Once you learn how to smile, you'll never have to worry about anything ever again.

  Sun collapsed into a heap beside the padded wall, his breathing labored and staccato. He hadn't noticed during his mad scramble out of the CAVERN, but his ankle burned, and had begun to swell up like an overfilled water balloon. He imagined if he had a light to look at them he'd find them bruised black as char, the blood sloshing about all through his veins. When he struggled his finger up to the thin skin under his eyelid, he found it damp.

  How could he have been so stupid?

  All this time: all this time, all the invitations, the failed seductions: hey, you know your material possessions won't make you happy, Sun! You should come home with us, Sun, come and eat dinner with us, come to the compound and watch Dad talk, come with us and give yourself all and only to us.

  All this time, all these excuses he'd made for them: well, they can believe what they want to believe, practice what they want to practice; if people want to give their time and money to them it's all their own decision. They're not hurting anyone.

  Over the years he had noticed none of the adults would ever look him in the eye when he talked about his good friend Mizuki's family. They'd stayed silent and let him go on believing in justice and in the fickle kindness of a god called Tapu Koko, who might not have been potent enough to save a life but knew exactly how to snuff one out.

  And, yes, even that unsaved life. His mother had let this go on, too.

  But why shouldn't she have? Why shouldn't they all have? Mizuki seemed happy. She'd been one of two people at school he'd gravitated to, one of two who could look at the world and see it exactly his way. But in the end any success the Children saw, she'd share, wouldn't she?

  Maybe she never had been his friend. Not a true friend.

  Then again, what made a 'true friend'? What made someone want to have another's back? What made someone want to stick with you, to hear your voice, to breathe in the same air as you, and give you their air to breathe? Pikipek flew in flocks, Cutiefly buzzed in their hives, and Rattata lived as one in communal dens - city-wide ones, apparently. Even Harmony, he had to imagine, had been plucked from some free-spirited pod of Popplio splashing blissfully through the open ocean. Humans acted likewise. Formed cultures and religions and civilizations.

  If a hundred million people could call themselves a nation, surely one person could call Sun a friend.

  So, then, which was the truth? Two kids reaching aimlessly out towards one another - or a deception, machinated by those shadowy figures of Mizuki's childhood -

  You're being paranoid.

  What wasn't he paranoid about. His skin itched at the thought of the contamination of his blood and body... had it really been a septic drainage ditch? wouldn't even let him take a shower or a bath, they'd said... had that been what they'd said? Mere minutes ago... hours ago... he'd been talking to Mizuki and her father, mumbling at them... by the Tapu, it had to be past two or three in the morning by now, by the...

  For the most delicate of moments, the feeling was immaculate. Sleep - the ether - wrapped Sun in its swaddle, and he floated, drifted, coming to land as a feather lands in the center of the demon's domain, between two rows of televisions. Because he had yet to hook the dream into himself, the visions wavered and vacillated. He wasn't there yet - half of him was, maybe - but with each passing second he drew closer and closer.

  It didn't surprise him to end up back in this dreamscape. Someone had sent these messages out over the horizon like letters tied with red string to a Pidgey's scaled leg. The sender: one 'Ishmael', calling themself a god.

  Was this flow aboveground, threading through the vast sky as it broke with the dawn, or under through the dirt, like his tunnel-digging? It was slipping through his fingers now, but he yanked at it, gave it a hard tug with the remnants of his strength. It was fading, fading, now, but he could shape it. Picture it now in his mind's eye.

  The cathedral came into view - fuzzy, fizzling... he tugged, and tugged that rope until he knew he had it. He had it, he had it, and at last he gave one heaving exhale.

  "So. Nebby."

  He'd made it, and his breath filled the emptiness. A single screen flickered.

  "Why speak in code, then? What's your game?"

  His suspicion was correct, and the reply came in an instant.

  "Not, 'in code'. If anything, I'm only ripping off the 'band-aid', as you might say."

  "But, of all the names you could use, why 'Ishmael'?"

  A delighted purr, foreign to Sun's ears, preceded Nebby's words. "I didn't choose it for myself, but it wears me well. Do I need any more of a reason?"

  "I guess not," Sun said. "But I don't see what the issue is with 'Nebby'."

  "It's a childish name. I will permit my vessel to call me by it, but you have no such permission. A serious relationship requires a serious form of address."

  You are a child, Sun thought.

  "As are you. Never forget that. Not yet."

  Without letting go of his previous thought, Sun took in a breath. "Are you letting Lillie call you that because you love her?"

  No response.

  "I think I know why Lillie loves you. But I don't understand why you would ever love Lillie. Nothing you do ever makes sense to me."

  "The feeling is mutual."

  That got Sun's attention: he sat up, combing through his sticky hair and prying free the ashy crumbles of coagulating blood caught in it. "Really? You don't 'get' me?"

  "I cannot say I would make the same decisions as you if I were in your place. And - to make one thing perfectly lucid - I do not know what 'love' is, and I dare not to ask."

  (This latter assertion was a lie - well, a half-truth. One of the useful lies, as Mizuki might say, those poor creatures such as Ishmael tell themselves to maintain their tenuous positions on the saner end of the spectrum.)

  Sun sighed. "I mean, if we lived in a perfect world, I'd be making different decisions, too. But I've never had to deal with - all this."

  "If we lived in a perfect world, my young acolyte, neither of us would have ever been dreamed of. Take comfort in that."

  "Okay." Sun rolled his eyes. "Thanks for that."

  "You are very welcome. But I think you are well aware that is not what I have brought you here for. Now, I beg of you: look."

  Another flickering overlay on the television screens swelled, wound down, resolved to the foundation of a scene: thin sketch-lines like a drafter's drawing filling out, becoming plasticine. A kitchen, a living room with an old sofa, a TV; all wisps in the dark of the night.

  The 'camera' focused in on a figure standing in solitude, bent over in what seemed to be some excruciating suffering. The approach was slow, halting, but with the patter of their steps on the wooden floor the figure released a strained huff and pivoted around to face it.

  "See, now. Through another's eyes."

  The figure, now recognizable as a young woman, held one of her hands to her brow, obscuring one eye. Each of her breaths were heavy with panic.

  "Nene? Are you... did you...?"

  The woman's visible eye widened, an inky pool in the darkness. With the aid of Mizuki's voice, Sun could now place her face: Mizune Kazakami. Boy, had it been a long time since he'd seen her.

  "Ketchup? Is that you?"

  The words sounded like a prayer: please, Ketchup, don't be up. Don't be you.

  A moment passed, and Mizune hung her head. "Ketchup. Mizuki. What are you doing up? Go to bed."

  "I heard Dad yelling at you." A sharp breath. "Or... or, just yelling, I guess."

  "How?" Mizune took a step back, putting her other hand on her stomach. "How much did you hear?"

  "I don't know. A lot of it, I think? Not too much. Think I heard wrong?"

  "Did you hear the important part?"

  "I heard him... I heard him hit you. I heard that - I heard those words he called you. That's what I heard."

  Mizune nodded slowly, and, finally, dropped her hand. A tea-colored ring shadowed her eye - a lump to accompany it -

  "Don't you ever repeat those words," she whispered. "They're evil words. They're words to hurt people like me."

  "I know what they mean," Mizuki protested. "I'm going to be in middle school next year, and that's almost like growing up. People say them all the time in school, and after that."

  A bit of silence. A taut silence. Mizune brought her hand to her face again, but if Sun squinted, he could make out her grimace.

  "I don't understand what he meant, though," Mizuki continued. "'Recoup our losses'? On what?"

  "I have to go to bed, Mizuki," Mizune said, gesturing off to the side and making an attempt to sweep the younger girl in that direction. Mizuki turned her head, allowing Sun to peer into an open door - that bedroom he recognized as hers; or, rather, theirs. They had shared one. "You have to get your rest, too. School tomorrow. Let's go."

  "But I don't understand."

  Mizune stopped again, fidgeting with the collar of her blouse. "When they tell you I'm not going to be here anymore," she said, "act surprised, okay? When they tell you I'm sick, please, just pretend you don't know why. It'll protect the both of us."

  "But - "

  "Mizuki," Mizune said, "pretend we're a family. Pretend - pretend you're a family. All of you. All the rest of you, you have to - "

  Then Mizune's face became rounder, circular, folding into a flat circle, an abstraction. A sharp hiss broke into her words, and they fractured, distorting:

  "A family. An awful, broken, discarded shell of a family, ungrateful boy - "

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "No," Nebby said. "No, you've ruined it! Not now! We don't want you!"

  The dissonance between the two voices forced Sun to cover his ears, and as the onscreen darkness lightened into pastel colors, he shut his eyes as well, resisting the absolute sensory hell enveloping him.

  "Damn you! I've lost it, now, and it's all your fault!"

  "What does it mean, a family - "

  "Never! Die, you devil! Begone!"

  Then - relief. The noises ceased, and the strobing pastels stilled, leaving Sun safe to rub his eyes and slowly allow them open. He bit his lip, his attention darting to the ceiling, how high it still was, how small he still was...

  "That woman," he breathed. "I remember her from last time."

  "This is not about her. Please do not speak of her any further." Having graduated into some semblance of stability, the imagery on the screens undulated slightly with the tremor of the demon's voice. "I must ask you about Mizune Kazakami: what do you know of her?"

  "I haven't seen her in a while," Sun said, wondering how one of Mizuki's memories could ever end up in the clutches of Nebby -

  "Ishmael."

  - in the clutches of Ishmael. But he swallowed, focusing on the question at hand. "Yeah, haven't seen her in a while. The last time I did she looked like - in the vision." He paused for a bit, wincing at the reminder of her injury, and decided to clarify: "She looked like she'd gotten a little chubbier."

  "Let us not body shame, Sun. What else do you know about her?"

  "If you want to know about her, there are better people to ask," Sun said. "Hau and I saw her a few times, but we weren't really allowed to talk to her, 'cause Mizuki's parents were always hovering around her. Not that we wanted to, anyway. She's a lot older than us. She should be in college now. Isn't she?"

  If she had been spending the school year over at college, she should have come home by now for the summer, shouldn't she? The college semesters ended even before Sun's school's did.

  "Or, um... Actually, I don't know. I've never heard Mizuki mention what school she's going to - or even if it's in Alola or on the mainland. She could be studying abroad, for all I know..."

  "Sun."

  He perked up. "Yeah?"

  "I am sure it will not surprise you to learn another has stepped into this hallowed hall," Ishmael said. "Your dear friend Mizuki."

  "I'm not," Sun lied. "But what for?"

  "I came to her in the image of Mizune. So often you humans focus only on the facial area; I could only replicate - ah. Here, I shall show you."

  A beam of light poured down from the heavens, focusing into a figure. It took only a few seconds for it to come together in the image of Mizune - only, below the collarbone, a collection of swirling shapes sparkled. Enraptured, he watched them pour and fade into each other like watercolors - oh.

  "That's like you, isn't it?" Blue into purple into pink into blue. "That's all you know!"

  The constructed Mizune looked down at herself. Her expression remained serene, and as she spoke, her voice was Mizune's exactly. "Perhaps. This body fits me well, I would say. Not as well as my vessel's, of course. But it does not actively repel me." She nodded, gesturing over to the altar; Sun followed her hand, realizing a four-poster bed had materialized there. "And she even comes with her very own accessory, as well: a bed. How comfortable beds are. I suppose you wish you had one to sleep on right now, don't you?"

  "You must have talked Mizuki into this somehow," Sun grumbled. "I mean, come on. All I want is a rabies shot and a shower, and I..."

  "Will crumble and fall into her lap instantly."

  "What?"

  "You're the exact person the Children of Starlight dream of taking control of," Ishmael-as-Mizune said. "I believe you know this already. Deep in your heart you agree with many of their tenets. You believe in evil. You believe in the brokenness of people."

  "Huh?"

  "For all her neuroses, Lillie does not believe she is an evil person. In fact, she believes most, if not all, people are good people. She even refuses to believe a certain someone who has caused her - ahem - so very much pain could ever be an evil person. You, on the other hand..."

  "I, um." Sun swallowed. Hard. "I've thought a lot about my personal morality. That's all I'll say."

  "I suppose you have every right to believe you are an evil person. If that's your personal view, I will not lecture you for holding it. But what disturbs me is that you seem to believe I am the cause of your lapse in morality. There is no doubt in my mind you would sell me out in a second if you were certain it would absolve you of your perceived sins." Mizune sneered at him, and the expression did not conform to her features well. "Is that why you care so much all of a sudden? That you're 'contaminated'?"

  "I think I might have fallen into stagnant water," Sun said. ""And there's the chance the Rattata that bit me was rabid. I just don't want to get sick with a fatal disease. Is that really so unreasonable?"

  "No. No, it isn't. But that's not the true cause of your troubles, is it?"

  Sun paused.

  "It is."

  "It's a fool's errand to lie to me."

  "Then you already know," Sun said.

  "Quite right. But it won't do either of us any good if you can't speak it with your own lips."

  Sun turned his head to the stained-glass window. At the point the red light passed through the mismatched tiles the colors bled together and ran into the maroon of the blood, turning it a deep, nauseating shade of arborescent brown, like a dying redwood tree. This place was ugly, and, in being ugly, he felt it a more fitting habitat for him than any other he'd known.

  "I watched someone die last night," he said. "A boy like me. Died the death I'm gonna die."

  He sighed again, bringing his knees into his own embrace. Here he had no cover, but in the real world his clothes were sopping wet, ruddy with the filth of the wilderness. This warmth soaking into his skin was an illusion, if a convincing one, and he knew all too keenly the moment he wakened would be the moment it would abandon him to the dankness of his confinement.

  "With my own eyes," he said, and the words were phlegmy in his throat.

  "With your own eyes. And which other eyes would it be?"

  "Thank you for your sympathy," Sun said.

  In lieu of Ishmael's response, a thought hissed over the speakers:

  " - and why has no one the sympathy for a poor - "

  As quickly as it began, the interjection scattered away into static, then silence.

  "Again," Ishmael said, "my apologies. I need you to realize something. It will not be something you will like to hear, but you must."

  Sun tensed his muscles. "Say it."

  "Your guilt is not because you believe you're somehow responsible for that boy's death. Your guilt is because your society has conditioned you to feel sympathy for those who 'pass on', and, in this instance, you know you don't."

  Sun spun back towards the false Mizune so fast as to give him whiplash, and, fueled by a dose of rage-induced adrenaline, leapt to his feet.

  "That is not true! You take that back right this second!"

  To make matters worse, not-Mizune still wore that pronounced, ill-fitting sneer, as if to memorialize Ishmael's defiling of her form. She did not twitch.

  "Take it back," Sun said, left to face the rising knowledge, the knowledge she was only a mere projection of Ishmael's, he was immersed in their ocean and at all their mercy. "Take it..."

  But the spark had dissipated, and he fell to his knees again, bringing himself down to curl into the fetal position. Out of the corner of his eye Mizune put her finger to her jugular, and he remembered that, too; and flinched until it was unbearable.

  "Now that we've gotten that out of the way," Ishmael said, and more dread bubbled within Sun. "I must inform you of the gravity of our situation. My vessel has decided to forgo logic for the time being, and take a very emotionally-charged - "

  The false Mizune's sneer cracked into something new; something nameless. "'Ooh, oooh, Nebby! I really have to - uh, Mizuki wants to do wrong, oh, I can't let her, I cannot!'" She kicked the ground in front of her. "Stupid girl! And to think you were doing so well."

  Sun let out a groan. "And you're taking that out on me."

  "Well, better on you than on her," the false Mizune said, her tone still thick with frustration. "I won't have the both of you quibbling over every slightly amoral act you must commit. Let us nip this in the bud right now: if you'd like to uphold your end of our bargain, you cannot - cannot - allow this guilt, no matter where it stems from, to impede our goals. If you intend to continue on this path, things are going to happen in our wake. Things you may not like or feel comfortable with. But it is too late for you to turn back now, so you must accept that. Do you understand?"

  "I know that already," Sun said. "But - "

  "But! But! But what, Sun? Are you going to remain the same coward you've always been?"

  Sun sucked in a breath and swallowed.

  "I'm not a coward," he said - willing himself to feel his conviction, to let it renew every cell of his body; to break him down and recycle him, to turn the rotting old him into sludge and let it nourish the new. "I'm not a coward. I am not."

  The false Mizune evaporated. The reddish light outside the window blinked out, leaving Sun in pitch darkness; his warmth faded with it. Only Ishmael's voice remained, stripped of its false body, long, slow, and distant, as if coming from beyond the stars:

  "If you are truly what you claim, then show it to me. Prove yourself. Keep my vessel on the right path, and bring our plans to fruition."