I felt… wrong.
My body had returned to normal, the radiant, ethereal wings of the Mega-Primordial state having vanished into nothingness, but now there was a massive void within me. It was like every bit of energy I had—physical, magical, and spiritual—had been siphoned out. But it wasn't just the power. It felt like my emotions had been part of what drained away, leaving me hollowed out and cold in the middle of a war-torn street.
I looked down at the hand that had held Guzma's throat. My knuckles were still white, though I was no longer gripping anything but air. I stared at the palm of my hand for a moment, seeing the faint, residual sparks of the Hydro Flash skin dissipating. Then, I looked up.
"Are you okay, Landon?" Nemona asked. Her voice was uncharacteristically small. All of her previous gusto, that infectious energy that usually defined her, had evaporated. The twelve stars of her Star Fire Storm Skin had vanished, and her hair had returned to its normal green-streaked black. She looked at me with a raw, naked worry that made the void in my chest feel even heavier.
"Landon?" Grusha added. Her Frigid Ice Queen crystal suit had melted away, leaving her in her standard heavy winter gear. She didn't say much—she never did—but the way she gripped her scarf told me everything. She was vibrating with a subtle tremor, and it wasn't from the cold.
Behind them, the other three kept their distance. Jennifer and Emma looked stunned, but it was Anabel's face that stayed with me. She was a professional, an agent of the International Police who had seen the worst the world had to offer, yet there was a deep, uneasy calculation in her eyes. I could practically see the gears turning as she tried to determine if a "Hero" who could lose his mind like that was an asset or a ticking time bomb.
I didn't fault her. If I were in her shoes, I'd be reaching for my Poké Balls too.
I wanted to scream that it wasn't me. I wanted to tell them that the Primordial had taken over, that the system had glitched, that I hadn't actually wanted to kill Guzma. But as I looked at the crater in the street and the unconscious, broken forms of his Pokémon, I knew that was a lie. The Primordial hadn't forced me; I had opened the door. I had summoned that ancient, vengeful entity with my own anger, and I had handed it the keys. I could have stopped at any time. I just hadn't wanted to.
I scrubbed my face with my hands, the skin feeling hot and sensitive. I sucked in a huge breath of the ozone-heavy air and let it go in a long, shaky hiss. There was so much to unpack, so much rot inside me that I hadn't realized was there. I wanted to run back to my habitat. I wanted to hide in the quiet hills of Prisma and pretend this world of black sites and "Drafted" villains didn't exist.
But running wasn't an option. Not after the stunt I'd just pulled.
"I am sorry, mostly," I said finally, my voice sounding like it was coming from someone else. I reached out and took the soft hand Nemona offered. She squeezed it, her warmth grounding me. "But I think you need to make it clear to these 'Drafted' that going after my family like that—in that specific way—is not acceptable. If you do it again, I will not be held accountable for what happens to them. The idea that Interpol plans to even free people like this at some point is bothersome, but if the others are like him, I don't know if this is the right place for us."
"No, Landon, this is exactly what you need. And Guzma isn't the problem. You are."
The voice didn't come from the girls or the agents. It exploded over the same speaker Mable had used earlier, but the tone was entirely different.
Where Mable was clinical and frenetic, this voice was a deep, resonant baritone. It was unhurried and smooth, yet possessed a heavy, gravelly texture that commanded absolute silence. It carried the suffocating, resonant calm of a steel vault door sliding shut. It was a voice that didn't need to shout to be heard; it simply occupied all the space in the room.
Guzma, who had been coughing and trying to stand, suddenly froze. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked... obedient. He wiped a smear of blood from his lip and slumped his shoulders in a way that told me he knew exactly who was talking.
"You possess raw, cataclysmic power, Landon. I will grant you that," the voice continued. It was a rich, dark mahogany of a voice, completely devoid of warmth or inflection. "But raw power without psychological discipline is exactly what our enemies are counting on. You reacted exactly as I anticipated. Like a child with a loaded gun."
I stared up at the nearest camera, my jaw tightening. "Who the hell is this?"
"I am the man Looker released from his cage to lead this little vanguard," the voice replied calmly. "You may call me Giovanni. And as for your tantrum... if that is how you react to a simple street thug making empty threats, you are entirely unprepared for what is coming."
"Empty threats?" I growled, glancing at the girls. "He tried to put them in cages. He tried to claim them as property."
"Because I ordered him to," Giovanni rumbled, the sheer lack of emotion in his tone making the air feel ten degrees colder. "Tell me, Landon. Have Cynthia and Looker briefed you on the exact nature of Colress's escaped assets? Or are you operating under the naive assumption that you are hunting common criminals?"
I remained silent, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs for a very different reason.
"Brawn. Rocket. Sage. Violator. Temptress. Shadow. Gigolo," Giovanni listed, pronouncing each codename with an icy, surgical precision. "Seven psychic anomalies. They do not fight with fists, Landon, and they do not abide by the rules of a Pokémon battle. They fight by invading the sanctum of the mind."
A heavy silence fell over Sector 4. Nemona moved closer to me, her hand trembling slightly in mine.
"They possess the capability to forcibly hijack motor functions, rewrite short-term memories, and gaslight you into slaughtering your own allies," Giovanni explained. His voice lowered to a terrifyingly quiet pitch, forcing us to strain to hear him. "They use hypnotic frequencies and localized auras to subjugate the will. Sage will plunge you into an endless, torturous sleep. Violator will tear apart your sanity until you don't know your own name. And Gigolo... his entire existence is dedicated to permanently hypnotizing and claiming the minds of women, turning them into thralls who will kill their own families for a smile."
I felt a surge of nausea. I thought of the "Star Fire" orbiting Nemona's head and the "Ice Queen" grace of Grusha. The thought of someone like 'Gigolo' or 'Violator' touching their minds made the Primordial stir again, but this time, it was tempered by a cold, sharp fear.
"Guzma didn't threaten your companions because he wanted to," Giovanni stated, delivering the final, crushing blow of logic. "He did it because that is exactly what our targets will attempt. They will mock you. They will threaten those you love. They will use the girls as shields and weapons against you. If you lose control and surrender to that monstrous, unguided rage every time an enemy targets your heart, you will be blind. You will be predictable. And you will be the reason they fall."
The red Hard-Light barrier on the perimeter fully dissolved with a final hiss.
"Guzma and the rest of my Drafted are your whetstone, Landon," Giovanni finished smoothly. "We will be acting as the villains you so desperately need to train against. We will push you to your breaking point, and we will subject Nemona, Grusha, Lusamine, and Iono to every psychological stress test imaginable until their minds are hardened like diamonds. If they cannot resist a street-level thug like Guzma, they will have no chance against the Seven."
I looked down at Guzma. He was standing now, recalling his beaten Scizor. He didn't look like the "Boss" anymore; he looked like a soldier who had just finished a very unpleasant drill. He caught my eye and gave a small, grim nod. He wasn't the nice guy from the Alolan stories right now. He was the man Giovanni had shaped him to be—a blunt instrument used to forge me into something better.
"Landon," Anabel said, finally stepping forward. Her face was pale. "He's right. We didn't bring you here to play games. We brought you here because the world is about to be hit by a psychic wave we can't stop with conventional police work. You need to be able to fight while your heart is being torn out."
I looked at my hands again. They weren't shaking anymore. They were cold.
"Fine," I said, looking directly into the camera lens. "If this is what it takes to make sure no one touches their minds, then we do it. But Giovanni?"
"Yes, Landon?" the voice purred, sounding like a Persian hiding its claws.
"Next time anyone pushes me," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous level. "You had better put them in more armor."
A low, rumbling chuckle echoed through the speakers—a sound like tectonic plates shifting.
"Good. Head back up to the lab, and Mable will explain what is planned for you. Your real training begins today."