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22 March 2012 @ 04:46 pm
body suit  
TITLE: body suit
FANDOM: pokemon
CHARACTER: giovanni
WARNING: deathfic

His cat would curl around Giovanni's waist and lay her head on his lap as he sat on the carpet, one elbow on the coffee table, watching Gundams. He thinks it is the best show ever. He could be watching a pokemon tournie or a pokemon contest, and some days he does, but Giovanni has a weak spot for the sci-fi, futuristic, apocalyptic plot. Suits that glow red with wires, fusing into the protagonist's nerves to control a massive fighting machine appeal to him.

In two week, Persian watches the boy finding a grunt's black jumpsuit and gingerly step into it over his prep school uniform. None of it fits. The sleeves flop on his hands and the legs sag in wrinkled bunches over knee-high boots. He shoves the mask back into the closet. He wants a suit made of metal. Something hard and impenetrable, with a Burning Shining Gundam's molten red index finger to shove into the air in victory. As he clambers onto Persian's back, he wishes she is a robot.

Fifteen years later, Giovanni has bought enough stock in a Silph Co to set a new rule: no more research in medical equipment. He wants rhydon fortresses that release shock-proof nets from their horns and gyarados submarines with missiles in their teeth. It's a Willy Wonka arms race. The Rockets obey him for his profound charisma. He is so absolutely sure of himself, and his confidence trickles down the ladder. Hypno Sleep Guns and Ghastly Screech Rays pile up in laundry bins as they fall off of the conveyer belt. Persian lurks at his side, and he gingerly touches her head because he has bought all this, perhaps, in exchange for her immortality.

Ten more years pass, and Giovanni has changed his mind. He has accumulated a ten-story garage filled with all his secret equipment. Pokeballs have changed through his hands like marbles. He squats now with his entwined fingers touching his mouth, watching the dying Persian's chest rise and fall. Now, he wants a device that makes it possible to capture undead pokemon.

The lab is a dark cavern when he enters. His cat is wrapped in a towel and held in his arms. The industrial lights crackle as he flips the switch, and the sound echoes along the wide steel control panels and tube-like containment cells filled with purple gel. The corpses of pokemon float in each, asleep, harnessed with IV tubes spidering into the masks over their mouths. A charizard opens one eye at the sudden light, too dead to care beyond reflex. Down the narrow cathedral aisle of towering clones, he  carries the dead cat. His scientists have figured out how to connect nerves to circuits to make up for the imperfections of the wingless fearow and the headless blastoise. Persian weighs so much; this is the first time he has carried her. Giovanni will think it is good enough when he comes to the tank floating with the phantom of her duplicate, one leg stitched where a bone had forgotten to grow.

At the end of one season, the hero's Gundam was destroyed, but a new and improved machine fell down from the sky for him to steer. The Gundam was twice as big, with more complicated armor and with a golden V on its forehead. Giovanni imagines this, at last martyred in radio towers, flicking the receiver's switch on and off, on and off, petting, petting Persian.
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