The photo album barely fit on the fold-out card table, its leather-bound elegance a stark contrast to the hastily assembled furniture around it. Dawn painted thin strips of light through the apartment's single window, the shadows of Celadon's towering apartments creating a striped pattern across the worn carpet.
Fuji turned another page with practiced care, the album's weight making the card table wobble. Each photograph was a window into a past that felt increasingly like someone else's life—birthday parties, beach trips, family dinners in a house that no longer belonged to him. His thumb traced the edge of a particular image: Amber at seven, twirling in a light blue sundress that made her look like a piece of sky brought down to earth. Her mother had sewn it herself, spending weeks getting the pleats just right.
"Perfect," he whispered, carefully removing the photo. The apartment's thin walls carried the sound of his chair scraping back, a neighbor's Meowth yowling in protest at the noise. Three steps took him across the narrow hallway to Amber's room—no longer a museum of memories, but a blank canvas of rental beige, hastily decorated with the few family portraits he'd managed to save.
He paused at her door, today's chosen dress draped over his arm. An exact replica of the one in the photograph, down to the last stitch of white trim. He hung the dress carefully on the doorknob, adjusting it three times before he was satisfied.
The kitchenette felt like a dollhouse version of their old one, everything scaled down and simplified. His wedding ring clinked against the cheap aluminum pan as he reached for it, the sound sharp in the morning silence. She had always insisted on making breakfast herself—said it wasn't proper to start the day without a homemade meal. Now he performed a cramped imitation of their old life, careful not to bump his elbows against the narrow counters as he cracked eggs into the pan.
Three plates, three sets of chopsticks, three glasses of juice, all arranged on a table meant for one. The third setting sat like a promise at the empty end of the tiny table, waiting.
He was nearly done when he heard movement from Amber's room. His hands stilled on the last plate, listening for... something. A sign. A word. Anything that might tell him if today would be different. But there was only the soft padding of feet and the quiet click of a door.
Breakfast passed in silence. Questions died unasked in the space between them, their knees almost touching under the small table. He watched her pick at her food, noted how she held her chopsticks—all wrong, nothing like before—and added it to his mental list of differences to fix later.
"Go get dressed," he said quietly after they finished.
While she changed, he placed the dishes in the sink and set up the VCR player, an old tape of "Adventures of Pikachu & Friends" whirring to life.
When she emerged wearing the blue dress, he pretended not to notice how she kept tugging at the collar, how her fingers worked against the trim like it was trying to strangle her. After all, Amber loved this dress. Just like all the others he had regifted her.
He gathered his materials quickly—folders thick with data, security cards, and a single photograph tucked into his breast pocket. Not the one from this morning—that would go back in the album—but a different one. One he didn't need to look at to see.
"I'll probably be late tonight... again," he said, the words falling into their practiced routine. “Ditto will—”
"Ditto will watch me. I know," she said as she rolled her eyes.
“Watch your tone, young lady,” Fuji scolded softly. Another difference. Another detail to catalogue and fix later.
He sighed, then turned away to put on his shoes. He paused at the door, key ring heavy in his hand, waiting for... something. A goodbye? A smile? The ghost of what used to be? But Amber had already turned away, lost in whatever thoughts filled her these days.
The stairwell lights still hadn't been fixed, leaving his descent in that peculiar twilight that made every shadow look like a memory trying to take shape. In his pocket, the photograph pressed against his heart like a wound that refused to heal—the three of them at the beach, Amber holding her mother's hat against the wind, her other hand clutching his lab coat. He pushed through the door at ground level, stepping into the morning light of a city that had long since moved on without him.
-[v.v]-
The Game Corner's neon signs cast sickly patterns across the morning crowd, their faces bathed in artificial twilight despite the sun outside. Fuji moved through the sea of early gamblers with practiced indifference, his coat pocket heavy with the photo he refused to look at again. The sound of slot machines created a hypnotic rhythm—clicks and whirs and electronic chimes that almost masked the sound of footsteps behind him.
He reached the back wall, fingers finding the hidden panel by memory. The poster above advertised "Big Wins!" in garish colors, a Meowth's golden coin reflecting nothing. Three precise taps, pause, two more. A slim card reader emerged with barely a whisper. He drew the white keycard from his inner pocket, its magnetic strip worn from repeated use. The wall slid away with hydraulic efficiency when he swiped it.
The stairwell beyond was everything the Game Corner wasn't—sterile, silent, serious. Another swipe at the bottom of the stairs, this time with the higher-clearance black card. The temperature dropped with each step, the air taking on that distinctive underground chill. Even the sounds changed—the muffled thump of his footsteps against metal stairs replacing the chaos of slot machines above.
"Dr. Fuji!" The voice echoed off polished surfaces. A young man in a lab coat hurried toward him, folder clutched like a shield. "I have those documents you requested forged, doctor."
Fuji accepted the folder without breaking stride, Gideon falling into step beside him. The younger scientist's nervousness manifested in a constant stream of words.
"I backdated everything through the hospital records—birth certificate, vaccination records, doctor’s notes, check-ups, everything. Anyone who looks will find a perfectly ordinary ten-year-old girl who’s lived here all her life." Gideon paused, glancing sideways, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Oh, and Agent Domino was asking about you last night. Said she has something you'll find interesting. She's at the Rose Heights Apartments, Unit 742."
The conference room door loomed ahead, voices already leaking through. Fuji's hand tightened on the folder, creasing its edge. "Thank you, Dr. Gideon. That will be all."
"Doctor?" Gideon hesitated. "About the meeting... some of the admins are saying—"
The conference room hummed with barely contained chaos. Screens covered every wall—damage reports on the left, casualty lists straight ahead, power readings to the right. Junior scientists clustered in the back corners like anxious Rattata, while admins claimed the chairs closest to the vacant seat at the head of the table.
Fuji took his seat at the table's midpoint—likely no longer the head of his own research division—and opened Gideon’s folder of forged records. He no longer needed the position anyway.
"Twenty-three dead," Admin Archer began without preamble. "Forty-five support staff. Billions in equipment." He stood at the room's front, hands clasped behind his back, reflection fractured across the wall of screens. "And a weapon of unprecedented power loose in the world." His eyes fixed on Fuji. "Would you care to explain how this happened, Doctor?"
"I've already explained in the previous meetings." Fuji's voice carried the same detached interest he used when discussing failed specimens. He opened his folder, beginning his methodical review of Gideon's forged documents.
"Dr. Fuji!" Archer's hands slammed onto the conference table. Coffee cups rattled. A junior researcher in the back dropped her clipboard.
"Dr. Samba," Dr. Sebastian quickly interrupted, turning the attention away from Dr. Fuji. "Perhaps you could explain the sequence of events from your monitoring station?"
"Ah, yes." Dr. Samba stood, her hands steady as she manipulated the central display. Multiple graphs materialized, showing increasingly erratic patterns. "The readings were unprecedented from the start. Even in stasis, its psychic signature exceeded our strongest Alakazam baseline by several orders of magnitude. But look here—" She highlighted a specific timestamp. "At 0247 hours, a huge spike in brain activity followed."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"The containment system—" Archer started.
"Was operating at maximum capacity," Samba continued, advancing through her data. "But the power levels kept climbing. Each spike was stronger than the last, until..." The graph shot upward, disappearing off the scale. "Until—"
"Until it escaped." Archer interrupted. "We created something we couldn't control."
"The evolutionary acceleration was unprecedented," Dr. Zager added, leaning forward. His excitement briefly overcame his caution. "If we could replicate even a fraction of that growth rate in other specimens—"
"Replicate?" Dr. Namba's laugh held no humor. "Half our research was destroyed. The Master Ball prototype data, the fusion experiments..." He finally glanced at the photo graphs of the ruins behind her. "The Evolution Acceleration lab is a crater. Twenty years of strength augmentation research, gone."
“Your strength augmentation barely worked anyway," Dr. Sebastian said with a dismissive wave.
The room erupted into overlapping arguments. A junior researcher waved printouts of energy readings. Two admins argued about cover stories while Dr. Sebastian and Dr. Namba's debate about the efficacies of the strength augmentation system devolved into a shouting match about research priorities.
Through it all, Fuji continued reading his documents, each forged page helping to build the foundation of his daughter's new existence. Only occasionally did his eyes flick to the photographs of the ruined facility, lingering on the massive hole torn through three sublevels—the path of Mewtwo's destruction.
The door opened.
The change in the room was instant. Scientists who had been shouting moments ago snapped upright in their chairs. Archer's face went pale. Even Dr. Namba's sharp retort died in her throat. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Giovanni entered like he was taking a casual stroll through one of his gardens. His Persian padded silently beside him, its eyes scanning the room with predatory intensity. The gem on its forehead caught the fluorescent light, casting tiny red reflections across the walls. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most of the scientists made in a year, every line of it perfect despite the early hour.
"Please," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "don't let me interrupt." He took the empty seat at the head of the table, Persian curling at his feet. No one moved. "I simply thought I should... personally assess the situation."
His eyes found Fuji, who had finally looked up from his papers. The two men regarded each other for a long moment—the crime lord and the scientist, each seeing something in the other that the rest of the room couldn't quite grasp.
“My investment?” Giovanni asked, staring at Fuji.
"Your investment," Fuji echoed, meeting Giovanni's gaze with the same detached interest he'd shown his papers, "exceeded all parameters. The enhanced clone demonstrated power levels beyond anything in recorded history.”
"What about its personality? You mixed some human DNA, correct?" Giovanni's question carried a weight that seemed to thicken the air.
Dr. Fuji paused, contemplating the question. His eyes drifted to the wall of monitors behind Giovanni's desk. "As demonstrated by the almost complete destruction of the facility, I believe it thinks like a human, not a Pokemon. It carries human ambition and human desires. And..." he turned back to Giovanni, his voice dropping slightly, "it may hold grudges."
"Then it will understand reason," Giovanni replied, his lips curving into a slight smile. He gestured for the meeting to continue, settling back in his chair like a theatergoer at a particularly amusing play.
Dr. Sebastian cleared his throat, clicking through his presentation. "The forced evolution serum research was largely preserved. We managed to save both the formula and the latest trial."
"What about the fusion experiments?" Archer interrupted.
"The successful specimens were killed in the collapse," A scientist said, her voice tight. "Though frankly, given their condition, perhaps that was a mercy."
“And the legendary capture project?”
Dr. Zager pulled up a new set of files. "Most of our legendary capture research data was recovered. The theoretical frameworks for containing Mew, the legendary birds, even Celebi—"
"Theoretical being the operative word," someone muttered.
"The equipment was lost," Zager continued, ignoring the comment. "But considering we haven't actually located any of these Pokemon besides Mew, rebuilding the containment units isn't our highest priority."
“Before we discuss future legendary projects," Archer cut in, "what about the immediate threat? Can we capture Mewtwo?" He turned to Fuji. "Doctor, exactly how strong is this thing?"
Fuji looked up from his papers, something flickering behind his eyes—a flash of annoyance at yet another interruption of his reading. But after a moment's consideration, he set the documents aside with exaggerated care.
"As we've discussed already," he began, emphasizing each word like he was speaking to particularly slow students, "the psychic readings were beyond our highest measuring capabilities. Far stronger than any trained Pokemon we've documented. Likely on par with legendary Pokemon, at minimum." He picked up his papers again, adding almost as an afterthought: "It was designed for battle, after all."
"Could the legendary containment systems for Mew work on it?" Ariana asked.
Dr. Zager shook his head. "Those were designed around Mew's specific abilities—transformation, teleportation. Mewtwo..." He paused, studying the destruction footage. "Mewtwo is far more aggressive."
Through the ensuing debate, Giovanni remained silent, his dark eyes studying each speaker in turn. His Persian stretched lazily at his feet, tail flicking with each raised voice. Only when the arguments began cycling back on themselves did he finally speak, his quiet words cutting through the chaos.
"Dr. Fuji." The room fell silent. "Could another be created? With the few Mew DNA samples we have left?"
Fuji looked up from his papers again, a flash of annoyance at the interruption. But this wasn't Archer or one of the other administrators. This was Giovanni.
"The successful synthesis was, honestly, more luck than science," Fuji replied, his tone carefully modulated. "We're still not entirely sure what triggered its awakening." He held Giovanni's gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary before returning to his documents.
"But could you? One more... amenable to our goals?" Giovanni's voice remained gentle, almost conversational. The room held its breath.
Fuji's hand stilled on his papers. For the first time in the meeting, his detachment wavered. A new thought flickered through his mind—not just another Mewtwo, but another chance at perfection. Another Amber, one who wouldn't tug at her dress or roll her eyes or hold her chopsticks wrong...
"...It's possible," he responded, not looking up, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the forged hospital records of his current "success."
The afternoon dragged on all the way into night. Status updates from field operatives revealed no more psychic disturbances, suggesting Mewtwo had already learned to mask its signature. Division heads argued over resource allocation, blame shifted like shadows, and through it all, Giovanni watched, occasionally asking a pointed question that would send discussions spiraling in new directions.
"The Evolution Research Division needs priority funding—"
"Funding? Half our containment specialists are dead—"
"If we could replicate even a fraction of Mewtwo's power level—"
"Did you see what it did to the psychic dampeners? They melted—"
The sun had set by the time Giovanni stood, silencing the room once more. "I expect daily updates," he said simply, and left, his Persian following like a shadow.
The meeting fractured into smaller arguments, then into resigned silence. Scientists and Admins gathered their materials, some still debating in hushed tones about containment protocols and power readings that had exceeded their equipment's maximum scale.
Fuji stood with them, hurriedly gathering his other papers. His fingers brushed against the photograph in his pocket—a reflexive check, like ensuring a key was still there.
He had another meeting to attend.
-[v.v]-
Rose Heights Apartments loomed over the northern edge of Celadon City, its modern glass facade reflecting the soft glow of the moon. Fuji took the elevator to the seventh floor, his reflection in the mirrored walls looking more worn than he remembered. The fluorescent lights made the shadows under his eyes deeper and turned his lab coat a sickly shade of yellow.
Domino opened the door in exercise clothes, a gym towel around her neck. Sweat gleamed on her skin, but her smile was perfectly composed. "Dr. Fuji. You’re very late."
He followed her into an apartment that was notably sparse—a few pieces of furniture, no personal items visible. Exercise equipment dominated one corner, news with captions playing silently on the TV.
"Trying to track down your wife after, what, twenty years?" Domino grabbed a water bottle, her tone playful.
"The timing is right," Fuji said quietly. "Everything is finally in place."
"You mean... Mewtwo?" She studied him for a moment, then shrugged and picked up a folder from the coffee table. "Well, I did find something interesting."
She held it just out of reach, smile sharpening. "New address, a few photos, some documents. Just... don't be too shocked, okay? Twenty years is a long time."
Fuji nodded, snatching the folder out of her hand.
Inside the folder, time had continued without him. A more recent photo stared up from the top of the stack, showing her at what looked like a local festival. Her auburn hair was pulled back in that familiar ponytail, barely touched by gray. She was laughing at something off-camera, her face as youthful and bright as he remembered, wearing a pink blouse that matched the cherry blossoms floating in the background. His fingers traced the edge of the frame, carefully covering the man standing beside her.
"It's natural, you know," Domino said, "For her to want companionship after all this time."
He nodded slowly, still staring at the half-covered photo. The anger he'd expected didn't come—just a strange, hollow certainty that this too was temporary. Just another obstacle to overcome.
As he walked back through the darkening city streets, he whispered her name like a hypothesis waiting to be proven: "Delia..."