At the same time, across the city in the hushed corridors of the Prime Minister's residence, Makima was fighting a war of her own – a war of whispers and pressure rather than guns and gadgets. Late-night lamplight cast her silhouette tall against the shoji screens as she convened a highly confidential strategy session with Prime Minister Itō.
Inside the private study, the air was still, save for the quiet clink of ice in the PM's untouched glass of scotch. Itō looked drawn, fatigue lining his eyes. In the past few weeks, he had aged perceptibly – the weight of the unfolding scandal heavy on Japan's elected leader. "The Diet convenes in an emergency session next Wednesday," Itō said in a low voice. "They want answers about the PSIA breach rumors. We can't stall them much longer."
Makima stood by the window, hands clasped behind her back in a posture of controlled authority. Her amber gaze was fixed on the dark garden outside as if she might spot lurking enemies in every shadow. "You must stall them, Prime Minister," she replied calmly. "Five more days. That's all I need." Her reflection in the glass was pale and stern. She did not look at Itō as she spoke, which allowed him a moment to study her face. The Director-General's features were composed, but he could see the faint tightness around her eyes, the subtle set of her jaw – tells of stress she would never voice.
Itō exhaled and rubbed his temple. "Five days…" he muttered. "Makima, each day we wait, we risk leaks. If even a hint of this conspiracy reaches the media or opposition—"
Makima turned sharply, fixing the Prime Minister with a hard stare. "It won't. I have contained every potential leak on my end." Her tone left no room for doubt. She began to pace deliberately across the tatami mat. "The bigger risk is acting too soon. If we move on the Kanto traitors without absolute proof and coordination, their friends in the Cabinet, the courts – even business allies – will close ranks and protect them. Then all of this will have been for nothing."
Itō raised his hands in concession. "I know, I know. You're right." He leaned forward in his chair. "But we are playing a dangerous game. I've had to personally call in favors to keep certain watchdogs at bay. The Public Security Committee… the Parliamentary Oversight… They smell something. I've given them scraps, but…" He trailed off, worry evident.
Makima's lips curved in a thin smile. "You've done well. Let me handle the rest." She moved to the table and unfurled a short list of names – ministers and power-brokers known or suspected to be sympathetic to the corrupt faction. "These are the people who could interfere when we initiate the purge." She tapped one name: Minister of Justice Koizumi. "He oversees the Special Prosecutors Office. We need him neutralized or on our side, before arrest warrants go out."
The PM grimaced. "Koizumi… He's old school. We went to university together. I doubt he's complicit, but he hates fast unilateral action. He'll balk at mass arrests in the intelligence service, fear it's overreach or political purge."
Makima nodded. "Then we give him a reason to step aside." She slid a thin dossier toward Itō. Inside were photographs – grainy telephotos of Koizumi's top aide exchanging envelopes with a known yakuza fixer. Another showed the minister's nephew – a junior bureaucrat – entering an illegal casino. "Leverage," Makima said coolly. "Courtesy of some digging by our allies in the National Police." And a bit of framing, she added silently. In truth, some of these "evidence" pieces were fabricated – the aide had been accepting a legitimate delivery, and the nephew had been dragged to that casino for a bachelor party. Innocent or not, it would serve to pressure Koizumi.
Itō sighed heavily. "Blackmailing the Justice Minister… When this comes out—"
"When it comes out," Makima interjected, her voice like steel silk, "Koizumi will thank us for saving his reputation. A quiet resignation framed as an act of statesmanship is far more graceful than dragging him into a full-blown scandal. We are not removing a blemish, Prime Minister—we are excising a malignant tumor. And if healthy tissue must be cut alongside to prevent regrowth," she turned, her eyes flaring amber beneath the lamplight, "then so be it."
Itō's eyes locked with hers. For a moment, he seemed to weigh the morality of her words. Then his shoulders sagged, and he looked away first. His hand trembled slightly as he brought the glass of scotch to his lips. "Understood," he said, his voice a shadow of its former conviction.
He looked exhausted. The leather of his chair groaned as he leaned back into it, and the deep lines on his face caught the golden lamplight. One month. It had been only one month since he assumed office following the forced resignation of his predecessor—and already the wolves were circling.
A vote of no confidence had been whispered from Day One.
His own party was fracturing, his cabinet infiltrated. The traitors Makima now hunted had not simply operated from the shadows—they had burrowed into his administration, twisting policy, forging alliances, blackmailing and bribing until even the smallest reform had to be bartered for in political blood. Every time he tried to push forward a bill, hands from the shadows clamped down. Every day, new "allies" came to whisper demands. Every night, he reviewed lists of who might betray him next.
Foreign intelligence services had begun making overtures to his aides. Some offering trade deals. Others, more ominously, offering assurances of "security and cooperation"—clear euphemisms for political puppeteering.
Terrorist factions had funneled money into domestic interest groups to stir unrest.
And then came the Pokémon democratization policy.
He had stood on the Diet floor and announced the Compassionate Trainer Initiative—a revolutionary reform meant to end the military-exclusive monopoly on Pokémon. Inspired by Makima's vision, it was designed to return Pokémon to the public, to allow citizens—not just bureaucrats or corporate magnates—to own and bond with Pokémon as true partners, not collared slaves.
The backlash had been immediate and vicious.
News channels ran back-to-back segments calling him naive. Ministers accused him of destabilizing national defense by allowing Pokémon to fall into civilian hands. The corporations, especially the Shinomiya and Shijō factions, were apoplectic. Their private Pokémon security divisions—highly profitable and entirely dependent on the state's control—were under threat.
He had stood alone at that podium. Alone, until Makima stepped into the fire with him.
Itō's gaze drifted to the far wall, where a discreet steel case had been bolted shut by security. Inside was a report he reviewed nightly: a dossier Makima had handed him just three days ago.
Inside were twelve profiles. Twelve fully-evolved Pokémon, raised under Hiroshi's care.
One was a Raichu capable of discharging energy strong enough to overload a military vehicle. It had no collar, no aggression conditioning—and yet it obeyed every command with devotion, not programming. A third-stage Pokémon, fully loyal, emotionally bonded to its trainer.
And then there were others: Gardevoir, Alakazam, Wartortle, Milotic, Dragonair—each trained not through control, but through trust.
Makima had said nothing when handing him the file. She had merely let him read, let the images and biometric records speak for themselves. Twelve Pokémon, raised in four years, evolved under natural conditions. Each more powerful than anything their weaponized laboratories had produced in a decade.
The proof was irrefutable. The dream was real. And yet—
"It won't matter if we don't survive long enough to implement it," Makima had told him bluntly.
He now understood what she meant.