Ouroboros [Leon]

[Aubre Ellen McKenna]

Life was full of funny, and not so funny, coincidences. Someone dies and their relative is born. A chance event ruins someone's life. A dropped item can lead to romance.
The day had started wonderfully; that made her suspicious. The autumn morning was not accompanied by fog, clouds, rain, or a chill. The sun had shone down in a rather cheery, and a somewhat cruel manner. The little wooden blind in front of her bedroom window stood little chance against light's power. It had poured through her window and gently caressed her face before forcing her pine-colored eyes open with a harsh wrench. The girl had not minded that very much as her eyes had actually been close. Today she had actually gotten some sleep, and a few hours more than her usual two. She had blinked a few times, rolled over, and attempted to sleep again. Her body, though exhausted, refused to cooperate and remained stiff and unyielding in its field of thorny springs and suffocating blankets. Even with the sun waking her up, and her back pain, it was a much better day than usual.

One thing made it even better; it was her first day off in two weeks. The young woman felt no urgency as she crawled, quite literally, from between her warm covers and to the floor. Her breakfast was not cooked with the same haphazard technique her early mornings forced on her. The apartment was quiet, and her companions still snoozed in their spacious room. She even felt a smile creeping on her cheeks at their synchronized snoring.

The pancakes had not come out of the skillet burnt--but they had come out. With syrup, and some powdered sugar, she even managed to like their taste. The television had some decent programming for an early morning, and the couch did not try to stab her with its shattered springs. The old thing, with its horrid flannel covering, even seemed to embrace her and welcome her sore back into its plush arms. The apartment was warm without being too hot, and the temperature even allowed for an open window.

Green disappeared as her eyes slipped close with an almost content smile; she should have know better than to tempt fate.

The jarring sound of her phone, which sounded like a cat being strangled, snapped her quickly into reality. Her dark nightmares had not helped. Her head jerked up, and her body fell to the ground between the couch and the coffee table. Her knee smacked into its corner as she crawled toward the phone and hastily picked it up. It took her a few minutes to distinguish the red from the green; she wished he had remained color-blind:
"H-hello, this is A-aubre McKenna--may I ask who's speaking?"
The next sound out of her mouth was similar to a deflating balloon mixed with a squeak as she rose to actually brush her hair.

She hated good days.

---

It had been near dawn.

Within an hour she was at work with one hand on the counter, and her head balanced on the other. Her tired eyes watched as a potent liquid bubbled away in a blue-tinted vial. The store was almost entirely empty except for the clingy dust motes, and the rare bugs that crawled on the nearly pristine tiles. Boredom drove her to speak to herself--she hadn't wanted to drag any of her Pokemon out of bed this early:
"While I a-am very glad that D-daphne went into labor, did she have to do it today? I know it's not in her control, but I needed the break."
The ramblings lasted much longer than that, and at one point she even turned to speak to the liquid bubbling away happily on its stand.
"Y-you look pretty happy y-yourself, or angry, d-depends on w-why you're so bubbly. I-if you blow up and lodge glass in my eye, I'll have my answer."
The woman was carefully not to lean too close to the vial, just in case that happened. The new stove with its wintery flames was quite likely to do that, and seemed to be temperamental. The boss refused to call in a professional either, and Aubre really hoped the gas pouring from its sides was not toxic.

As she say and watched water boil, or a chemical similar to it, she let her mind wander. If things had been different, and the region had not collapsed completely, she wouldn't be here. The woman was not one to daydream, but she was exhausted, and quite frankly had little else to do. She could imagine the thick wooden floors beneath her feet as she strolled around her freshly completed gym. Her hair was long and healthy, and her smile was vibrant. The hands that lifted to massage a wooden bleacher lacked the thick scars on their backs and undersides. This daydream felt shallow and obviously translucent compared to the nightmares that haunted her. Why did things have to go wrong?

Bzzzt!

An impatient timer, one that reminded her of a screeching owl, shattered her little reverie. The woman turned off the vial before her, and the one after that, before she found her hand laying on a piece of paper. Her green eyes widened considerably at the cramped writing, and she let loose a bitter laugh.
"I h-have to restock the shelves? I can't even lift my own bags--or r-reach the top shelf....."
The woman's dreams were replaced with images of fire-filled barrels, shopping carts, and nights left out in the cold. Her already worn hoody was now covered in layers of poorly made shawls; her entire body smelled of garbage. The woman stared at the box at her feet, and with a grunt lifted it. She shuffled into the next room and put it down behind the waist-high counter. Her scarred hands began to lift bottles from the box.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

By the time she had emptied one box, her back was already screaming. The woman offered a quick glare to the ceiling where both her boss, and god himself, likely rested. She was half tempted to quit now. One word stopped her.

Homeless. What if Seena starved? The woman put her stool on the ground and retrieved another box full of fragile bottles.

Only fourteen more to go.

By the time she was teetering on her stool, with her hands rotating on holding her back straight, an hour or two had passed without intrusion. She turned her nervous green eyes to the bottles in her hands and with a wiggle of her hips rose to her tiptoes to slide them into place. The apron around her waist, and the rest of the work uniform, was uncomfortably snug. It showed off most of the things she tried to hide: a pleasant figure, with a well-rounded pair of hips and a waist that dipped enough to form a pronounced hourglass. The bottle was slipping and the pesky shirt was moving the wrong way.

Ding ding ding! The entry bell offered up a cheery ring and she swore quietly.

Her hand offered a nervous little wave to whatever had opened the door. If she had imagined the noise, at least there was no one there to see her limp wave. Even as she made the movement she glanced suspiciously at the potion nestled in the crook of her other arm. She spoke in a robotic response to that bell--like the slobbering of a dog in a certain experiment.

"I'll b-be right with you, sir or madam--I n-need to finish this box. Thank you for choosing our locale for your training and trainer needs."

Her neck prickled with the urge to turn and see the intruder. What if it was a murderer, or another robber? Could it be her boss trying to assess her customer service? What if it were him? Even she was not that paranoid, but the thought still came up.

She doubted royalty got up that early. Who would rob a Pokemon pharmacy and goods store, anyway? Would they be the type of person to slit her throat?

The tingling only grew worse.

[/size]

[Deleted]

Leon lounged back into his chair, feet propped upon the fine oak wood of his desk as he read over a report on one of the newest products of Penndragon Pharmaceuticals. When Gabriele Penndragon, his predecessor and father, had first established the corporation he had done well enough in making a name for himself as one of the youngest business typhoons in the world of therapeutic remedies. His trump card had been his focus upon developing medicines for humans rather than Pokémon as a majority of companies in the business had a tendency to do. There would come a day that his horizons would expand to encompass the dear companions of trainers, but at the time his focus on the master over the creature had been a large factor in his starting success.

The target demographic for Pokémon pharmaceuticals was one of the largest and most stable markets in the world of business and economics. The demands for products that could better Pokémon and their lives were in no short stock. Trainers required nutrients that could strengthen their partners, breeders inquired as to products that increased the happiness of their charges, and doctors were forever searching for medicines that had stronger effects in healing than what was currently available. It was an economically beneficial field however; companies often omitted the health of the customer in their research. With all that could be done to enhance Pokémon, the human faces that stood behind these teams were easily forgotten.

Gabriele Penndragon had been relatively unchallenged when he had focused on a human demographic that looked to better their lives and health. He had started with the manufacturing and marketing of medicines that had already been developed before placing funds into research grants that would look to better the remedies already available in the market. From this point he had gone on to establish a research center that would focus on a number of ailments and possible cures that could counteract their symptoms. By the time he had released a completely original product of Penndragon Pharmaceuticals he had become well-known as a reliable supplier, and consumers had snatched the new pills off the shelves. His success had continued to push the Penndragon name on as his business continued to grow into what it became.

Penndragon Pharmaceuticals had just begun to breach into the field of Pokémon treatments when Remoor fell to the Infection and the wrath of Mewtwo. The aftermath left a number of the citizens ravaged and emotionally damaged. In the months that followed, the company experienced an exponential increase in revenue in correlation to a rise of demand for their products. Many people and Pokémon alike fell into a depression and looked to his father’s products to ease their pain. In addition to this, there was a noted increase in the amount of people that fell ill as was to be expected when a large number of individuals were forced to live in close quarters with one another. For all that the war impacted the family, it pushed the company forward as much as it did set them back.

The young Penndragon heir mentally ticked off several points that he would have to inquire about further before moving onto the next report. Due to the Infection and the economic impacts it had upon the company, Gabriele Penndragon had been forced to delay his research into Pokémon treatments. Products that had begun their development nearly ten years ago were only now coming to the stages of release. While beneficial in the long run, there was still a matter of stocks and distributors. It was expensive to ship out of Remoor because of the Infected Pokémon, but this also left the issue of finding local distributors that could be trusted to effectively sell and promote their products. To understand the situation more intimately, Leon had been charged with choosing suitable markets for their products.

It was a menial task, but not one that Leon minded terribly. As much as he enjoyed the office setting, he also understood the importance of developing good relations with companies that would work in tandem with their own. In this area, he had every intention of succeeding where his father had overlooked. Over the years, he had noted that his father did not associate with people as well as he did. He did not understand the importance of developing relations with smaller companies that were not a threat to his own. Though the inheritance of the company would not come for some years yet, he would take advantage of the time that he did have to prep excellent relations with the smaller businesses that would help his own to flourish. It would save him quite a bit of time when the day came that he would take the role as president to the company.

Tossing the rest of the reports back onto his work space, Leon stood with a roll of his shoulders before making his way out of the office building and towards his Lamborghini Gallardo in the parking garage. His paperwork had been attended to last week, and the researchers had already turned in their monthly observations. He still had a majority of the day to himself, but there was very little that he could do. Few businesses were open this early into the morning, and he did not have any plans until late evening. An outfit had already been prepared for the charity event, and a selected date that did not expect him until the sun had already set. Perhaps he would drop by the manor for a casual lunch, but it was too early for any sort of heavy meal however; if he dropped by a few of the stores that stood as potential distributors to their products, it would be late enough in the afternoon by the time he reached the Penndragon manor.

Leon felt himself relax with an easy smile as he pulled off of the quiet streets of the city and parked in front of his first stop not but a fifteen minute drive from the office building. The bell of the door rang with a pleasant tingle as he stepped inside, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them gracefully into the front of his casual suit jacket. Glaucous irises painfully readjusted to the fluorescent lighting as he glanced through the storefront. He immediately noted that the actual inside of the store appeared much smaller than it did on the outside however; that was most likely due to the well-stocked shelves and obviously wide variety of offered products. Customers would likely wander in because the store would keep in stock what others might run out of, and a variety of shopping could be done in one place rather than being spread out amongst several stores. Small as this particular company was, he could work their likely reliability to his advantage.

“Sir,” he responded lazily as he began to drift through the aisles, fingers running over different products as he attempted to view the storefront from the view of a customer. He had barely even noticed that there was help behind the counter from the entrance of the store; feminine as indicated by the soft tones of her voice. The owner itself was male, so he could only assume that she was a general store clerk. When considered carefully, it was a smart decision to have chosen a female for the face of the store. Females were softer, gentler, than the typical male. A consumer was more likely to put faith into a woman than they were a man. It was the reason that dangerous strangers were more often relayed as males rather than females to young children. “Feel free to take your time, Miss. I am just browsing for the time being.”

At some point he would have to stop and speak more in-depth with the sales clerk to test her own capabilities. An effective sales clerk had to be able to not only manage the storefront, but she also had to have developed social skills. Customers would not want to return to a store in which they were serviced by rude and incompetent staff. Charm went a long way as did intelligence. To reap the most benefits, she had to know the products that were being promoted by her employer. “When you have a moment I would like to steal you for just a short while. I have a question concerning some of your products.” Leon raised his tone as he wandered further away, turning a corner at the back of the store to approach the counter only to raise an eyebrow with some slight amusement.

A young female stood in clear vision down some ways, a hand stretched into the air as she carefully deposited products upon a shelf taller than herself. From his vantage point he could catch only the slight curve of her nose and a wild shock of short hair a rich color that brought to mind memories of autumn. She was an inch or two short for his tastes, and the hair cut was atrocious, but the petite waist and the slender curves of her body were attractive enough. More interesting was the accented shaping to her hips and ass. A man of finer tastes, Leon preferred a female with gorgeous legs over one with a large and quite typically fake bust. He could certainly do without certain features, but from the back she was an attractive enough sales clerk. “Do you need some help with that?” With crossed arms and an amused smile he leaned against one of the shelves. “The shelf appears to be a bit taller than it should be.”

[Aubre Ellen McKenna]

Life was not always fair, was it? Aubre had learned that very quickly in the last few years. While the older man propped his foot on expensive furniture, she would have ended up polishing those scratches off a similar one. In her entire apartment, with its single ancient laptop, the only thing that resembled a desk had formerly been a plant-holder. A leg was crooked, and it creaked each time someone even threatened to sit at it. The young lady, regardless of how much money she had, would not set her feet on any furniture. Not only did she feel bad for her stool, but it was extremely uncomfortable to hold her legs in that position. The desk was just a small thing that was not unfair. The car, with its sleek predatory shape and even beastlier engine, was by far worse. The woman either walked, risked crime on public transportation, or crawled her way from place to place. The areas that a car allowed you to avoid were planted squarely in her path.

When it came to the manner of work between the two, there was a bit of inequity. The money that was supplied by signing papers was astronomical. The hazard that came with dealing with high-heat and volatile chemicals was far lower. The scars dotting her hands, which had once been one of the few spots clean of scars, also made the check less worthwhile. While the lack of time off allowed her to have some spending money it took away all ability to use it. The woman with a back injury, supplied by the man leisurely wandering her carefully sorted aisles, was left lifting boxes the size of automobile tires. The cooled glass had left her hands nearly numb. The fact that it was almost time for lunch was gratifying, but she would not be able to take it.

The workplace did have one small benefit. The television in the back corner had a variety of channels, and the radio offered a small amount of entertainment. Did it have to be holiday related on each channel?

That reminded her of the worst injustice. The customer drew far more of her attention than the hushed lyrics, and the glass bottles in her hands had to be handled extremely carefully.

The initial correction, his voice had quickly assured her of his gender, was met with a quiet apology. The petite girl disappeared under the counter again as she was forced to assume a frog-like shape. It was far easier to kneel, or do the splits, than it was to merely bend down. The woman focused on the task ahead and tried to ignore the danger behind her. The store was empty and there was no one here to help. No one would hear her scream. Why would someone be at this store so early in the morning?
"My apologies for that s-sir, I hope your morning has been going well...."
The words trailed off into silence as she focused more closely on her task. Without a distinct period it was also open for a response, and held an unspoken question. Many answers to that unspoken question, why was this man here, made her nervous. Each noise made Aubre twitch. A large green eye followed the movement. The screen of orange hair, usually something she was thankful for, obscured all but the flash of an expensive suit sleeve. The bottle hung in the air for a moment before it was carefully slotted into place. The more the man spoke the more her hand shook. The nose of trembling glass was audible:
"Y-yes, thank you sir. Please tell me if you need my assistance."
Why hadn't she slept in when she needed it? Now she was starting to hear evil in every voice. The shaking was stopped quickly as she shook her head in a silent scold.

The woman honestly hoped he did not need anything. The dance that it took to get upon the stool was not one she wanted to repeat.

The simple request was met with a mental sigh, and a pronounced nod. Tension settled into her shoulder at the particular word choice. Why did he have to steal her? Why choose such a criminal term for a simple chat? Couldn't he have used borrowed at the very least? The woman did not want to disappoint him. The wealthy made a lot of trouble.
"I w-will try to assist you in whatever way I can, sir. U-unfortunately, unless the product is pharmaceutical , I am far from an e-expert. A-as I said, of course, I would be willing to answer whatever questions you have..."
The woman hoped that was enough to cover her ass and prevent any anger. While she was a savvy trainer, and intelligent, she did not know the finite little differences between the twelve types of ropes on the shelves.

The approaching footsteps were made more obvious by a recently mopped floor. Telltale squeaks, more like those of an intruder than a charming mouse, informed Aubre that he had moved once again. Pine-colored irises moved to the limit of their range as she tried to catch the customer. The woman did not want to turn around. Seemingly suspicious clerks were not good for business as her boss had informed her.

Her back shivered as if watched as she paused with a bottle in hand. The free hand slowly moved up to her shirt and pulled it back into it's formal position. Men were not the most trustworthy things, whether wealthy or poor; even if she was nothing to look at that didn't mean they wouldn't try to find something. The smug tone in his voice did not make her comfortable in the slightest. The words did draw a small smile. When was the last time someone had offered to help her? Most of the time they preferred to speak to the cash register while she spoke to the floor.
"N-no, I'm fine. It is very kind of you to offer sir. I am almost d-done anyway. B-besides, the insurance company would skin me if you fell."
The words turned a bit more nervous as she began to think more on the request. Why would the man want behind the counter? What wealthy man would offer to help a simple clerk?
"I-it is a bit tall, but it has to hold all the bottles. I d-don't blame the boss for it of course, he didn't b-build the shelving..."
The woman sometimes did wonder about the conspiracy theory. The girls that were hired were all around her height, and the shelf was far too high. The stretching was rather common. Was it odd that the boss usually stood in that same area?

If she had heard those slightly perverse thoughts, her brain would have done an odd dance. The hair? The fire had left her with a scarred and burnt scalp. Her once waist long curls had been melted into oblivion. When they had began to grow back in, and reminded her of what she had lost, she had taken offense. The woman had been outside when the manic impulse hit her. Instead of scissors she had found a pair of old hedge trimmers and harshly sheered off the cheery curls.

That Aubre was gone.

---

Chink

The final bottle settled into place as she carefully stepped off of the stool. Hands were wiped against dark-washed jeans as she turned to face the man. The quiet words curdled in her throat:
"W-what questions did you want to a-----"
Pupils consumed her dark irises as she stared at the man with sheer horror. Fingers clenched uselessly at the empty air as she backed away from the demon. Her mind was already crumbling into the past even as she tried to ward it off.

Blink. The eyes were still a glaucous blue. A second blink. The hair was still the color of snow. A third blink followed the other two. The man that stared at her was that one. Her paranoia was not playing tricks on her this time. The voice was the same, and that smirk was identical.

All of her plans shattered at the sight. The girl did not run, or even scream. Aubre did not rally against him with a cry as she had always hoped. The woman merely stared as her feet slid further back on the mopped floor.

Chink!

The sky was dark. The alleyway echoed with the sound of her raw screams. Expensive shoes were visible out of the corner of one darkening eye. Blood dripped into the concrete. Quiet sobs turned to screeches as metal repeatedly flashed. The keen howl of a beast was just as memorable as her screams. Limbs had slowly grew cold as the sky dimmed above. Fire danced across her skin in painful lines as it wore grooves in her back. The smell of burning hair and flesh was sickening. It had continued for hours until blackness had taken over. The skies had opened up. That didn't quench the question in her soul. The girl had brought a jacket to him and been gifted with death. /Why/?

It was raining.

Pain flared on her cheek as glass rained down from a shattered bottle. The pearly fluid dripped down one side of her nose in a steady stream. One hoody clad shoulder had slammed into the cabinet and sent the fragile bottles rolling. Blood dripped down her cheek and mixed with a single solitary tear as her mind swirled back into place.

"L--l-l-leon Penndragon, w-why....."

Her breathing was harsh, and her heart pounded angrily in her chest. Green eyes jumped wildly around the room for escape. Blood dripped down her cheek from a thin gash. A steady stream dripped from a glass spear embedded in her right hand.

She didn't even notice.

Had he recognized her? How would this end? Could she make it to the door before he did? Did he have enough fire to melt that door? Was the dog with him? Would he at least scatter her ashes somewhere decent?

Could she act her way out of this one? Her name-tag was lying upon the floor in the other room. Nothing would identify her but herself. The girl knew how much she had changed.

Her face was different. Her eyes were different. Her body had grown. Her hips had widened. Her hair, once lush, was now just a butchered mess. The scars were obvious on her clenched fingertips.

Maybe he had changed as well? Had years turned him stupid?
"S-sorry, what did you need again, sir? You were j-just on the news.."
The interview had just turned off as her frantic eyes had moved toward the television. Those eyes now flickered nervously with blue light.

Did Arceus need to be so cruel with his timing?

Was that a smile, or a grimace, on her face?

[Deleted]

Leon drifted between the aisles with a soft note of approval. In addition to appearing well-stocked, he noted several offered products unrelated to pharmaceuticals. The shop appeared to be a delicate balance between a convenience store and a pharmacy with specialization in medications. A Trainer was as likely a customer as a Breeder when enabled to purchase a variety of products necessary to a specific number of occupations. When he returned to the office he would arrange a meeting with his father to discuss expanding the goods of their shipments. It may be beneficial to venture into the production of vitamins designed to strengthen the immune systems of newly born Pokémon.

Perhaps he would purchase an over the counter medication before leaving for the manor. His Dragonair and Houndoom had recently suffered from an ailment that had left them feverish and with an inability to keep anything down for several days. After several cycles of shedding her skin, Draca had recovered whereas Narcissa was still bedridden. She had some trouble holding solid food down, but had taken well to the soup he had Cook bring out to her every few hours. Draca was not yet in a condition to concoct a remedy to the undiagnosed illness as Leon had confined her to her room where she could rest in peace. He did not want her weakened immune system to fight off the virus lest it be a different strain than the one she had suffered from.

“That is quite alright.” Leon paused to glance over the labels of several remedies claiming to alleviate fevers in even fire-type Pokémon. As a Houndoom, Narcissa had a natural affinity to heat however; her kinship to high temperatures made it difficult to coax her body into sweating a fever out. “Two of my Pokémon recently fell ill as it would happen. One has already recovered but the other is still suffering from her symptoms. Her fever has broken several times only rises again hours later.” If he were to bring the strongest medication to Draca she might be able to examine the label to determine her own concoction. Her home remedies were typically more effective than anything legally supplied the public. “She has been sick for nearly a week now, but is only now able to keep wet food and liquids down.”

After sifting through several other remedies he felt a sense of dissatisfaction and triumph all at once. The brands that he had taken care to note were major, well-known brands however; they were not of a class that he would consider purchasing. Citizens of the upper class came from a background of wealth. With these funds, they could afford higher-priced items ranks above what the general public could afford. It mattered little that Remoor was still a maiden torn asunder from the all too recent Infection and warfare. Those born of wealth were accustomed to the finer things in life, and were often eager to show off their money. Nothing but the best would do in their lives as opposed to those that built themselves up to wealth. That particular portion of the upper class were more cautious, but still willing to buy above their past price range. Penndragon Pharmaceuticals could benefit from catering to both the elite class and the general public if Gabriele was willing to invest the funds and time.

“If she continues on like this into the next week I plan to take her to see a nurse however; for the time being, I thought to bring her something that would at least allow her to sleep with more ease.” As Leon leaned against the shelf he held the urge to chortle in the back of his throat. Like a good number of the male population he preferred a woman that was shorter than him regardless of type. At his height it was rarely an issue that he had to deal with but for the occasional model that held a preference for heels. Furthermore, it was rare that he couldn’t reach the top of a shelf with little difficulty quite unlike the petite woman before him. He would not deny that it was amusing and almost adorable to watch a tiny female attempt to be independent even when placed at a physical disadvantage. “I do not believe that I would suffer the same risks of falling as yourself.”

He nearly snorted at the thought of allowing himself to be injured in such a way that an insurance company would feel the compulsion to step in. Instead he held the noise in check as his fingers ran across the cuffs of his sleeves, brushing small particles of lint from the expensive material. “If a shelf is so tall that one cannot reach it without the need for a stool then what is the point to the shelf at all?” Sometimes it amazed Leon to observe the slips of common sense that were common amongst a people. “Those are products that are meant to be bought, are they not? If it cannot be reached by a consumer to be bought then what is the point of it?”

This time Leon did not hold back the languid smile or easy chuckle that slipped past his lips as the store clerk turned towards him only to break into a bout of stutters. The Infection had cut Remoor off from the regions in many numbers of ways: entertainment among them. When the typical citizen could no longer venture out just as one would not wish to approach due to the Infection, the city had turned its eye towards its own inhabitants. The Penndragon family was infamous for not only the foundation of the city, but their wealth and reputation as well. The more famous class of citizens in the city had always been well-adjusted to the eye of the public upon them, but the media attention had intensified as the city had continued to crumble. People craved to see lives different than their own and thus the socialites of Remoor were given amplified attention compared to the years before the Infection had spread.

Many young women that followed such trends were familiar with Leon Alessio Penndragon. He never dated below his class though he was known to spare a flirtation with even the most common of females that could break a heart as easily as it could mend it. It was rare that he was not attending even the most top-class parties and the ones that he held at the Penndragon manor were simply to die for. Magazines popular with the female audience had been known to publish more than one interview with the young man. His lifestyle and family name had attracted more than a few glances. It was the sort of attention that he flourished under. When a woman fell over herself to speak to him he did not find it unusual just as he had come to expect the hushed squeals of delights as a group of friends stumbled upon him by coincidence. Leon did not even bat an eye at the clerk’s tame reaction to turning only to find him nearly at her side.

Her eyes shared in a bright shade of green like that he found in the vibrant green of a leaf in spring. With a light touch of mascara and perhaps a brush of eye shadow he could consider them beautiful. Leon did not enjoy a woman that depended heavily upon makeup however; he did enjoy those that had learned a careful balance between their products and a natural beauty. “It is quite alright.” He felt himself slip into his charismatic mask as naturally as his lungs took in breath. By nature he had always been a charming boy. “Oh? What was the segment?” The Penndragon heir did not recall any recent interviews, but it was not uncommon that a segment that had been recorded the month before would be released only weeks later. With his schedule it was near impossible to keep tabs on that which he had done and that which he hadn’t done. “One of my Pokémon is still suffering from an illness that I believe she may have caught from my Dragonair. Her fever has broken a few times, but it continues to rise and she is having trouble keeping solid foods down. She has been like this for nearly a week now.”

[Aubre Ellen McKenna]

The noises behind her, as they usually did, put her on edge. The inability to see something approaching, like a potential predator, made her heart beat audible. The occasional hums of approval made her wonder. What did the man see that made him sound so cheery? The woman had yet to hear him pick anything up, or set anything back down. A lot of the containers were not exactly the quietest things in the world; many were glass, durable plastic, or covered in thick plastic. In the morning hours, this was when she usually sorted the shelves for the customers, the entire store would echo with the sounds of shifting boxes. It always made her twitch and jump, didn't crinkling plastic sometimes sound like deranged laughter? The fact that those noises were not happening was bothering her the tiniest bit. Was hethat picky, or not even there to shop? When she heard bottles shifting she felt her tense shoulders droop with some relief.

A quick glance in the mirror above her revealed hands holding a high-powered fever reducer. Was that the fire brand?The reassurance that she was fine made her slump forward a little more. Her free hand was now balanced carefully on the shelf in front of her, as the man took a while to head this way. Even that amount of support made her back feel a bit better; it would never stop hurting. The girl had verified that rumor about the flames from the mouths of hounds of hell. Even with all the modern technology, and advanced nerve therapy, the pain could only be dulled. When he began to describe the illness, her mind began to swirl through a wide-range of illnesses that caused fevers and a general sense of nausea.
"I am sorry to hear that your Pokemon are sick, sir. It's never a g-good moment when family fa-falls ill. T-that is something I might be able to assist with. I u-usually do custom orders out of the back; t-they're more targeted than the general brands. I c-can narrow down which illness it is with a f-few other questions. W-what type of Pokemon is it?"
If she was offered the opportunity to dive back into her den of berries, juice, and chemicals she would gladly take it.

The voice was closer, so she allowed herself to relax into her normal speaking tones. Even with that short period of raised words she had been left feeling awkward. The glasses were carefully straightened as she listened to him speak. The response was not immediate, but it was thought out carefully:
"I-insomnia is never good for illness, t-that is a good idea. It w-will likely speed healing, t-the doctor a-at the nearest center is a v-very accomplished one-s-she just prefers to live in t0the family d-district as o-opposed to the west side of t-town.."
The wealthy bubble to the west was like a different world. Aubre felt that many of those citizens had no idea a war had even happened. They donated to charity, only for the likely tax breaks, and were often unbelievably pushy in their orders. The doctor had told Aubre, on the few times they had spoken, that she preferred helping the less fortunate.
"T-the drugs to help with s-sleep are halfway down the third aisle and f-f-f-f-f-ire type brands are on the bottom shelf.."
Even their products seemed out to get her. It hurt for her to bend that low.

The next comment was met with the quietest little noise, like a snort, and cheeks the color of cotton candy:
"I a-am sure y-you would be quite graceful sir, but I d-do get paid to c-clamber up here as part of my paycheck."
The shadow behind her made it obvious that he was taller, and she hated being teased. The man was right. A fall like this, in the right spot, could lay her up for weeks. The boss was likely watching her through the cameras, and making a customer put things away would get her fired. The woman was more determined not to ask for help, and stretched higher toward the next shelf.

Aubre listened to him for a moment, and raised her shoulders in a painful shrug. The boss did want her to be more social with customers, instead of just handing them their bottles, so she replied to the complaint about the shelves:
"T-the more expensive products are purposely put out of r-reach, sir. It l-lessens the likelihood of stealing if they have to move like a Primeape to reach the shelf. T-the products back h-here are t-the most expensive, and e-easier to supervise d-due to their proximity to the counter...."
The price tags on most of them made her face curdle. The worst part? She knew the ingredients and just how much money companies were making. It disgusted her.
"I won't complain about the height of the shelves..."
The girl knew she was smaller than average, and if any of these products disappeared she would pay for them. Some of the bottles were worth more than her rent. While she never would have said it aloud, and possibly insulted the man, theft was another reason she refused the help. The fact that a male would be so close to her, in such a confined space, was the last one.

The laughter made her cheeks redden again, and then she was drowning under the weight of all her nightmares. That laughter wasn't that different from the one she had heard that night, and it chilled her to the bone even in dreams of fire.

Her blood pounded in her ears as she faced him in all her broken glory. The pessimist did not think she would go unrecognized for a second. When he did not attempt to strangle her, or did not shift into a demon, her eyes widened in shock.

She was safe! Safe! Relief flooded through her limbs as she almost collapsed again. Tiny fingers pulled shards of glass from her hands. In order to make this string of good luck continue, her entire face turned toward the floor. Her bangs draped over those beautiful eyes in orange waves. The woman glanced toward the television with a nervous glance at the question. Her mind had not been around when she had seen the screen. All she could remember was one word.
"W-w-w-we can't hear it at the counter, b-but it w-was some sort of charity e-event, or d-dance...judging by the captions."
Her voice, even as she tried to hold it together, was crumbling. The woman knew if she looked at him again that she couldn't hold it together. Beneath her mostly still surface her mind was alight with powerful emotions.

Her hands wanted to lock around that alabaster throat until it became lavender. Aubre wanted to shatter the teeth in that smirk into ivory shards. How dare he smile at her? He murdered her family! The shelf behind Leon quivered as she resisted the urge to throw it at him;. Her limbs trembled beneath the counter with a mixture of anger and fear. The old Aubre and the new one were crashing together. The new one called for calm. The old one called for revenge. One was motivated by anger, and the other by fear. The two were engaged in a vicious tug-of-war.

Did he have to be so close? She could smell his cologne and it made her tremble. The second he was done speaking she nodded, held up a finger for pause, and disappeared into the pharmacy. She couldn't even speak right now.

Her head disappeared into an ice-cold sink as she tried to reign in her emotions. Water dripped to the floor as she took a step away from the sink. Her frantic form was visible through the back window as she wandered the pharmacy with an empty bottle.
Through the thick walls she spoke animatedly to herself, and made a variety of angry gestures. It would have been humorous if it did not make her look insane.

She paused at a spigot. Her face turned almost demonic. The liquid in this machine was toxic to fire types. Wouldn't it be nice to get rid of that little bitch? He would know how she felt when it had all crumbled. She'd be vindicated.

She'd be a murderer.

With a vigorous shake of her head, she filled two bottles. Each one was a different color, and scribbled on each in neat handwriting. Within mooments she reemerged into the main room, her hair dripping onto the tiles. At least her hair would be saved from burning. As she spoke she relayed her assumption. She had heard him give speeches, at least at school, on the virtue of small teams on a few occasions. She had no reason to think this she was not her.

"I-it's either one of two things depending on the symptoms. I-f she h-has anything wrong with her skin, N-n-n-n-n-n-n-arcissa needs the blue one. T-the lesions look like circular patches of grey hair."

Why was she helping that dog? The white bottle, filled with a chemical deadly to fire-types, was just within reach. The darkness in her yowled for it. Karma would pay her back. Maybe if she helped the dog, instead of making the wicked choice, her life would improve. Would the monster before her go away? The girl tapped the lighter pink one and slid that forward as well.

"If not, it's the pink one."

The bottles hovered above the counter as the intercom began to crackle dangerously. Her bright eyes widened visibly as she froze like a rat in a trap.

Arceus, no! Did you have to have your laundry picked up now Mister McKion?

She nearly sent a bottle crashing to the floor as she dove for the devilish little box as a male voice began to bubble out of it.

"Aub------------zzzzzzzt....re........"

Her fingers rubbed at her now sore back. That wild dive had brought an already whimpering back into loud screeches.

The thing lapsed into silence as she slammed the button into the off position, and turned back toward the man. A tiny little red streak was left across the intercom. A nervous smile flickered back into place.

"S-sorry, it's just the alarm; i-it's rather annoying."

She would lose her job for that stunt.

(Whether his team make-up is common knowledge or not, and Aubre just made a very large mistake, is up to you <3)

[Deleted]

Family. Leon considered the word and its implications carefully as he thought of Narcissa. The sounds of his childhood echoed with her excited barks and the scratching of her nails against the tile flooring. As a colicky child she had slept curled on top of his chest when illnesses would take. When he first began his primary education she would always find a way to slip past his mother’s watchful eye to wait faithfully for him at the academy gates. It was rare that she ever took residence in her custom-ordered luxury ball. She had been as determined to remain glued to his hip as he was to keep her there. The memories before her echoed with emotions rather than actions.

Narcissa was not family. She was a faithful and loyal companion however; he did not consider her to be a member to the Penndragon name. The Houndoom had been bred of a fine lineage that had served his family since the establishment of Remoor. Each of those before her had endeared themselves to the past generations, but it was in a manner more suiting of a loyal servant. She was the result of years of selective breeding and exquisite trust. There was neither question nor doubt as to the bond shared between a Houndoom and her master but it was not of a familial nature.

“I am certain that she will recover soon enough. I have seen to it that she is up to date on all of her vaccinations and is comfortable enough at the moment,” Leon explained as he teased out fleeting observations from his conscious. When he had last seen her she had been resting upon her divan in his personal quarters. He had noted that her tongue had been unusually red and there was a slight crusting around her eyes. The fever that had plagued her the night before had gone down, but he could still feel the heat radiating from her panting body. “Her tongue is an unusual color and I noted some crusting around her eye socket however; she doesn’t seem to have any trouble with her vision.” The Penndragon heir readjusted one of his gold handcuffs as he responded, “She is a Houndoom and the other that was previously ill is a Dragonair.”

There were very few reasons that the young man would even consider running his errands in the eastern portion of Remoor. Even the hired help understood that they were only to work with products and ingredients bought from the more high-class establishments in Western Remoor. It was a matter of not only taste, but quality as well. Cheaper products were made as such because it was more than likely that they had been mass produced rather than seen to with some level of care. It was the logic that stood behind the price of a personally tailored suit versus a suit that had been designed to fit a general audience, and the logic that would stand by Penndragon Pharmaceuticals if consumers filed complaints against their prices. Quality was a trait that came with a price.

Leon ducked his head to glance over the bottom shelf before reaching to draw out the strongest offered medication. Since the days that Draca had recovered, Nacissa had been heavily reliant upon the Dragonair to craft a sleeping potion that would allow her to rest without waking with bouts of a hacking fit. Time and time again he had admonished her for attempting to work in her state, but she was as stubborn as she was old. At times it would drive him mad that she would not listen to neither his rhyme nor reason, but was something he had come to accept. He did not want her handling remedies for another ill Pokémon when she hadn’t quite recovered herself. If he brought home a strong enough medicine that would keep Narcissa heavily sedated she might finally let it go for the night.

“Clambering is no way to earn a living. If it was primates would be the wealthiest of us all.” His words were teased with an amused tone as his gaze followed her movements. It would seem that the rumors concerning the tough versatility of a common woman had more truth to them than he had expected. A lady of a higher class was gentle and would prefer to wield her tongue over her strength. She was used to the comforts provided to her, and was raised in a different culture than the middle class. When he came across a female that believed she could make her own way and saw to her own expenses he found it intriguing. Females were smaller and weaker than their male counterparts, but also stood against a good number more obstacles in being self-sufficient. It was all too unusual.

Readjusting the gold cufflinks to allow more air to circulate he amiably argued his point, “If they are put at such a height that you are wholly unaware of the stock as well as the product itself then how are they to know to seek out the product?” In his experience, there were a good many people that preferred to avoid talking to the staff of their suppliers. If procuring a product appeared to be too difficult, it would be easier to move on to a supplier that was known to have it. Such was the foundation to customers that frequented only certain shops throughout their routines. “You cannot request for something you do not know exists. By this standing, you can sell only to people that specifically request for the item.” Glancing towards the female he commented, “I suppose that it is a manner of trade-off.”

As the sound of shattering glass echoed in his eardrums he raised an eyebrow but gave no visible reaction of surprise. Instead he pushed away from the shelf that he had leaned upon to move closer towards the young woman. “Are you bleeding heavily?” Loose locks of his bangs hung over his eyes as he turned his head to examine her hands better. Sharp lines of red broken against the pale, scarred skin, glinting with shards that had embedded themselves into the skin. “I apologize. I did not realize my presence would surprise you so.” Before he could move to grasp her wrists and pull out a particularly large shard for the young woman she had already rushed off. Leon was surprise, but thought little of it as he moved to keep her in his line of vision.

The following events that transpired in the course of the next minutes left him with a bitter taste of concern and a raised eyebrow. His vision had registered a young woman dunking her head into a sink and then rushing about in the backroom talking to herself like a mad woman. Her eyes seemed to have taken on the mad glint of a woman that he had seen once or twice before during his visits to his mother. She had been a homeless woman diagnosed with schizophrenia. The few times that she had seen him she had called him the “Beast King”, and had been under the apparent impression that he would lead her to salvation. To see a woman of such a nature outside of the confines of a mental institution and handling remedies for his Houndoom was unsettling.

From the woman he took the two bottles and quickly deposited them into the coat of his suit. He had no intentions to feed Narcissa something produced by the hands of an apparently mad woman that thought nothing of her dripping as she continued to fret about like a little bird. It was as he reached for his wallet that he felt a small moment of pause and confusion. Narcissa. Narcissa. Narcissa. His precious Narcissa that had remained at his side for more years than he could remember. The Houndoom that threw herself with endless devotion into his servitude. A Pokémon that he had not mentioned in name once, and certainly not one that was well-known in Remoor. When their training he began, it had been outside of the region and since his return, he had not stepped onto the field once due to scheduling conflicts.

Glaucous irises shifted back to the woman’s face, snapping immediately towards the rich green of the woman’s eyes. Narcissa. Narcissa. Narcissa. The name circled in an infinite loop through his thoughts as he felt his gaze narrow. During his years at the academy he had been very well-known among his peers; there were very few students that had not at least heard his name, but of those there had been very few of a Remoor origin. He spoke with those that had left an impression upon him from time to time. It had been some months since those visits, but none had as vivid green eyes such as these. Green. Green. Green. Such a lovely shade of green: the color of a flower’s stem, the color of a brilliant gem, the color of Spring. The color of a ghost.

Leon did not even register the crackled noise of a voice converted into an audio signal, but his eyes followed her movements carefully. There had been a funeral. He had stood politely in the back of the turn-out of devoted fans and sympathetic neighbors. He had placed his own flower, unrecognized as he was in mourning clothes and surrounded by people that had not seen him for nearly ten years, upon the three markers. Markers, but not coffins. Where had been the bodies? Presumably there were none. Not a soul to be found anywhere near the house by the time the failed saviors had come. Gone. Everything gone. Ghost? Ghosts did not bleed. A girl. What girl? Did it matter? Who was the woman? Did it matter? Kitten’s face. Kitten’s eyes.

He hated Kitty.

Leon felt himself kneel near the fallen girl, a hand moving to rest near her cheek as he leaned closer. His gaze was hidden by the loose locks of his bangs, and his mouthed moved in silent mutterings, but when his gaze moved to meet her own his eyes were as clear as a cloudless day. There. There was the long hair and the wide, doe eyes. There were the soft, round, full cheeks of Kitty. He hated Kitten. “Think nothing of it, Kitten.”

[Aubre Ellen McKenna]

Family was a word Aubre meant with all her heart; it was also the one advised by the boss. Most trainers had a close relationship with the Pokemon, and quite a few were angered if you even implied that they were less than family, or even friends. The idea of servants would have likely angered quite a few of their most loyal customers, and that included Aubre. Her entire life, even in her mother's womb, had been spent surrounded by a menagerie of elements. The family had always meant to be larger, and things with paws filled the gaps left by a reproductive disorder. With her family dead, and no one else to lean on, Aubre had turned to her Pokemon. Hers, from the testy fish to the steadfast dragon, were allowed free range of the house. They were her brothers and sisters, and sometimes her adopted children. They were family, not servants.

Referring to them as anything else would leave her adrift, and alone. She would have to admit that she was alone. While she was the one who paid the rent, her family was still key to her survival; without them she would never get out of bed. In fact, if Achilles hadn't gnawed through the rope that past morning, as she hung herself in a barn, she would never have gotten the chance. The scar under her left eye had resulted from him slapping her pathetic ass. No servant would have done that.

Out of all the terms she could used, most of which implied ownership, family was still considered the best. Servitude not only angered the Pokemon who came in, but those who vouched for equal rights. Most who disagreed with the term, like Leon, were not usually angry about it.Those that hated their partners were not usually the type to come into this store. It was also better for the shop's image as a sympathetic partner.
"T-that's what you're supposed to do sir, and o-one of the reasons she is c-comfortable instead of f-fatally ill. Most people never vaccinate them; most of them aren't aware that vaccines and licensing are required..."
Aubre was not that confident in humanity. She knew quite a few who exposed their friends to necessary diseases for a paycheck. Those that legitimately could not afford it had other options:
"I-it is rather sad when you consider a lot of t-the vaccines c-can be obtained for free here or at the Pokemon Center.."
She was just speaking her thoughts allowed as she stared into the glass counter top. Even she had to feel guilty. She couldn't afford the experimental treatments that would help against the infection.

The observations were received with a pair of closed eyes as she tried to visualize the symptoms. She scratched at her own eye as he spoke, and gave a few experimental swallows with her tongue. Just in case this was one of the contagious strains, she would try to avoid touching the man without gloves. The composition of his team was met with a visible shiver. Those were Pokemon usually found in wealthy homes, and an odd combination. They were also both female as his had been. The chances of this man being that were not high; unless he was looking for her. Her eyes flickered open:
"T-t-t-that helps quite a lot sir, thank you. It helps narrow it down a good deal, e-especially when you consider the species."
A disease that was transmissible between dragons and a mammalian fire-type, were rather rare. That did not mean they were always deadly. Gloves, or general avoidance, were still a good idea.

The sound of a box moving on the shelf brought her eyes up to the mirror again. The man did not stuff it in his jacket, or make any other silly attempt to steal it, so she turned back to work. The shelf was a bit too shallow to hold these bottles; she had to shove them. The man's suit had been obvious in her few backward glances along with his wealth. She hoped not to offend him, the wealthy were known for their complaints and sometimes persnickety nature. When he brought up the issue of clambering, the petite woman took a better look at her position. One foot was balanced on the shelf directly above the ladder. The other was balanced on the very edge of a thin rung. Her hunched form was also quite intimate with the shelf. Her lips twitched with the tiniest hint of a smile as she moved to reply:
"P-primates a-are technically the richest.....s-some p-primates are just w-wealthier than others, but it's supposed to be that way....I s-suppose..."
Humans were primates after all.When she contradicted him her voice dropped into something resembling a whisper. While she enjoyed the debate She regretted whenever she spoke too much, especially when it was not in agreement or compliment. The last statement was not what she believed at all, but it would likely go over better than what she truly thought. She doubted the businessman wanted to hear about the deplorable gap between wealthy and impoverished; the top of the pile usually didn't care about the rest.

The next words threatened to drive her into a friendly debate. She had actually spent quite a few mornings doing this with Leon in school. Most of the time he was working as well, and not staring at her like a zoo animal. The early morning arguments, which included politics and strategy, had been her favorite time of the day. Looking back now, she wondered if one of those had helped push him over the edge. A small smile graced her lips and for a moment transformed her face; a guarded expression returned within seconds.
"W-well, most people c-could not afford them. I-it is only a small amount that can afford to request them. I would h-have to concede that they are d-difficult to see. T-that means they a-are harder to steal--b--but, I just stock the shelves. I d-don't make the decisions, sir; whoever does is better qualified than me."
The last statement was an attempt to end the argument. Disagreeing with customers was bad for business, but it was hard for her to lie about her opinion. The woman had tried for a shorter shelf, and some extra stools. Her requests had usually been met with a sigh or no response at all; it might have helped if she hadn't made them in a whisper.

---

The blood was now dotting the floor in brilliant splashes of crimson. The side of her hand was dripping languidly as she laid her left hand over it. Her cheek only offered up a single drip and stopped. Her first response, which was to scream at him, was overtaken by a much more tame one. When he approached, the tiny clerk moved backward with a nervous step:
"O-oh, it's not too bad; I've had much worse. A b--bandage will take care of the bleeding and s-some ointment will w-ward off any infection..."
The girl emphasized the word 'much' as she spoke, unable to resist the urge. The fact that glass embedded in her hand was not that big of a deal, had a lot to do with this man. Burns were far worse than a glass splinter.
"...n-no need to apologize, y-you don't know.."
The fact that he didn't know made her more motivated to stay away. The charisma was now an obvious veneer over madness, at least to her. Even if he acted chivalrous, she knew what was beneath. When those hands strayed toward her injury, her hands jerked away as if burned; those hands had already left enough scars on her skin.

The woman had forgotten about the window as she paced around the pharmacy. Her remedies were always carefully made and came with good reviews. The two bottles she offered Leon were high quality, and masterfully mixed even if done in a moment of distress. Some customers, who had never watched her brew, might have have had Leon's reaction; most would have questioned her sanity. The fact was, she knew what she was doing. Mumbling helped her work, and helped expel her nervousness. Sitting for long periods made her back hurt as if she was moving, but did provided more distractions. Most of her recipes were remembered, and associated with songs. The pharmacist that Leon saw was far worse than the normal one. Aubre did not usually debate murder as she shuffled back and forth. She laid her arguments out for both sides and argued with herself like some sort of demented politician. When she had reemerged, the madness had vanished. Her eyes looked defeated and sorrowful. She couldn't do it. She couldn't destroy the one thing capable of hunting her down.

The second that name left her tongue it began to bother her. Had he ever said it on a television interview? That Houndoom was his dearest friend, surely that name wouldn't clue him in? It was just a simple mistake she had t move past. If she dwelt on it, and made the slip obvious, it was far more dangerous. She spoke hurriedly after her mistake in an attempt to bury it under mumblings.

When the bottles were taken without remark, she began to relax. Her eyes lost their sorrowful gaze and for a moment resembled her old ones. She was free. She wanted to dance. She didn't need to worry about being hidden any more. Hell! Leon likely no longer cared. There was no reason to move every few months, run like a frightened rabbit, or stare into the shifting shadows at night. She had no reason to cry. She could date. She could make friends again. She could go back to school. She had never had to worry at all. All this time she was safe, and she found that oddly depressing.

The pause went unnoticed as she made a dive for that stupid box. She had no idea that she had already trapped herself in a net of names and eyes. That funeral? She had sat in the back of the room, which was full to the brim, and watched as citizens paid tributes. Many speakers were present and highlighted their heroism during the war. The young woman had watched it all and it was oddly disconcerting. The woman had not protested though, or came forward as alive. It had taken months for her to do that, and even then it was in a private manner. She had even seen the man, that gloating man as he had laid a rose on those markers. She had watched herself die, twice. The first in the alleyway, and the second in that depressing little parlor. Leon had watched as the old her was buried. Aubre had mourned her passing. Safety had overtaken everything else even living.

She did not even notice the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place behind those bright blue eyes. She was too relieved.

The floor slick with her blood, and old shoes were not the best combination. As she turned away from the intercom, her heart pounding in her ears, she slipped. She fell back toward the wall. Her mouth had opened in a gasp of pain as the impact jarred her back. As muscular fingers laid on her normally cool cheek, the heat was obvious. Terrified green eyes flickered up to meet clear blue ones. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her mouth turned to sand. Her genial words shriveled on her tongue.

"T-thank you si---"

Kitten. Kitten. She had always hated that nickname. Wide green eyes stared at the man before her as memories, mostly bad, swirled into focus. That smile was different. That name sent chills down her spine. Kitten. Kitten. It felt like she'd been submerged in a vat of ice water. It was just as bad as being set on fire.

She was fucked.

Drip. Drip. Drip. That sound would be her melted flesh soon enough.
Eyes that were too blue stared down at her through snow bangs. The blood pooling around her hands now left nervous streaks on the tiles as her fingers stirred it restlessly.

Her protest crumbled. She could see the recognition now, and nothing was going to change that. The game was up. She could see the moment when he realized who she was. She almost instantly began to mumble as she froze:
"I'm not Aubre. D-don't u-use that name; s-she's dead, gone, Aubre i-isn't h-h-here anymore, she's dead."
Even as she stared into those clear eyes with fear, anger began to well up in her chest. Most of her just wanted to curl up into a ball and wait for death; the other part of her was far more verbal. She wasn't ready yet.

She wanted to kill herself, and yet she didn't want to die. She wanted it to be over, and yet hated the idea. She was too cowardly to wait. Aubre did not want him to hasten it.

Her mouth tore open in a wordless scream before she began to sob. Tears flowed openly down her face as she began to shake. She moved away from him as far as the counter allowed as she curled inward on herself like a turtle into its shell. The hoody wouldn't do anything for her. It was just fabric no matter how she worshiped it. It was just better to give up, and let him finish what he starte--

No! No!

Tear-stained cheeks turned upward as those green eyes turned steely. Any hint of madness disappeared, as she nearly spit on him like an angry cat. Her shoulders stiffened like a kitten against a bear. Beautiful green eyes began to flicker with a bright blue light.

He didn't know what she could do, Leon had never seen it. He had admitted that his dog was not around. It was her versus him and those odds weren't too lopsided. She didn't need to hurt him, just make him hesitate enough to make it out of the room. Her voice was quiet when it emerged:

"This doesn't have to get any worse. I t-think you need to go, please. L-l-l-l-leon, please don't....haven't you a-already done enough?. "

He was far too close for her liking. She found it nearly impossible to breathe as words continued to tumble out nervously:
"I'll..I can....I w-will...i-if y-you...j-just d-don't hurt me...."
What could she do? Could she reach the phone in time? Would they even be able to identify her corpse? She chewed at her sluggish tongue nervously as she tried to lay out her options. How lopsided was a battle between him and her?

Even though she called on all her courage, her entire body still trembled. Fear glued her to the floor. Her legs were no more capable of movement than those of a statue. Tears, both angry and frightened, drew lines down her cheeks.

Products began to shake on the shelf. One hand balanced on her hip where a Pokeball would usually rest. Underneath the fear was a single sentence set on repeat. She didn't care what he had done to her, but she wasn't the only one he'd hurt. She would gladly forgive him for her back, but that sin was unforgivable.

He killed your parents.

He killed your parents.

He killed your parents.

Why was she begging him for anything? Wouldn't that just make him happy? If he was going to kill her, why was she censoring herself? What did it matter if she offended him? The next words were so quiet that they might have even been inaudible, but she couldn't muster any volume. It just ended up being a few mouthed words; she couldn't say anything that rude. The cameras in the corners made her feel just a bit safer, but not safe enough. She bit back the 'prison' retort the second she met his eyes again, no matter how tough the cameras made her feel, there was no reason to piss him off. He'd kill her, slowly, for something like that.

The shaking grew louder. Items began to levitate in place.

Green eyes jumped between the door and window as she plotted an escape. Why had she said that earlier, pretended to have an escape? Could she even prove he did anything? Wouldn't he just wait for her to leave work? Why couldn't she just shut her mouth? An escape was better than any confrontation. What if he hurt her? What if she was forced to hurt him? The Aubre hidden beneath the stutter hoped for that last result. The more cautious one began to make more noise by subtly shifting the shelves.

A noisy threat.

An even noisier bluff.

"Leave."

[Deleted]

Servants had always played an important role within the hierarchy of the Penndragon lineage since the founding of Remoor. Both human and Pokémon alike were known to have tended to his household; it was not unusual, in fact, that a single family would serve under his own for a number of generations. Their staff saw to the smaller tasks that the head of the household typically had no time or priority to see to themselves. In the upper class of society, the expectations and responsibilities shifted in their nature from what they were best known as among the middle or lower classes.

Members of the Penndragon blood, the head of the household more so than others, were held to higher standards than those of lesser lineages. Children were expected to be well-behaved regardless of their age; women well versed in cultural experiences and evening etiquette; men strong leaders and the envied models of success. The perception of an accomplished individual of the upper class shared very little in common with the prosperous member of the lower classes. Theirs was built upon a foundation of class and culture, wealth and riches, knowledge and regal grace, over the measurements of poor happiness and emotional ties.

As a child, Narcissa had served as his companion. With her he had shared things that he would never dare to utter in the presence of his father. Born into a world set upon a stage, she became his sole confidant to his fears and his weaknesses. She’d been given the role that a friend might have taken had he been raised under normal circumstances. It was not uncommon that domestic help would take up more intimate roles to their employers. With his father he had shared a professional relationship with at most and the responsibilities of motherhood had been split between his mother and a number of nannies. Such was their way.

Regardless of such intimacies, a fine line was drawn between the family and the servants. Each was well aware of their standing and their responsibilities. At the end of the day, domestic help was still domestic help. Their relations were meant to be professional and were kept as such. He doubted that there was a soul in Remoor that would know him as Narcissa did, but that did not change the fact that he perceived her in the same manner that he might his nanny. She loved him dearly, of that much he was aware, but such was the very purpose of her breeding.

The very thought that any one of the Penndragon Pokémon may not possess meticulous documentation made him scoff. Even those few that were born to the wilds had been given immediate vaccinations and records drawn up upon their arrival to the manor. For a family of his prestige, there was no plausible excuse for such mistakes. “I assure you that all license forms are in order and that each has been kept up to date on vaccinations.” Leon made a mental note to contact the caretaker in charge of scheduling any appointments that related to the Penndragon Pokémon about the last round of vaccinations. The nurses would have to be alerted to this recent bout of illness. “I assume you are unsure as to what it may be.”

Her response coaxed a low chuckle from the young male. It amused him in a manner much like a small dog barking at a larger dog would. The conversation was light and simply a method of filling the time as he waited upon a medication that could ease Narcissa’s ailments. “True as that may be, I am certain the primates of a more primitive nature have a far greater gift for clambering than we might.” Leon glanced towards his wristwatch as he casually commented, “All the same, it seems a rather inadequate manner of advertising of a product: affordable or not. A wonder people question the state of the economy.”

He supposed that it was a coincidental benefit that the young woman was working at a pharmacy given the apparent extent of her injuries. She had access to a larger and more extensive inventory of medical products than others typically did should she need them. If such an incident were a daily occurrence, the auburn female would surely need the treatments. To the best that he could have seen, the cuts had been bleeding heavily. Leon gave a small shake of his head as he straightened from his kneeling position, skirting around the small trails of blood left behind, their color a stark contrast against the otherwise unstained tile.

The spectacle that he bore witness to through the large window led him to question the validity of supplying such a pharmacy. The initial impression had been excellent, and the following conversation acceptable if not a more pleasant way of waiting on her than dealing with a tense and awkward silence; the current situation, however, was not. Her sudden shift from a meek female to a nervous madwoman did not settle well with him. There was a difference between the attitude of a woman met by one of the more well-known faces of Remoor and that of a woman unstable. The latter was not one he would trust around in a laboratory.

Leon stared at the woman with narrowed eyes, the remedies heavy in his pocket. Narcissa was not a name associated to his presence within the boundaries of Remoor. His Pokémon did not typically accompany him during his publicity proceedings. An evening gala was no place for an intimidating Houndoom, and a charity event for an anti-social Dragonair more likely to poison one of the guests than she was to get along with them. On the few times that his faithful companion had been at his side, he had taken her to interviews in which she had been largely ignored in his favor. Very few dared to even approach the Houndoom.

The name of his faithful companion had set off a trigger in the back of his mind. Suspicion seized hold of his thoughts and mistrust his charming demeanor. They tore him down to the primitive thoughts and base instincts born to every man. Wrong. It was wrong that she should know the name of his faithful companion, but that he did not know her face. Something was wrong. Auburn hair and eyes the color of spring, skin pale like winter and lips rounded with words. Wrong. A young student that had once spent her mornings at his side. A woman left in a coffin without a body.

Kitten.

She walks down the street with hair the color of ebony and eyes that remind him of a chocolate Labrador. Her pale face turns towards the streetlight, eyes lidded in the leisurely pleasure of a cat. Lips painted in purple are pursed she blows a slow bubble of gum into the air. Pop. A giggle as the sticky sweet substance clings to her lips. Giggle. Laughter. Pop. Giggle. Pop. Pop. Giggle. Giggles that are her giggles, but not her giggles; they are her giggles. From her mouth comes the voice of a ghost that is no longer buried beneath the ground.

Auburn hair. Eyes the color of spring. Her arms are spread in the rain and she is dancing beneath the streetlight as if she is a princess caught under the spotlight. As she turns delicately upon one foot he catches a flash of locks as dark as the starless night, but she stills and her hair is once again the color of ember. When she opens her eyes, the color such a vibrant green that they nearly glow in the darkness, she spots him. Her eyes light up in delight and a shy grin, Kitten’s grin, curl at the corner of her lips.

The thick waves of her hair is the color of ebony and her eyes are a rich brown in the missing flyers.

Hello, Kitten.

She is posed upon a branch, binoculars in hand. Dirt has been smudged on her cheekbone, but it makes the blue of her eyes more vibrant. Her face is framed by the stray locks of hair the color of the sun that have fallen from her bun. She is beautiful, and then she sees him. Her hand raises in greeting and then she swings upside down, her legs hooked around the branch, and then they are here, but they are not here, but they are there. They are not there, but they are in a courtyard and it is a warm afternoon break between classes.

Her hair is a rich red that glistens in the sunlight’s warmth as if she were a young fairy of the forest. The hand that reaches out towards him is pale and soft. It is the hand of a young girl that has begun to spend her mornings at his side. Sweetness lines the edge of her movements, and when she smiles at him her eyes dance with the joy of the world as it breaks from winter and into spring. She begins to swing her body back and forth as she always does, reaching out towards him. Kitten’s fingertips are soft as she touches his cheek.

The woman on the television has her daughter’s bleached blonde locks and eyes the color of the sky.

Kitten.

She is hunched over in the alleyway, her face hidden behind a frame of red curls. Her tiny, fair shoulders shake as she cries into her hands. Bruises flower upon her skin like a plant bursting with life. A trash can is her only shelter against the weather, but they cannot touch the sorrow that falls from her lips. When he kneels in front of her, an umbrella in hand that shelters her from the rain, a deep blue the color of sapphires meet his gaze. Her hand is hesitant as she places it in his own, and then it is not so long ago and it is now but it is then.

The typically colorful green of her eyes are dark in their fear. Her cheeks are angry and red with her sorrow. When she hiccups with small sobs, her body gives a little jump as she begs him to bring the pain to a simple end. The voice that reaches his ears is torn asunder in an agony that she cannot put into words. She is alone in this world, and this moment only serves to remind her of her isolation. He is the only soul in the moment to bear witness to the broken soul that has faded away before her prime.

When they find her body, her hair is the color of embers and her sapphire blue eyes glazed as she stares at the empty sky.

I hate you, Kitten.

She is standing in front of him, her voice cracked in fear with words that do not reach his ears; all but for a name that he has rarely uttered: Aubre. It takes him a moment to comprehend the words murmured in a broken and unfamiliar stutter, but they bring a small smile to his lips as he steps closer to her. A ghost. An apparition. A shadow of a shadow. Such are the things that she has always been and always will be. The words that she utters are a knowledge that he has known for the years since her death.

“Kitty,” he whispers, a hint of logic hidden behind his gaze, “Kitty. Kitty, no one said that your name was Aubre.” He has seen her before. How had Leon forgotten the frightened expression of the woman before him? Sometimes he sees her walking down the streets. Other times she is in a bakery, her laughter bright and cheerful. He does not know where she goes after those incidents, but she is never there when he wakes up again. “Your name was never Aubre, though, was it, Kitty? My Little Kitten…” His smile slowly widens. “Why do you look so scared?”

His hand lifts as if he is about to reach out and caress the soft skin of her cheek. “Hurt you?” he murmurs in a light-hearted response to her words, his tone almost soothing, “Why would I ever think to lay a hand upon such a sweet face, Kitty?” He hates her. He hates Kitten. He hates Kitty. “I have never done anything to hurt you. Perhaps you have had a bad dream, Kitty.” The jail. A corrupted judge. Appeals reversed. He is underage when he is arrested, the media cannot release the case. Leon Alessio Penndraogn has never laid a hand upon Aubre Ellen McKenna.

But he has because he hates her.

Anger charges the air between them and low laughter drips from his voice like honey. He is unconcerned, ignorant almost, as he takes pause to glance at the room around them. Objects hang in the air around him, their movements erratic with the force of the genetic mutation that enables her to do this. The tension that had lined his prowling movements leaves his body as he reaches out to balance a small jar upon his fingertip, sparks flaring in the air as he slowly burns the generic wrapper off of it. Flames have always come easily to him, and they come now as he heats the glass until its surface is wracked in cracks.

Her demand only strengthen his laughter, and he finally turns back towards the female. Confidence lines his stride as he begins to follow after her, never keeping her far but never coming near. As he steps forward, the floor beneath him is littered in embers, scorching the tile. Flames begin to slowly flicker to life around him, hanging about his figure as if he has stepped out of the very heart of fire itself. The stray object that strays his way bursts into flames, ignored as if it were nothing more significant than a fly. Kitten has never scared him. He is a Prince, a King, a Beast, and she is nothing but his hatred.

“No, Kitty. I think that I’ll stay.”

[Aubre Ellen McKenna]

How had she ever been friends with this man? The pair were quite a bit different. The matter of servants, the way Leon thought about the people who worked for him, would have bothered her. The young auburn-haired woman had never treated another person that way; the closest she had to a 'servant' was the physical therapist that came to treat her father's leg and her back. The woman was not thought of as working for them or treated any differently from a friend. No servants helped raise her; that was seen as a family job. The old her had been a lot more accepting and sometimes naive; looking back, it was hard to tell what he thought ofher.


Had Aubre even been a friend? Had she just been a diversion? A way to avoid work? Something to laugh at during downtime? A funny little curious thing that followed him around? If he thought of Narcissa as a servant, after spending his whole life with her, what exactly had Aubre been? Why had the bothered returning that jacket that night? Would he have done that? Her Pokemon were her crutches, her new family; they would never be her servants. The relationship was not close and not one of distance, such as his family preferred. The scar beneath a beautiful green eye, covered on occasion by cheap powder, was a sign of this difference. No servant would hit their 'master' and keep their job. Achilles had been furious; she had deserved it then, now she wished she had succeeded in that hanging attempt.

---

Had she offended him? Her face flushed with embarrassment as the ladder with that possibility. Aubre just shook her head, cheeks flaring up as an anxious noise of denial was heard:
"Sir! I promise, I d-didn't mean to imply anything about you or your Pokemon. I work at the P-Pokemon center as both a tutor for children and nurse; I've seen m-many Pokemon die because a trainer had no idea about having additional responsibilities, such as vaccines I w-was just v-venting a t-tiny bit."
It was true, most trainers never thought of their Pokémon's health; they thought they were immortal. Aubre had seen many elderly Pokemon die from a case of the flu due to a lack of examination; she was just commenting on how easy that was not to avoid.


Diagnosis was not her job, even if she had a fairly good idea of what was plaguing Narcissa. The woman was intelligent and enjoyed using her knowledge to help as long as it wasn’t showing off. Her teeth chewed at her inner cheek as she debated between playing the part of ignorant clerk,not drawing attention to herself, or offering a diagnosis; she chose the middle-road:
"I have it narrowed down to one or two diseases, both ex-extremely uncomfortable; I'm not a doctor,though."
Aubre had taken a few classes in treating Pokemon illnesses; she had found the subject fascinating. She knew this disease from a few books she had read; she could always be wrong.

Was she being mocked? Aubre figured it was just her paranoia that added a teasing tone to his laughter. She was not very adept at 'clambering'; the man had a reason to make fun. She clung to the shelf like a frightened cat to a curtain, her ass was stuck out at an odd angle, the damn thing wiggled beneath her dangerously. At the moment, there was plenty for the big dog to mock the little yapping Chihuahua for:
"We do have ancestors far better at c-climbing; most of those are far better than most people --to think I used to do gymnastics."
It didn't help that she was short and forced to stand on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf. Her head kept jerking to the side with each noise behind her. One glance caught him looking at a watch more expensive than anything in her house. She fretted. Was she taking too long? Did he have somewhere to go? The woman moved to hastily dismount the ladder, her paranoia forcing her to count the expensive bottles upon the top shelf before they vanished from view. She sighed:
"I think the issues with the e-economy have a lot more b-behind them then improper shelving, sir. I will a-admit it is poor a-advertising."
For every moment she contradicted this customer, Aubre tried to add another word of agreement and praise. Most of the time, she wished she had never spoken at all. When she saw the bright blue eyes staring at her, she wished she had not spoken at all.


A pharmacy was a good place to be injured; there were thousands of bandages within easy reach. She would never just take them; she did not steal. At the moment, the injuries did not even hurt; shock was an amazing balm. The only reason she knew she was bleeding, besides the stains on her uniform sleeves, was the wetness on her fingertips and the Leon’s shocked. When he finally moved back to his feet, without any recognition she felt her chest continue to heave nervously. The diversion to the backroom stopped her from shattering—for a few more minutes. The water dripping from her hair was enough to reassure her; she knew it would do nothing in the long run and did not help her look sane.

Minus her facial expression, her pacing was actually quite standard; she usually threw in some quiet humming to pass the time. Her look of sheer rage added a psychopathic light to the eccentric actions. Even in her state of distress she followed procedure to the letter; she was good at what she did. Then again, even though she did so well, there was a reason Aubre worked here instead of a larger pharmacy; her new temperament, shy and paranoid, came at a lower price. The only benefit of this short diversion in the long run, aside from her damp hair, was that Leon could not read lips.

From miles away Narcissa made her life a living hell. The woman just assumed, wrongfully, that it was known to many people in the region. The woman had prayed the mistake went unnoticed; it didn't. Her eyes gradually widened as the silence wore on to a point of discomfort. Fingers gradually fell away from the crimson-streaked buttons to rest at her side with no knowledge of what was to come.

---

Twisted minds altered people's faces sometimes; in that sense, though they reacted differently to these changes, Leon and Aubre were the same. None of those people she saw had ended up dead; most of the women that reminded him of her did. If she had known about those women Aubre wouldn’t even be staring at Leon; she would have killed herself.

The nice single father,cursed with the same hair and eyes a brighter blue, had left her screaming in the park. Her guilt had overwhelmed her as the man's young daughter screamed in response. Aubre requested a new delivery boy for the newspaper because the other one, with a tiny Growlithe, sent her into fits. Her classes were small due to her odd bans on people that looked like Leon and all things resembling dogs. White hair turned friendly old men into wicked demons. Worst of all, this man had left her best friend, a dopey Arcanine, sitting outside for a year in the cold. The woman resisted the urge to scream at Leon for these memories. Her ember-locks shook with a mixture of anger and terror.

---

She pleaded with this mad man for safety for a few moments. Stutters emerged from her mouth relaying her true fear even as she fought to hide it. Her feet trembled within her shoes as she stared into eyes like a bright summer sky; storms were soon to follow. Aubre was too pessimistic to believe otherwise.

The counter was painted red as Aubre drug herself to her feet.

The nickname rubbed her the wrong way; it terrified and annoyed her. That name was the one always spoken in her nightmares and it had always been said in a mocking manner. It was never her name she heard when she spoke to this man. Maybe she had never woke up this morning? The pinches she delivered to her arm reassured her that this was no dream. It was a nightmare.

A slim eyebrow rose when he finally spoke.

If she wasn't Aubre, who did Leon think she was? Emerald green eyes peer up at the much larger man in confusion. It was interesting seeing them juxtaposed against one another. The man was obviously wealthy, her clothes were obviously old and worn (she only had two work-shirts). Her hair, while the same length as his , was obviously poorly cut. While his eyes were warm, clear, and angry, Aubre had a fearful gaze. Only pain and fear kept her flashbacks from taking over. Her posture was slumped, submissive, and fearful; his posture was confident. The words that he whispered, devilishly sweet, made her shake fearfully. What did anything he say mean? Had he really not recognized her? Had she given herself away by using her name? Was Leon truly insane? Aubre was not sure what his words meant or if she was just being toyed with:
"I'm n-not K-kitty either L-leon, you know I hate that nickname; y-stop pretending you d-don't know who I am. S-stop it, please."
Why was he so close? The smell of his expensive cologne and laundry detergent were easy to pick up from where she stood. Even as she told herself not to run her feet slid away from him. Her breathing grew ragged as the room around her flashed between the dreary little shop and that alley. Leon remained in both visions.
His words made her question herself.

Was she Aubre? This shirking woman, tempted to kiss his feet if he let her live, was nothing like the pretty girl Leon knew. The one that looked through those binoculars, loved standing in the rain, and would fight this man had died. What would happen if he knew that? Would it help her? She shook her head at her own question. Her voice started out loud and slowly lowered into a whisper:

" I'm not y-your anything. Y-you don't want to end up in a cell again; y-you should leave, this won’t end well for e-either of us."

It would not end well, for her. No doubt he would leave her corpse in a rubbish bin with no more worries. Eight Pokemon and two children would wait for her to come home; no one else would care.

When those gloved hands reached for her cheeks, she forcefully jerked away. Tears continued to stream down her face as her emotions overwhelmed her. The woman had been expecting red-hot anger, death, laughter, and slaps--this reaction her confused and lost. None of her plans would work, she wasn't even certain she could hurt the man if she wanted to. He had not hurt her? Her voice grew in volume until it slowly sank back into a frantic whisper:
"B-bad dream? This is a nightmare! M-my whole life since then has been a nightmare! Y-you didn't hurt me!? Y-you, t-that knife and N-narcissa laid a lot more than a finger on me..... a lot more.."
Sobs began to distort her words. Green eyes flickered down to his jacket where a knife might rest in terror. The scars on her back had now flared up in pain at the thought; those sickly sweet comments only made her back tense further.

No one else knew what he had done and she realized that was wrong. When she should have told the whole damn world, Aubre stayed silent.She had used her last few moments on Earth to apologize to this man instead of painting his name black. While everyone thought this man was a hero, untarnished by his deeds, she had been pitied, ridiculed behind her back and hurt. How much of it was really his fault? Aubre would lie when she gave that answer

Pop! With a white flash, the plastic wrapper disappeared; the glass grew dark and opaque. Old memories took over for a moment as the room staggered back into that alley. A noise snapped her out of her memories.

The man laughed at her request; now what she was supposed to do? Leon had already passed where she had to defend herself; why wasn't she doing it? Why did she freeze up? The old her would have faced him head-on; she just quivered.

Maybe he wouldn't hurt her? Couldn't this be a misunderstanding? What if she was just looking too deep into innocent questions? This time it was Aubre that barked out a laugh; she knew better.

Aubre shifted away as if shot as the grass cracked. Green eyes began to flicker with uncertainty as her powers weakened. The laughter echoed in her ears as the shelves turned into trashcans. Blood from her hand now coated her arms. His laughter began and grew steadily louder.

The noise echoed in her head repeatedly turning her tremors into shakes. Items began to fall back to the floor. Reflected within her green gaze, the fire began to eat away at any intelligence in her gaze. Her head began to shake as he finally turned toward her. His crown of hellfire shifted like a nest of snakes all of aimed at her.

She was powerless. What was there that he couldn't turn to ash?

Leon moved forward, leaving scorched tile in his wake. Glued to the spot Aubre's nervous movements grew more erratic. Her hands balled into fists as she closed her eyes and fought an impeding flashback. Her breathing grew ragged as repeated a mantra of courage in her head. She would stand her ground, she wouldn't die a coward; the old her would never let that happen. She relayed her plans in a frightened squeak in an attempt to reassure herself:

"W-well, I'm not g-going anywhere; you can't hurt me w-without being caught. There a-a-are cameras, alarms--a l-lot of them. P-please d-d-on't. throw what you have away again, Leon? Please.."

Would that logic work? Was he shallow enough to think of things in that way? Maybe shining a different light on it would save her?

All of the reasons the ginger-haired girl felt safe were lies. The cameras? Only one of them was real, the rest just deterrents to thieves. The sprinklers? The things were old and decrepit only made to detect large amounts of smoke. The woman didn't know that.

The fire and heat wore at her defenses even as it made him more intimidating. It terrified her more than death. A flame licked at the tip of her shoe, scorching her big toe. Her body, automatically retreated, from the advancing monster, and bumped into the wall behind her. Fingers reached out, against all hope, to prod at the hard wall; some part of her hoped some secret room would appear.

Aubre was cornered. The wall at her back and left-side. The counter was up to her chest, on the right. In front of her was the devil. He was just as impossible to move as the walls and twice as dangerous. The woman constantly reminded herself that she was safe here. Aubre could not run unless she wanted to be defenseless; she needed to fight all her instincts and stay rooted to the spot. She couldn't do it.

She decided to do the illogical:

Just like when the therapist had asked hard questions..

Just like the times her mother and father walked into the room to talk..

Just like how she hid in her apartment like a scared rat...

Just like when she refused to voice her true opinion....

The work-apron, made out of flammable polyester, dropped to the scorched tiles. It instantly began to melt and blacken. Her muscles tensed.

Just like when she threw in the towel after a few months of physical therapy...


Aubre did what she did best:

She ran.

---

A shelf, finally free of its restraints, began to levitate. The products on it slid to the floor as it tilted wildly; her current emotional state made it difficult to hold. With a burst of power, one that left her ears ringing and her head aching, the metal beast slammed into the wall near Leon, bolts flying out in every direction. It was not meant to hit him, she could not kill him, she just wanted to make him stop. Products rained upon Leon's head offering a distractions of a sort. Aubre just needed a few seconds.

The room spun as her powers vanished.

The sudden telekinetic burst made her eyes see double; she had seriously strained her abilities with that stunt. The woman knew that she needed to run. The heat was scorching her hair now.

Aubre attempted to vault over the nearby counter top.

She didn't get far.

Her frantic movement, coupled with her distorted vision, slammed the counter-top into her chest. Air erupted from her lung in a pained gasp. Her back screamed as her body stretched toward the edge of the counter. Her legs remained stubbornly on the other side as she began to claw and pull at the counter.

There went her few seconds.

"Shit!"

[Deleted]

When she walks the streets of Remoor, she often hides behind the persona of other women. Sometimes she is a beautiful socialite of refined elegance. Sometimes she is a youth with a smile as sweet as a rose in full bloom. Her hair is the color of coarse coal, of the sun’s gentle light, but only once are the locks auburn. Only once before are her eyes like emeralds rather than rubies or sapphires. She wears this clever deception, this elaborate ruse of other lives, like a natural second skin. Protected by these masks, she has been a teacher, a prostitute, a pharmacist, and none have been any wiser to the ghost that walks amongst their ranks but him.

The first time that her presence slips it is in the empty and dark streets long abandoned by the citizens. Had he not heard her laughter, seen her dancing, he would have been as naïve to her resurrection as the rest of Remoor. There are many things that can be changed about a person, and yet it is the small flags, the subtle traits that have been left untouched, that damn her. He knows her in a manner that not even her mother, the woman whose body she shared for nine months, could. He has seen her chest heave with labored breaths as she struggles to fight. He has heard her voice hoarse with the screams of her own terror. He has seen her in her death, and, for this, he knows her.

At times it drives him mad to know that he may burn her countless times, strip her bones of their flesh, and she will return as another. It maddens him to her hear voice on a busy street, to watch as she walks through a small cafe, and yet he relishes it. His anger, his unadulterated hatred of her, leads him to her time and time again. There is a pleasure to watching the flames lick up her legs and catching again the base instinct of terror distort her gaze. Before she dies, he is the last thing that she sees. He is her world in the moments that she struggles to draw her last breaths. To her, he becomes God. It is a strange and compromised satisfaction for as he knows her, she knows him. Their lives are inexplicably intertwined.

He can count on one hand the number of times she has played this desperate game deprived of rules with him. For each encounter, she has denied the woman hidden behind her elaborate façade. In their first encounter, it had not aggravated him for it had been pleasure enough to know that it was she despite her pleadings, but in the following encounters, it had begun to irritate him. Her vehement denial detracted from the pleasures that he took of flames upon her body. He wants her recognition, for in her recognition is understanding. If she treats him as a stranger, she does not understand his motives, but if she acknowledges that she is Kitten as they both know her to be, she cannot deny to him the knowledge of his actions.

How many times must he play in this old dance of hers before she gives up this weak and feeble hope that perhaps in their next game he will not recognize her and she may lead a peaceful life into old age? How much longer must he hunt until she acknowledges her eternal damnation by his hand? “Time and time again have we shared in this conversation, and yet...” A flicker of laughter bubbles in his throat at the mere thought of the suggestion. Time and time again they have played the same game, but this is the first that she has suggested that it is he who does not know her rather than it is not she that he hunts. She is playing a new strategy. “…you doubt that I have always known you.”

For every woman that she has been, for every name she has been known by, she is Aubre. Change her face, change the color of her hair, and to him she will have eyes like emeralds and hair like embers. Change her interests, change her demeanor, and to him he will see only her. It is that which she cannot erase or change that damns her. He has seen her in her rawest state. He knows what she is like without societal behavior and expectation. He has seen her when in possession of only base instincts and reactions. What he has seen is what determines who she is, and she cannot erase this base self of hers.

“But I am your everything.” Perhaps a small piece of him belongs to her for only she has seen that which he truly is, only she has broken the shell of a man to expose that which lurks beneath, but he is not hers as she is his. His life is not dictated by her. Months pass between their encounters, and in that time he leads a peaceful and pleasurable life. She was the spark, but she was not the fire that opened his eyes. He is a good son, one that visits his mother every weekend and adequately meets and surpasses his father’s exception. He is not the same son that left Remoor, and she played naught but a small, minor role in that. She was only the first step into this world of his, but he does not belong to her as she does him.

How can she deny that she is his when her life has ended at his hand countless times? He is her God, her King, her Death. She is a damned soul that cannot escape this city, and she must know this if only in instinct. Why else has she awoken in these streets after each of her deaths? Few risk the danger of the world outside of their city walls, and yet he does not doubt she would take the opportunity to leave if she could. So many times that she has felt his flames upon her flesh, it must be well worth the risk, and yet she remains. She cannot escape her damnation, of that he knows. He is the last soul she knows before her death, and the Death that she flees in each twisted game. He is her everything and she is nothing.

The thought of imprisonment brings an urge to scoff alongside a quiet pleasure. It is the first mistake that she has made, and yet she does not likely realize it. In their past encounters, she has done little more than vehemently deny that she is Kitten, but the mention of imprisonment is proof that she is truly the woman she claims not to be. Only a handful of people, and fewer yet within the city limits of Remoor, know of his judicial sentencing. Only she would be one of these unaccounted few. Only she would know of the charges that he had been found guilty of, and only she wouldn’t know of the sealed and erased record. Her façade has cracked.

“That is rather unlikely, don’t you think?” he whispers softly as he steps after her. His hand drifts from the outline of her cheek, and hangs at his side as he takes in her tears. In each of their encounters she has cried. Her distress sends a soft shiver of pleasure down his spine for there is nothing he relishes more than the moments that she breaks little by little. “I am still here, but…” Leon’s gaze falls upon her eyes, drinking in the emotions that she does not hide. His smile is chivalrous and charming when he whispers softly, “…how many times have you died? I would have thought by this point in time you would come to realize that such suggestions are only fruitless endeavors.”

Lips curl slowly into something more sinister, something more akin to a predator upon wounded prey, when she speaks of crimes that no longer exist. These small details are her true damnation for only she knows of them for only three bore witness to his crimes: himself, Narcissa, and her. Not the prosecutor, not his defense attorney, not his judge, not his father, not even his mother had heard a detailed confession of his sins. Only she would know that which he had done to her in the act’s entirety. Others had only witnessed the results of his heinous acts through photos and medical notes recorded by on-site doctors and nurses.

“Kitten, careful of what you speak now. Such acts were never committed, and yet if someone were to overhear you, that individual might become very confused. After all, records of such things are kept, and yet none exist of what you claim.” Of course, if there were a witness to his actions, there would likely be two bodies missing rather than just one by the end of the afternoon. “Why, one might go as far as to say that your delusions have taken ahold of your life. It would be a shame to see you go the same way as anyone taken off of the streets might. Paranoia has such a nasty effect upon the human mind.”

When he has been sentenced, it had been as a minor. By law, the media had been prevented from publishing his crimes in association to his name, and none had been permitting within the courtroom during the case. What hazy details they had gathered hadn’t made for a very strong article. The story had died within the region, and far from Remoor for it had possessed little sustenance beyond rumors and speculation. It had made damage control a much simpler and far more manageable matter when only so few knew of the case. Though the defense attorney, ultimately incompetent, had made for a very poor case, he had at least possessed the wit to win him the rights to be tried as a minor in court.

After that it had been of little consequence to arrange several bribes and certain…suggested transactions to control the flow of information. With the media cut off, the largest concern had been of the head of his academy at the time, and the students that had first come across what should have been a charred corpse. His father had seen to these small details, and his presence had assured that no paper trail led back to the Penndragon name. Perhaps not the most influential family outside of the city, what money and power they did possess had spoken more than loudly enough.

If she had testified in court, little would have changed for records of her testimony would have been erased when his record had been sealed and expunged. She may have spoken out, found her voice, but who would have been there to listen? The prosecutor that was laid off when it was revealed that she had instructed several officers in the past to falsify evidence? The headmaster that had held his tongue for a miniscule sum of hush money? The corrupted judge that had lost his seat when paperwork surfaced detailing his own crimes and the numerous bribes he had accepted in the past to pass different convictions? Leon had been calm and collected during his sentencing because he knew, even with the case lost, that events could only take one course of action though it required a bit of a push.

Nearly a year had passed since he had last seen her. He had thought little of her in that time. On the occasion her absence crossed his mind, but he had been content as he was. He had never felt the urge to actively seek her out for she was always drawn to him one way or the other. Besides, it would have done him no good as not even he could venture as to what persona she chose to hide behind in their games. Still, he had to admit that he had missed the hunt. His bloodlust, at times, got the better of him, but it was nothing compared to the knowledge that there was no need to hold himself back. Killing her tided him over.

Flames rise in the air, and his eyes close as he savors the heat. He is rarely presented with an opportunity to take advantage of his ability in full, and yet surrounded by flames is where he feels most comfortable. In a home powered by electricity, there is little need for the use of his mutant skill, but he cannot deny the inexplicable power that drifts through his blood when he calls upon it. If there is a Hell, an unlikely thing, it is where he is destined to lay his bones to rest, but it is where he will belong. He will burn as he burns others. He shall remain a prince of the fire.

“What does it matter?” His words are soft amongst the chaos as his gaze shifts from his flames, and onto her trembling form. Touching a small canister as it drifts towards him, coaxing flames from his fingertips to leap upon and melt the cheap plastic, he begins to walk towards her. “I have not been tied down in the past. I cannot be caught.” It was once said that a man of an unstable nature, a psychopath, could not distinguish between true good and evil. What Leon had not said was that he knew of the differences quite well, there were moments that he simply did not care. In this damnation, it mattered little to him.

It is the thought of cameras that catch his attentions, and for a moment he pauses. The flames still in their path, and his gaze flickers quickly to the several corners of the room. Cameras. He is well aware of their presence. It would take only a fool and an idiot to not consider security measurements such as these. Overhead, a system of sprinklers: another given as within a pharmacy dangerous chemicals are brought together. If not careful, these could easily lead to a fire or a small explosion of sorts that would need to be controlled quickly, but some chemical reactions generate smoke and small but manageable fires. It would take a large amount of smoke in order to set them off. Fuel is the reason that smoke exists: water, volatile organic compounds, carbon, ash. Pyrokinesis does not require fuel. Smoke is generated, but limited. How much does it take to set off the system?

The thoughts of logic are like a cold bucket of water dumped upon his mind. There are times, moments, that he loses himself. Hours when the loss of his mind, of his common sense, is worse than it is at others. In the past, he has not been caught because some shard of his sanity, of his logic, remained. When he stumbled across her under the guise of other women, only once has he killed her within the very same evening. At that time, they had stood in an alleyway in a part of town known for the crime rate. It had been a slip-up, one that he does not fully remember. He does not always remember well. Others, he recalls watching carefully, has assured that his crimes could not be caught, but this time he has lost himself because this is the first time that she truly feels like the Aubre he left broken within the alley and later on within her home.

When he finds himself cast under a barrage of medical products, it catches him off guard. In his distraction, the flames waver, and some flicker out as his head snaps up instinctively. A tropic cream drops upon him, the metal edge scratching the skin just beneath his eye and drawing a sharp curse from his tongue. His fingers immediately begin to rub the area soothingly, and his gaze flashes to the counter she once stood with a predatory glint, but flames do not leap at her like rabid animals. Instead his smile is charming and soft, as blood falls from the cut as a tear. The small fit of insanity has passed, and yet he remains the monster.

Their game had evolved the moment that she had acknowledged herself as Kitten. In her denial of herself, the only thing that he could take from her was her life. It became the only thing worth ripping from her hands for anything affiliated to her at the time, she affiliated herself to as another woman. If she refused to acknowledge this step in their game, the life that she led and the people that she knew were not truly her own. There had been no point in taking that which was not hers from her. The act would have possessed no pleasure to him, and the only pleasure he took in those hunts had been in her death. He had wanted to tear her down from her rawest state, and that had been how he had done it.

A Kitten that saw only her own reflection when she stared in the mirror was the one that he had been waiting for since the beginning of this damnation of theirs. It had been five years since they had last seen one another in this honest light, and a year since their last encounter. In this time he does not doubt that she has built a life for herself. The people that she has met, the friendships she has built, hold a value to him for in her admission that she is Kitten, these bonds are not linked to her rather than the women she has attempted to lead her life as. Many would think that it is her death that gives him the greatest pleasure, but it is tearing her down bit by bit and taking that which makes her that truly pleases. She has given to him a life to truly take away before her death.

When she slams into the counter in her mad dash to slip his grasp, he laughs softly. Flames begin to dance up gently from beneath him, and like wild animals they lunge. The sound of harsh snapping fills the air as his flames bound up to attack the cameras. Of the few that he can see from his position within the pharmacy, amongst the carnage that has already been done, the cameras are older models that possess the tapes themselves rather than streaming to another room. His flames tear into the cheap plastic like lions upon hyenas, and the sounds of their destruction can be heard over her soft cries of pain. As quickly as they were there, they are gone, leaving behind only the scent of burning plastic. He takes advantage of her momentary pain to assure the rest are destroyed.

Calmly, as if he does not walk along tile scorched by his own flames, as if the disgusting scent of the destroyed cameras does not assault his senses, he readjusts his gloves. She is still left upon the counter. The sight sends a small shiver down his spine as a hint to a future event whose time has yet to come. “Kitten.” His voice is coaxing and cheerful, amiable and charming, as he approaches her pained figure. His tone is one of an old friend. “It seems that you have quite the mess to see to.” His hand grasps her shoulder, presses her down further into the corner as he leans in, pressing his lips to her ear as he murmurs softly, “Why don’t I leave you to it? It would be a shame if your employer were to see this.”

Low laughter rings through the air as he just as quickly turns on his heel. One hand reaches into his pocket, reassuring himself that the medication is undamaged by his momentary loss of thought. Underfoot, the ash crunches against the linoleum flooring, and yet he walks as if leaving a public gala rather than an inexplicably destroyed pharmacy and a terrified girl. His image is the epitome of calm confidence, but at the entrance pauses. His hand grasps upon the bar of the door, and his head turns slightly. He speaks to her one last time, leaves her with a silent message beneath his words, that is sure to follow her even should she flee for they are his promise of his hunt.

“Kitten? I’ve missed you.”