The muffled threats and whimpers filtering through the door made Team Rocket's intentions clear—Pokémon theft and good old-fashioned extortion.
My fingers twitched toward my Pokéballs. One Flamethrower from Charizard and this would be over in seconds... along with the restaurant's structural integrity. The mental image of explaining to authorities why I'd reduced a five-star establishment to smoldering rubble was enough to stay my hand.
There has to be a quieter way.
A wicked grin spread across my face as inspiration struck. Hypnosis. Clean, efficient, and most importantly—quiet. The possibilities unfurled in my mind like a dark scroll: brainwashed grunts, compliant hostages, maybe even making them enjoy wearing those ridiculous uniforms...
Shaking off the disturbing tangent (since when did bathrooms inspire such creativity?), I activated my Poké PC. The holographic display illuminated the tiles as I selected my psychic ace—Alakazam.
The floating spoon-bender materialized with a psychic hum, his signature utensils already spinning.
[You require my expertise?] His telepathic voice carried an amused lilt.
"Hypnosis. Can you handle an entire team?"
Alakazam's mustache twitched. [Child's play. Though I must ask—why the sudden interest in... creative persuasion?]
"Let's call it civic duty with style."
Before he could retort, footsteps echoed outside—too purposeful for frightened hostages. Team Rocket was sweeping the building.
Alakazam's spoons crossed with a ping. [Shall we give them nightmares to remember?]
I slipped into a toilet stall, easing the door shut without a sound. Alakazam melted into the shadows, his semi-transparent form blending seamlessly with the tiled walls.
The bathroom door burst open moments later, followed by heavy boots scuffing against the floor. I held my breath, leaving everything to my psychic partner. With an IQ that dwarfed supercomputers, he hardly needed my micromanagement.
"Uh—?"
The intruder's voice cracked mid-syllable, then fell silent.
[Giratina, It's done,] Alakazam announced, nudging the stall door open with a flick of his spoon.
"I told you to call me Platinum now," I hissed.
[...As you wish, Lady Platinum,] he replied, mustache twitching.
I paused. Right—humans couldn't understand Pokémon speech anyway. My secret was safe, even if Alakazam insisted on theatrics.
Stepping out, I examined our captive. The Rocket grunt stood rigid, eyes glazed. Drool pooled at the corner of his slack mouth. Textbook hypnosis.
"You'll obey my every command, correct?"
[Naturally.] Alakazam spun his spoons with a flourish. [I could make him dance naked in the streets if you wished.]
I shot him a look. The Pokémon world might be whimsical, but I had standards.
"Just bow," I ordered.
Like a marionette on strings, the grunt lurched forward—knees creaking, palms slapping the damp tiles in an exaggerated display of submission.
Alakazam's spoons clinked together. [How... anticlimactic.]
The hypnotized grunt moved with agonizing slowness, his knees creaking as they inched toward the damp tiles. The hollow thud of his palms meeting the floor echoed in the sterile bathroom.
"Just bow properly," I muttered, tapping my foot. "We don't have all day."
There was something perversely satisfying about watching a Team Rocket member grovel—yet the novelty wore thin fast. Every second wasted increased the risk of another grunt investigating. Hypnotizing the whole squad would defeat the purpose of this subtle approach.
He completed a second bow, then swayed drunkenly.
"One is enough," I snapped.
Alakazam's spoons clinked. [Shall I program a three-bow protocol?]
"Don't push it."
Stepping closer, I studied the blank-faced grunt. This called for more... creative conditioning.
"From this moment, you are a slave," I declared, watching his pupils dilate at the word. "You exist to obey. Do you understand?"
"Slave... obeys," he droned.
A thrill shot through me—not unlike the rush of facing Dialga across time's expanse. Justice, it seemed, tasted sweetest when served with precision.
From my pocket, I produced Grandidierite—a sea-glass gem gifted by Diancie. (Pearls are Palkia's favorite; diamonds, Dialga's. This would do nicely.) The stone's cerulean depths caught the fluorescent lights, casting prismatic shards across the grunt's vacant expression.
"Hold this," I ordered, pressing the gem into his palm. "Cherish it. Protect it above your uniform, above your pride."
His fingers curled mechanically around his new master.
Alakazam's spoon wobbled. [This is... unusually specific psychological warfare.]
"Call it poetic justice."
Everything was in place.
With a whisper of distorted space, a rift tore open in the bathroom stall - just large enough for a grown man to pass through. The edges shimmered with unstable energy, revealing glimpses of the Broken World beyond. Had any ordinary person witnessed a portal to Giratina's realm materializing in a restaurant restroom, they might have needed that very toilet to relieve their shock.
"Enter," I commanded the entranced grunt.
Without hesitation, he stepped through the wavering threshold. I followed close behind, crossing into my domain where I could observe unseen. Alakazam cloaked himself in psychic static, vanishing from mortal sight.
Now came Team Rocket's test.
Would they take the bait and venture into the unknown? Or would wisdom prevail, ending this charade here?
Back in the restaurant, voices sharp as poisoned daggers cut through the tension.
"What took you so long in there? Planning a coup?" sneered one grunt.
The hypnotized agent responded with a smile so unnaturally wide it looked painful. "Just using the facilities."
"Disgusting. At least wash your—" The critic froze, noticing his comrade's barely-damp hands. "You didn't even wash properly."
The slave stared blankly, his doll-like demeanor sending an instinctive chill through the room. The other Rocket member shifted uncomfortably.
"You... you okay? Can't take a joke anymore?"
"No."
The single toneless syllable hung in the air. The grunt opened his mouth to press further—"Ha, look—" then thought better of it. There would be time for questions later. Missions came first.
"But seriously—" he tried again.
"Get to the point," the slave interrupted, his voice flat yet carrying an unfamiliar weight of authority.
The hypnotized grunt answered their questions not with words, but with action - slowly uncurling his fingers to reveal the prize.
Grandidierite.
The gemstone blazed like captured starlight, its sea-green depths shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The Team Rocket members froze mid-breath, their avaricious eyes reflecting the jewel's hypnotic gleam.
For a long moment, the only sound was the restaurant's broken AC unit rattling overhead.
Then chaos erupted.
"Is that real?"
"Where the hell did you find that?"
"Who leaves gems just lying around in a bathroom?!"
The slave remained eerily calm amidst their frenzy. "There's more," he said tonelessly. "A bag I couldn't carry alone. This was just... sitting beside it."
The implications hung heavy in the air.
"A drop site," breathed one grunt.
"Some rich bastard's secret stash," corrected another, already salivating.
The squad leader took two eager steps toward the bathroom before catching himself. "Half of you stay," he barked. "Watch the hostages."
Protests erupted immediately.
"You think we're stupid? You'll pocket everything!"
"We all risked our necks for this job!"
"That's not how Rocket operates!"
The leader's sneer could have cut glass. "It's exactly how we operate. Now stay put unless you want to explain to the boss why the mark got away."
The chosen grunts practically tripped over themselves rushing to the bathroom, while those left behind glared daggers at the hostages - their frustration making them twice as vicious.
The bathroom door swung shut behind them, revealing...
A suspiciously large duffel bag resting on the sink counter. Untouched. Waiting.
Too good to be true.
The black duffel bag sat ominously on the counter, its bulky shape more suited for smuggling than storing jewels.
But Team Rocket didn't care.
They didn't walk—they lunged, their greed outpacing their caution. The moment their fingers brushed the bag's coarse fabric—
SLAM.
The door crashed shut behind them.
Silence.
Then—panic.
The room had no windows. No draft. Yet the door had sealed itself like a tomb.
The air grew thick, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. The golden light dimmed, replaced by an inky darkness that spread, creeping along the floor like spilled oil.
One grunt's breath hitched. "W-What the hell is—"
Then the abyss moved.
Tendrils—black, glistening, alive—surged from the void. They coiled around limbs, yanking the screaming Rockets off their feet.
"Fuck! GET IT OFF—"
"HELP! SOMEBODY—!"
The vines were merciless. They dragged them, kicking and thrashing, toward the growing darkness. One by one, their terrified shrieks were swallowed whole.
And then—
Silence.
The door creaked open.
The bag sat untouched.
As if nothing had ever happened.
Time blurred.
One minute? Ten?
The room stood undisturbed—no sign of struggle, no lingering echoes of screams. Just empty, sterile silence.
As if Team Rocket had never been there at all.