James stirred. Something had awoken him. He always was too tense nowadays, so tense the slightest noise woke him whilst he slept. It was a squeaking noise, the sound of his window opening. It had always made that noise and he had always meant to get it oiled, but had never got around to it. Was it time then? Had he finally been caught out?

He listened closer, but there was nothing more then the gentle hum of traffic outside his apartment building, a gentle hum despite the late hour. Nothing but silence.

Had he imagined things?

No, he doubted that. He did not imagine things, it was too damn chancy nowadays to imagine anything.

Trying to keep as silent as possible, he reached into his top drawer and drew forth the gun that resided there. Except… there was no gun, it was gone!

Panic rose in his throat and suddenly he realised something.

The shadow behind the door was not a shadow at all, but a figure.

A tall, dark figure with a golden halo on the middle of its dark forehead.

"What do you want?" He asked, his voice breaking with fear. He drew the duvet up under his chin, as though a single blanket would protect him from the creature that stood before him. It was one of the Changed, he saw that now and judging by its entrance, not a benevolent one.

"An answer to a question," the figure said in a deep, menacing voice, "nothing more, nothing less."

And terrified now, the young man saw that the creature held not a gun, but a long thin dagger, its blade glinting cruelly in the darkness. "Anything," he whimpered.

"Ah, I thought as much," the figure moved closer, leaning over the bed, his breath hot and smelling of onions and pepper. "You always were somewhat cowardly, weren’t you James?"

"How do you know my name?" James whimpered.

"I know many things," the dark angel continued, "I know that three years ago you abandoned Team Rocket, at the same time as the Pokemorphs, the first batch of the Changed, escaped. I know you had something to do with it.

And I know that you met one of my kin, the Pookamon just three days ago."

James tried to crawl further under the blankets.

"I am an assassin," the figure explained, "and normally I would not bother with this little conversation, but unfortunately, I find myself in dire need of knowledge." He paused for dramatical purposes.

"Where is Brooke?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." Even in his intense state of fear, James was trying to be brave.

"Oh, don’t give me that rubbish," the Pookamon snapped, his violet eyes glinting in the moonlight. "I know you met her, so don’t lie to me, or I’ll let this do the talking," he sliced the blade through the air, pressing it against James’s Adam’s apple. The pain of the slight prick made the man’s eyes water. To say he was terrified was a major understatement.

"Okay," he whispered, "I’ll tell you."

"That’s better," the assassin seemed to smirk. "Well then, where is she? And you know, if you tell me wrong I’ll be back here to complain!"

He gulped, the knife sharp against his throat. "She’s at a place called CAIP near the base of Mount Moon. That’s where I told her to go." He prayed that she had moved on from there and that Kataryna and Kameron were better liars then he.

"Thank you, so kindly," the assassin replied. "Unfortunately, you have also betrayed the corporation."

James had been half expecting this. Anyone that was after Brooke was liable to be after him too. The fear spurred something in him, a bitter desire for self-preservation. With his feet still under the duvet, he brought them up, catching the assassin in the side. The knife bit into his throat, drawing a droplet of blood, but quickly fell aside as the assassin stumbled. Grasping the duvet, James flung it at the assassin before he had time to recover. The morph stumbled backwards as the cloth fell over his head and his knife cluttered to the floor, harmless. Jumping out of bed, and glad that it was cold enough to sleep in something, even if that something was just his boxer shorts, James ran for the door.

He got out of his room easily enough, but upon reaching the front door he found that all the locks and chains he had employed were anything but good once the badness got on this side of the door. He fumbled with the chain. Now he could hear the assassin cursing and muttering in his room. He wished he had his gun, at least it would have offered some security.

The chain clanged against the door, released and he turned his attentions to the sliding bolt. Suddenly the familiar smell wafted over him. Onion, pepper; he whirled finding himself face to face with the assassin.

How had he moved so silently?

Another silver dagger flashed in the dark figure’s hand as James threw the bolt aside and pushed the door open. He threw himself through just as the assassin charged at him, meeting instead the door itself.

Not looking back, James bolted as though the demons of Hades were on his tail.

And in a way they were.

The silence behind him was strangely more horrifying then if there had been noise.

A blast of darkness hit him from behind and he stumbled, tumbling at the top of the stairs. Dark thoughts filled his head, anxiety at the loss of his friend Jessie, pain at the death of Meowth, regret at having given away the location of Brooke… Suddenly everything was replaced by agony as he tumbled down the stairs. He could hear startled noises, hear doors opening as people investigated the noises but all he could feel was pain, washing over him in painful, agonising waves.

And then darkness.