The booth hugged the back wall of the café, a faded orange vinyl sanctuary from the persistent, gritty chill of Castelia City's alleyways. I sat facing the entrance, a chipped ceramic mug of black coffee cooling in my hand. The air was thick, a noxious blend of stale, over-brewed coffee and the ghost of burnt toast from an hour ago. It was exactly the kind of forgettable, low-traffic establishment preferred by individuals who needed to operate outside the usual channels.

  I felt the buzz of the burner phone secured in the inner pocket of my jacket. I left it silent.

  The door chimes signalled an entry. I didn't move my head, letting my peripheral vision do the work. The "mark" was a man I estimated to be in his mid-twenties, notably younger than me. He wore a heavy, poorly-fitting coat and carried himself with the stiff, uncertain gait of someone who was perpetually looking over their shoulder. Clearly, this wasn't his natural habitat.

  He paused near the counter. The café owner—a known, if minor, financial conduit for Team Plasma—met his eyes. The owner gave a nearly imperceptible nod toward my booth before returning to wiping down a spotless section of the counter. The recruiter got the message.

  I subtly adjusted my grip on the coffee mug, my eyes remaining fixed on the reflection in the greasy window across the way, ensuring I missed nothing. With a practiced motion that took less than three seconds, I pulled the burner from my pocket, typed a message, and hit send.

  Contact arrived.

  The recruiter, moving with awkward haste, was soon at my table. He slid into the opposite side of the booth, hitting the cushioned seat with a heavy thump that jarred the sugar dispenser. He didn't meet my eyes, focusing instead on the steam rising from my pot of coffee.

  Without a word, I poured a mug for him. The coffee was still marginally warm, a courtesy that often disarmed the nervous.

  He picked it up almost defensively and took a quick, grimacing sip. His shoulders tightened. He set the mug down and immediately reached for the sugar. The clink, clink, clink of his spoon hitting the ceramic as he worked was the only sound besides the distant rumble of the city above the alleys. He did not speak until the mug was near-white with refined cane sugar. He took a second, lengthy, testing sip.

  "Thanks," he mumbled, letting out a puff of air. "F-ing cold out there this morning."

  I offered a slight inclination of my head, acknowledging the trivial comment. It was a test of sorts, a moment to gauge his composure and stress levels before we moved past the banal. He was agitated, but not reckless.

  "I am Kuro," I stated, using the alias carefully cultivated for this phase.

  He swallowed hard. "I’m Leo. I… I was told to talk to you about the future. About doing something meaningful."

  The interview had begun. I leaned back slightly, my expression unreadable. The covert operation to breach Team Plasma's organisation was officially underway, starting with a bitter cup of coffee and a nervous, sugar-addicted kid.

  I watched as "Leo" fumbled with a small, worn messenger bag tucked between his legs. He extracted a generic, low-end tablet, its screen illuminating his nervous face with a harsh, blue light. He swiped rapidly, pulling up a document that was clearly a structured interview form.

  I felt a muscle twitch near my eye. A digital questionnaire in a back-alley café, delivered by a kid who looked like he’d get lost trying to find the restroom. It lacked the necessary layer of menace or mystique. It confirmed my assessment: he was a low-level functionary, disposable and unaware of the true gravity of the organization he served.

  I allowed a single, measured eyebrow raise. "Questions?" I asked, keeping my voice flat. My goal wasn't to intimidate him, but to project quiet, earnest certainty.

  Leo glanced up, catching my look, and flushed slightly. "Yeah, uh, standard procedure. Just checking for alignment, you know? They want people who get it." He adjusted the tablet, holding it like a shield. "So. First thing. Do you currently own any Pokémon?"

  "No," I replied instantly. The answer was truthful in its immediate context; the operational partners I used were strictly assets, not 'owned' pets. But the intent of the answer was to adhere to Plasma's core ideology.

  "And... why not?" he pressed, reading the scripted follow-up question. He tried to sound official, but his voice cracked slightly on the last word.

  I leaned forward just enough to project sincerity across the table, maintaining eye contact but softening my gaze. I began the recitation, the polished drivel I'd internalized from watching countless public demonstrations and analysing Team Plasma propaganda.

  "We were never meant to 'own' them, Leo. That entire concept—ownership—is the root of the sickness in this region," I stated, letting a note of controlled passion enter my voice. "Look at the history they teach in schools. It’s all about capture, domination, and using their power for our petty human conflicts."

  I paused, letting the point land. The café smelled heavier now, the tension making the stale odours more potent.

  "Pokémon aren’t meant to belong to us," I said, sticking to the script. "They’ve got their own lives, their own wants. Forcing them into a ball, giving them a role—it’s just control, plain and simple. We talk a big game about freedom, but then we turn around and keep them locked up. That’s why I don’t have one—I think they should decide for themselves. They deserve a chance to choose, and I want to help make that happen."

  Leo stared intently at the tablet screen, his finger hovering over the surface. He hadn't expected the full manifesto—the sheer volume of my prepared speech seemed to genuinely overwhelm him. I watched as his expression shifted from simple relief to confusion. He lifted the tablet slightly, angling the microphone intake port toward himself, and tapped a small, pulsing icon on the edge of the screen.

  Then, he mumbled something under his breath, too low for me to catch the words. The text on the screen, which had been blank below the prompt, suddenly populated with a dense block of text: "We were never meant to 'own' them, Leo. That entire concept—ownership—is the root of the sickness in this region... etc."

  It was clearly a speech-to-text program converting my answer into digital documentation, a layer of technological outsourcing that further highlighted his lack of personal investment. He was a clerk, not an ideologue.

  He finally tapped the screen again, and the massive block of transcribed text scrolled away.

  "Right," he mumbled, a flicker of genuine admiration, or perhaps just relief that I had answered correctly, crossing his face. "Okay. Next question..."

  Leo cleared his throat, adjusting the tablet again. He seemed momentarily thrown by my intense response, but he quickly reverted to the script.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Next question focuses on the application of power," Leo read, his voice gaining a slightly rehearsed cadence. "What is your opinion on the use of Pokémon in competitive battling, specifically the Unova League system?"

  I didn't hesitate. This was the ideological lynchpin of Plasma's public fa?ade.

  “The League is just a tool the state uses to keep everyone in line,” I said, lowering my voice as if it was something dangerous to admit. “They dress it up as competition, but all it does is make cruelty into entertainment. They put Champions up on pedestals like heroes, but at the end of the day, they’re just the best at holding the leash.” I gave the table a brief tap with my finger. “The whole setup traps not just Pokémon, but Trainers too—gets them used to thinking this is all normal. It gives cover to the idea that one side commands and the other obeys. That’s why it needs to go.”

  Leo nodded, visibly satisfied. He quickly navigated the tablet. The screen paused, displaying a new, heavy prompt. He read the words aloud with an obvious effort to sound detached.

  "Hypothetically. Not all Trainers will willingly surrender their Pokémon when the time comes. If liberation requires force—if a Trainer resists—what is your position on taking the Pokémon against the Trainer's will?"

  This was the true test, moving past slogans and into tactical ethics. I held his gaze, allowing my expression to show reluctant conviction.

  “If someone stands in the way of freedom, you don’t wait for their permission—you remove the obstacle,” I said, voice steady but not harsh. “Trainers who refuse to let go aren’t caretakers—they’re just in the way. Their feelings can’t take priority over another’s right to be free. No one wants things to get ugly, but when it comes down to it, freeing those held captive is more important than protecting someone’s sense of ownership.”

  I leaned back, letting the weight of the statement settle. "Plasma's goal is not violence. Our goal is freedom. If force is the most efficient, necessary means to achieve that ultimate, moral end, then it is a regrettable but justified step. We do what is required to ensure every Pokémon is free."

  Leo didn't speak. He stared at the tablet, his brow furrowed as the speech-to-text program silently ingested my declaration. He tapped the icon once more, scrolling the text away. He seemed a little pale now, perhaps disturbed by the implications of his own organization's official doctrine, or perhaps just by the chilling clarity of my agreement.

  "Last major section," he mumbled, moving quickly. "Hypothetical. If you were tasked with a critical, sensitive mission—something that required absolute secrecy and speed—what kind of assets would you prioritize?"

  This was the final test, an attempt to gauge my operational leanings. They wanted a commitment to their methods.

  "People," I answered flatly. "Solid planning, airtight comms, and staying under the radar. Pokémon are risky for ops like this—they get unpredictable at the worst times." My tone stayed even, but I met his gaze. "If we need them, they’re tools—nothing flashy. Moving through tight spots, getting past locks, things like that. No heroics, no battles. We aren’t here to draw eyes; we’re here to get results."

  Leo’s nervousness finally evaporated, replaced by a kind of eager, almost fanatic zeal. He hit a final button on the tablet, and the screen flashed a single line of green text: ACCESS GRANTED. He snapped the tablet cover shut, the small plastic sound shockingly loud in the quiet cafe.

  "Kuro," Leo said, his voice now firm. "You’ve been approved. Right now. We need to move you into Phase Two immediately. There's a meet-up a few blocks from here. A handler is waiting."

  I stood up, pulling on my jacket. "Lead the way, Leo."

  The transition from the claustrophobic booth to the chaotic bustle of Castelia was a welcome change. We moved quickly through the alley, then merged onto a broader service road, Leo frequently glancing over his shoulder. I kept my stride even, my senses filtering the surroundings for any deviation. The operational mindset was fully engaged now.

  He led me down a narrow service ramp behind a dusty construction site—a perfect, forgotten transition point. Waiting beside a concrete mixer was a woman in a crisp, dark Team Plasma uniform that looked official, unlike Leo's shabby gear. Her posture was military, severe. Beside her, shimmering slightly in the weak morning light, was a Musharna. Its eyes were closed, a faint pink mist—its Dream Mist—wafting around its levitating form.

  "This is Handler Zara," Leo whispered nervously, taking a step back. "She'll take over now."

  Zara didn't acknowledge Leo. She looked me up and down, her eyes cold and assessing. She offered no greeting, just a concise, professional order.

  "Kuro. We are expected. This is faster than standard transit."

  I looked at the Musharna. A Psychic-type. A direct, rapid transport to an undisclosed location. High-risk, high-reward—exactly the kind of operational efficiency I'd cited in the interview. I walked toward the woman and the Pokémon. The Musharna's eyes remained closed, but the Dream Mist suddenly became thicker, swirling around my boots.

  As I took the final steps toward Zara, my hand slid naturally to the inside pocket of my coat. I pulled out the burner phone, shielding it from Zara’s view with the large cuff of my sleeve and the shadow of the concrete mixer. The snow glare made the screen hard to read, but the message was quick.

  To: LK

  Im in, we're leaving.

  The wind whipped at my jacket as I pressed send. The message was a ghost, a signal confirming deep penetration. This was the final check-in. The phone went back into my pocket, its metal casing cold against my skin. I was now truly isolated, fully dependent on my cover and training. Going dark.

  Zara placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Hold tight. You're going to feel a shift."

  The sensation hit: a sudden, powerful pinch in the stomach, followed by the complete, disorienting loss of the familiar pull of gravity and sound. The stench of diesel and city grit vaporized.

  The feeling lasted less than a second.

  Then, there was cold, thin air and the sharp, clean scent of pine and stone.

  I opened my eyes, fighting the urge to gasp. We were standing on a barren, snow-dusted ridge high that felt it was above the clouds. Sheer granite cliffs rose around us, but directly ahead, perfectly camouflaged into the mountainside, was a massive, reinforced steel hatch. The Musharna floated silently, already sinking into its telepathic sleep. Leo, looking ill, was hunched over, retching quietly behind a boulder.

  "The air is thin, Kuro," Zara repeated, her voice cutting through the wind. "Keep moving."

  I followed her lead. The trek toward the hatch was short but arduous, the ground uneven and slick with ice. I used the time to survey the scene. There were no tracks, no sign of any other ingress. The Musharna was the only reliable key.

  As we reached the camouflage, I noticed the subtle electromagnetic hum coming from the structure. It was sealed against more than just the weather.

  Zara stopped before a recessed keypad, pulling a specialized data pad from her uniform. While she initiated the complex, multi-factor verification, I observed the structure. The metal was dull, anti-reflective. The security wasn't relying on flashy traps, but absolute isolation and physical reinforcement.

  Finally, the security door chimed softly, and the mechanisms inside the thick steel began to grind and hiss. Air rushed out of the pressurized bunker, smelling sterile and slightly metallic. A faint, artificial yellow light spilled out of the gap, contrasting sharply with the cold, gray landscape.

  I stepped across the threshold, allowing the chilling realization to sink in: the only path out was back through that massive, grinding steel door, which was currently sealing shut with absolute finality. The last sliver of natural light vanished, replaced by the faint, artificial yellow glow from emergency lights recessed into the rough-cut concrete ceiling.

  The tunnel sloped steeply downward for a short distance before opening into a large, cold cavern of an initial staging area. The air here was heavy with the smell of ozone, diesel, and freshly cut stone—a subterranean construction zone trying to pass as a professional facility. The temperature was regulated, warmer than the outside, but utterly sterile.

  Handler Zara moved ahead with purpose. I followed, cataloguing the environment. This place was an operational base: the walls were lined with stacked, heavy-duty shipping containers bearing no external markings. In the centre, several armoured personnel vehicles sat idle, their silhouettes bulky and menacing.

  Zara swept her arm toward a group of five figures huddled near a portable workstation. They were young, dressed in anonymous civilian clothes, shifting awkwardly under the scrutiny of a man who looked like a bored security guard.

  "This is the staging area. You will join them," Zara said, her voice cutting through the cavernous space. "They are the initial intake. You start with aptitude assessment."

  She turned to me, her expression hardening. "Kuro, your profile suggested high analytical capability. That will be tested. Plasma does not waste time on dead weight." She pointed toward a wall of containers. "Your first task is logistical. You will catalogue a recent acquisition of equipment. It is tedious. It is demanding. Fail to demonstrate the required focus, and you will be rerouted back to Castelia. Permanently."

  I maintained a neutral expression, though internally, I felt a spark of victory. This was perfect. Mundane, low-risk, and an ideal opportunity to access manifests.

  "I understand," I replied, dipping my head slightly to mask the calculation in my eyes. "Where do I report?"

  Zara gestured toward the portable workstation. "Your immediate superior is Lieutenant Haru. He will give you your first assignment and your new uniform." She looked directly at Leo. "You are done here. The Musharna is recovering. You have twenty minutes before the next scheduled transit."

  Leo nodded quickly, relieved to be moving back toward the exit hatch. Zara gave a single, dismissive wave.

  "You will remain in this staging area until your assessment is complete. No external communication. No unauthorized movement," she said, her final command aimed at me and the group of recruits. Zara then turned on her heel and, without a single backward glance, marched out with Leo trailing behind her. The heavy steel door hissed open just long enough to swallow them, then sealed again with a powerful thunk.

  I was alone, surrounded by strangers and sealed inside the enemy's heart.

  I took three deliberate steps toward the recruits, ensuring my back was momentarily shielded by the bulk of a shipping container. My operational discipline held my gait steady.

  As I took the fourth step, I slid my hand into the inner pocket of my coat. I pulled out the burner phone, shielding the screen with my hand and the shadow of the container. I thumbed the power button, bringing the device to life. I quickly typed the final operational update:

  I’m in, going dark

  My thumb hovered over the send button. I looked up, my eyes sweeping the ceiling for obvious cameras—a habit I couldn’t break. I looked back down, ready to transmit the message to LK.

  Across the top of the screen, right where the signal strength bars should have been, was a stark, unforgiving symbol: an empty circle with a slash through it. No Service. The shielded depths of the mountain had cut the line. The powerful directional antenna I had been counting on was useless against this amount of rock and electronic countermeasures.

  My breath hitched—a silent, internal reaction that only training prevented from showing on my face. The last message LK had received was "I’m in, we're leaving," a half hour ago. He wouldn't know I had successfully infiltrated the base itself. I was completely cut off.

  Shit.

  I killed the screen immediately, sliding the useless piece of electronics back into my pocket. The sudden, absolute isolation was a cold spike of adrenaline I quickly suppressed.

  I emerged from the shadow of the container, joining the silent group of new recruits. I had just entered the mountain, and the mission was suddenly far more dangerous than I had anticipated.