Chapter 187: We Work In The Dark To Serve The Light
The two gang members stared into the private room, frozen in horrified silence. The scene before them was grotesque and surreal. Seven bodies sat slumped on the sofas in casual, almost lifelike poses, some still holding overturned wine bottles. They looked almost like drunken revelers passed out after a long night.
Except their heads were missing.
Severed cleanly at the neck, the heads were gone from the bodies. The ragged edges of muscle and sinew at the stump of each neck indicated immense, brutal force – as if the heads had been twisted or ripped off, not cut. One body was worse, the throat torn open, vertebrae exposed.
And the heads... they were arranged in a neat, horrific pyramid on the floor just inside the doorway, facing outwards. Their faces, captured in the moment of death, were masks of unimaginable terror and agony, features distorted beyond human recognition, eyes bulging and mouths stretched in silent screams.
Blood pooled thick and dark on the expensive carpet, soaking into the fibers, forming rivulets that snaked across the floor and seeped under the closed door into the hallway where the two onlookers now stood.
The sheer, visceral horror of the sight shattered their drunken bravado. One of the men let out a choked gasp, then instinctively lashed out, slapping his companion hard across the face, perhaps trying to snap him out of his stunned paralysis. The slapped man shrieked, his legs buckling, collapsing onto the blood-slick floor of the corridor.
"Aaaah!" he screamed again, realizing his hand had landed squarely in the pool of cooling blood seeping from the room. He scrambled backwards frantically, rolling and crawling away down the hallway, oblivious to anything but sheer terror, his voice rising hysterically. "Dead! They're dead! Boss is dead! Everyone's dead!"
His companion, shocked back to awareness by the slap and his friend's panicked flight, stared for another second at the pyramid of heads, then turned and fled, stumbling down the stairs after his friend, leaving the gruesome scene behind.
Miles away, in a small, self-built house in a quiet, remote neighborhood of Viridian City, an elderly woman rose stiffly from a chair before dawn. Her face was haggard, etched with worry lines deepened by recent events. She glanced at the dawn light filtering through the window, sighed heavily, and moved quietly towards the bedroom.
The slight sound of her movement disturbed the man sleeping fitfully in the bed. He stirred, groaning softly as he tried to sit up. "Nnngh... awake already?" his voice rasped.
"Careful now! You're still injured." The old woman hurried to his side, helping him prop himself up against the pillows.
"Just a sprain," the old man insisted, forcing a weak smile for his wife, though bruises were clearly visible on his face, and his complexion was pale, almost translucent. "I'm fine, really."
Seeing his frail appearance, the woman's eyes filled with distress. Thinking back to the robbery the previous day, anger warred with helpless resignation. "Oh, dear... they took it all. Why did you have to fight them?"
"It was our wedding ring!" the old man retorted, a flash of anger animating his weak frame. "Our savings! How could I just let them take it?" He tried to sit up straighter, agitated, but winced sharply, clutching his side. "Oohh... hiss..."
"There, there! Are you alright?" the woman fussed, her eyes misting over.
"Fine, fine," he waved her off weakly, sinking back against the pillows. "Just... can't deny being old anymore..." He fell silent for a moment, then asked quietly, "How much... how much money do we have left?"
The old woman hesitated, her face falling. "...Enough to eat for a little while," she eventually replied evasively. "Don't worry about that now. Just rest, heal." She knew their situation was dire.
Seeing the look on her face, the old man fell silent too, the weight of their predicament settling heavily between them. After a moment, the woman stood up. "Are you hungry? I'll make some breakfast."
She went out to the small kitchen, her shoulders slumped. Those thugs... took everything. Their meager savings, her ring... and left her husband beaten. If they'd had any money left, they would have gone to the Pokémon Center for proper treatment, and would have not relied on home remedies. She checked the pantry – nearly empty. We'll have to sell the house, she thought despairingly.
Sighing, she turned to the small kitchen table to begin preparing what little food remained. Then she stopped. Sitting on the table was a small, rough cloth bundle that hadn't been there before. When did this appear? Her memory wasn't what it used to be; perhaps she'd simply forgotten putting it there.
Curious, she carefully untied the bundle. It looked like old clothes hastily wrapped around something. Inside... her breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth, the other pressed against her rapidly beating heart.
"What is it? What's wrong?" her husband called out weakly from the bedroom, alerted by her sharp intake of breath.
"Nothing! It's nothing!" she called back quickly, not wanting him to exert himself. Her voice, however, trembled with emotion. She hurried back to the bedroom, her steps suddenly lighter, clutching the bundle.
Her husband was trying to sit up again. "What was it?" he asked, concerned.
"Look!" she choked out, carefully unfolding the cloth bundle on the bed between them.
Inside lay her stolen wedding ring, nestled amongst several stacks of Poké Dollar bills – far more than the thugs had taken. Also inside were two small cartons of Moomoo Milk. And resting on top was a simple, handwritten note.
"My ring!" the old woman gasped, tears welling in her eyes as she snatched it up, her hands trembling.
"They... they sent it back?" the old man whispered, staring in disbelief. He gently took her hand, tears now streaming down his own face, and slid the ring back onto her finger. A faint touch of color returned to his pale cheeks. He picked up the note. The handwriting was neat, though slightly unconventional. It read simply: 'Those who wronged you have been dealt with. Your property is returned, with compensation for damages. Stay safe.'
They looked at each other, then back at the returned valuables and the unexpected cash, clutching each other's hands, sobbing now not from despair, but overwhelming relief and disbelief.
Similar small bundles appeared mysteriously on doorsteps across Viridian City that morning – returned wallets, recovered jewelry, unexpected cash compensations left for victims of the previous days' petty robberies and looting. Whispers began to spread.
"My money! It's back!"
"Someone helped us! A good person!"
"Thank the Goddess..."
For these few individuals, the 'little people' caught in the crossfire, a sliver of hope pierced through the fear gripping the city. But they were only a small fraction. For most of Viridian, the shadow of Team Rocket, the tension of the unseen conflict, lingered heavy in the air, the future uncertain.