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Just as Nova had secured temporary adoption rights for the Purrloin and was making her way back to Harmony City on Mort's Garchomp, an unknown and deeply secretive gathering was quietly taking place elsewhere.
In a dark and dim virtual room, a large square conference table stretched across the space. On either side of it sat clusters of shifting shadows — shapeless figures whose only visible features were pairs of eyes, blinking in the dim light.
Such a strange and unsettling scene could never exist in the real world, of course.
In truth, this meeting was being carried out entirely within a digital space, managed by a team of Porygon specifically assigned to intercept network signals. A dozen Porygon and Porygon2, led by a single Porygon-Z, had quietly siphoned a portion of processing power from the public network and used their collective abilities to build this meeting environment inside the net.
The individuals attending this meeting were the Trainers behind those Porygon — cadres of the Original Team operating in the Norlandia region. Among them was Weasel, along with a handful of colleagues who had walked so far down a dark path that they had left most of their humanity behind.
A shadow seated at the far end of the table spoke in a heavy, gravelly voice.
"Why hasn't the Great Master arrived yet? We've been waiting here for over ten minutes."
Weasel understood right away that, while the complaint was directed at the Great Master on the surface, the real target was Weasel itself. As the head of network operations for the Original Team in Norlandia — and, in practice, the Great Master's secretary — it was Weasel's responsibility to coordinate meeting times and keep things running smoothly.
Before Weasel could say a word in its defense, however, another shadow cut in sharply.
"Bone Head, don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. The Great Master's schedule is not something an executive-layer member like you gets to question."
But the rough, gravelly voice did not back down at all. If anything, it grew louder.
"Rene, don't get high and mighty with me. You think you're above the rest of us? Without us executive cadres holding up the Original Team's battle strength, your management types wouldn't have anything to show off about."
"And let's not pretend you don't know why this meeting's being called. Taylor, one of yours in management, got taken down by some rookie kid. What exactly are you people being fed over there?"
That remark stirred up open irritation around the table. A third shadow tapped the surface with a firm knock, a clear signal for Bone Head to calm down. The voice that followed was surprisingly sweet and soft, like something you'd hear from a cheerful young girl.
"Brother Bone Head, don't lump me in when you're going after Taylor. I haven't done anything to you."
Despite the pleasant tone, Bone Head visibly flinched. He seemed to have some unpleasant history with the owner of that voice, because he snapped his mouth shut immediately and said nothing more.
The virtual space settled into an uneasy silence.
After a moment, someone else spoke up.
"It looks like it's not just Taylor from management who's missing today. What about Robbin from the operations team?"
Rene answered without hesitation. "Robbin has been assigned to a confidential mission. She won't be joining us today."
Before anyone could press for more details, a ripple of distortion broke across the head of the conference table — and just like that, the relaxed slumping and the lazy posture vanished from every figure in the room. Each shadow sat upright in unison. The Great Master had finally come online.
Like everyone else present, the Great Master appeared as a blurred, indistinct figure. Only the faint glint of two eyes revealed that a real person was behind the silhouette.
"Thank you all for your patience."
It was the Great Master's usual opening.
"Regarding Taylor — I believe I owe everyone an update. First, I am sorry to tell you that Taylor is dead."
Despite the weight of that announcement, the reaction from those seated around the table was not grief. It was closer to relief. Even through the dim shadows and the anonymity of the digital space, the subtle loosening of tension around the table was unmistakable — visible in the slight shift of every pair of eyes.
Weasel, in particular, had to make a conscious effort to hold itself together. Had the occasion been even slightly less formal, it might have leapt to its feet.
The relief wasn't personal hatred toward Taylor. It was simpler than that. Among all the cadres, Weasel had worked most closely with Taylor on joint operations. If Taylor had been captured alive, it was almost certain that some information about Weasel would have come out during questioning. Even if Taylor's knowledge of Weasel was limited to a few exchanged words over shared work, the Security Officers — whose instincts were sharper than a Growlithe tracking a scent — would have followed even the faintest trail.
Weasel was still young — barely eighteen years of experience in a body that had only lived twenty-eight years. It had no intention of having those Security Officers knocking at its door anytime soon.
The Great Master, however, was clearly less than pleased by the barely-concealed relief among the group. Weasel, whose barely-suppressed cheer was as obvious as a Jigglypuff at a silent concert, received a sharp look.
The Great Master pressed on.
"Taylor's skills and the work he handled were a significant source of income and tactical support for our team here in Norlandia. His loss has done real damage to our operations."
Bone Head, never one to let a moment pass quietly, spoke up again.
"Great Master, with respect — given the situation, him surviving would have been the real damage."
The Great Master did not appear offended by the interruption. Instead, there was a slow, deliberate nod.
"You're not wrong. That is precisely why I had to step in and bring Taylor's situation to an end myself. It was not an easy choice. But for the sake of what we are all working toward, certain sacrifices cannot be avoided."
Emboldened by the Great Master's agreement, Bone Head pushed further.
"Taylor's gone, but I think we need to deal with the rookie who dared to take him down. Acting against the Original Team like that — it's completely out of line. Great Master, just say the word and I'll head out right now and handle it."
The Great Master's reply was measured, with a quiet edge to it.
"Bone Head, hold yourself. The moment our executive cadres move openly, there's no coming back to a normal life. Our priority right now is keeping a close watch on that group of fanatics calling themselves the Advent Sect. They've been operating deep in the desert for over ten years. We still don't know what they're building toward — but before any final confrontation with them, every executive-level member needs to keep their identity buried. You are the backbone of this team."
Bone Head gave a small nod, signaling his understanding. He had no real desire to throw away his comfortable life in the Norlandia region just to chase down one rookie. He was doing well enough as things stood, and there was no need to sacrifice everything for the sake of the organization's pride.
Besides — that same rookie, the one called Nova, appeared to have some sort of connection to the Withered Earth Mort. The details were unclear, but the link seemed real.
This was a piece of information Bone Head had come across entirely by chance. As far as he knew, he was the only one among the Original Team's senior members who had stumbled onto it. And for now, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone.