, and sterile: Status: Captured. Species: RATTATA.

  I kept my voice flat, reading the data as if confirming a serial number. "Rattata confirmed. Checksum is clean." I moved to a ball pulled from the centre and scanned it. The readout was identical.

  "The point isn't to catalogue them, Kuro," Marrow said, watching my movements. "It's to ensure the integrity of the transfer. No tampering, no substitutions. Just routine mass capture."

  I log the crate barcodes into the manifest, careful not to transpose a digit. She watches the first one, then loses interest and stalks back to the next row, already scanning the next code with her own scanner. I get the sense that Marrow is a metrics person, and that she’s memorized the inefficiencies in every step of this process.

  The next case is weirder: it’s a plain pelican case, heavier than the last. The manifest lists: “Obel Energy—(BATTERY, LONG FORM, NON-STANDARD).” I go to pop the latches, but my gloves slip. Marrow hands me a knife—flat-edged, custom-ground. I use it to wedge the latch and get the top loose. Inside: three long, black cylinders, each the size of a grown man’s forearm, too heavy to be simple lithium. The ends are capped with orange plastic, and warning labels run up the seams in three languages. I recognize the Obel Energy logo from Castelia—one of the monopolies. The kind of tech that winds up in military and research installations, not consumer markets.

  I check the serials, scan each, and print a barcode sticker for the crate. Marrow signs off with a digital signature pad, the stylus barely held in her hand, then moves me along.

  The next hour is this: poke balls, sample kits, surgical-grade plastic, more energy cells. Then it was back to the old desk, the battered laptop, the sticky keys. Marrow logged me in with a string of passwords I will definitely forget, her hands moving so fast they barely seemed to graze the keys. The spreadsheet—a tapestry of green, yellow, and error-signalling red—flickered open. “Type faster,” she ordered, without looking up.

  I did. It was almost meditative, transposing the numbers and scan codes, the machine’s fan whining a steady rhythm against the tapping. Marrow’s attention was split: her own screen showed a live feed of what I was typing, and in the corner, a blocky instant message client. I watched her in my periphery, keeping my posture compliant, but my focus was mapping the router’s likely location by the faint hum and the tight coil of cables under the table.

  Then my monitor froze. The spreadsheet hung, then crashed. Marrow’s head snapped up. “Tch,” she hissed, a sound sharp enough to make me almost smile. “Net’s out again.”

  She shoved back from her chair, dropping instantly to her knees to check the router and power strip under the desk. I saw the opening, but she was too fast. She reset the box with a practiced jab, checked the lights, and was back on her feet before I could move.

  “You,” she snapped, pointing at my terminal. “Check the cables on your side. If this happens in the middle of intake, Haru’ll have my head.”

  I slid under the table, knees hitting the dusty concrete. I ran my hands along the tangle: the thick, labelled fibre line; an ancient backup coax; and the patch panel for the laptops. My own cable was taut, jammed into a port with a hairline crack. I pulled it free—or made it look like I pulled it free. In truth, the cable end was already clamped tight between my thumb and first knuckle, shielded from Marrow’s view.

  Beneath the desk, under the cover of Marrow’s cursing and typing, I slipped the burner phone from my uniform. The phone’s case was matte black, scuffed, but the adapter was pristine—a specialized tool from LK. I plugged the Ethernet cable into the adapter and felt the quiet pulse of connectivity.

  I thumbed open the encrypted messenger app. My fingers flew over the screen, typing the crucial update: "I’m in, location unknown. No cell service." I hit 'Send.' It was a long shot, but the signal would exploit the router’s refresh window—a momentary flicker in the firewall’s protection. That single, silent transmission was all LK needed. Two seconds. Three. The status LED went dark. I unplugged the adapter, snapped the Ethernet cable back into its port, and crawled out, dusting my knees off with slow, deliberate movements.

  “I think it’s fixed,” I said, keeping my voice flat.

  Marrow’s screen instantly refreshed, the cells repopulating. She grunted, a brief sound of satisfaction, then leaned over my shoulder to check the log. She was close enough I smelled her breath—cold, metallic, like water mixed with iron. “Good,” she said. “Keep up.”

  I did. The rest of the data entry was rote. For the next hour, I was nothing but a machine—scanning, typing, and confirming—Marrow a silent presence focused entirely on her metrics. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, and the rhythmic drone of the massive cold storage units became the background of my existence.

  Finally, Marrow leaned back from her monitor, her goggles pushing up into her cropped hair. "Done," she said, her voice dry.

  I had barely pushed my chair away from the desk when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the storage aisle. A moment later, Haru rounded the corner, his black uniform distinct against the grey concrete. He stopped, glancing from Marrow's screen to me.

  "They’re done," he announced, his voice carrying an undeniable edge. "Kuro. You're with me now."