"I told you. The Chosen Ones don't sell drugs to children, Pocket. That's what my friend said. And I trust her. Go try to buy some yourself if you're still not convinced. See what happens."
"Hmph," grunted the ten-year old Pocket Detective, looking skeptical. He scratched his chin and pondered aloud. "Maybe they do, maybe they don't. But I have proof they're recruiting from high schools. What do you think about that?"
"What proof?" snarled Rex. "Have you been spying on them again?"
"No! No, no. See, my friend's older sister goes to Eastlake Preparatory School. It's a private high school, very expensive. They had a guest lecturer coming by last week... he gave a series of speeches on meditation and self improvement, stuff like that, and students who attended got extra credit in their language arts classes. Anyway, she thought it was fishy because the guy said anyone who was interested in learning more about spirituality and the inner self could come to a special seminar held by a group called the Hands of Light..."
"The Hands of Light? Never heard of them."
"They're Chosen Ones. The Hands of Light are one of the names they use when they want to hide their real identity. I told her to warn everyone not to get involved with them, but apparently a lot of people went anyway."
"Damn it. These creeps are everywhere!" growled Rex.
He turned away and began walking back and forth around his room in a rage, cursing under his breath. Pocket hopped onto his bed and watched him silently. After a few minutes of furious pacing, Rex suddenly stopped moving. He stared down at the floor, deep in thought, and let out an exhausted sigh.
"I'm not going after the Chosen Ones, kid," he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. "I hate them. I really hate them. But I'm just one person. I'm just... I've had enough."
"You can stop them. You need to to stop them," replied Pocket firmly. "You're the only one who can do it."
Rex laughed dryly and shook his head in disbelief.
"No. No, I can't. I'm not who you think I am. I'm not a hero. I can't even do simple things like wash dishes or take out the trash on my own anymore. I need help doing everything. Sometimes I can barely remember my own name."
"So what? I know who you are, Rex," replied Pocket, his face hardening with certainty. "You're the most powerful psychic on the planet. You could reduce Grandebelle and its surrounding suburbs to rubble without breaking a sweat if you got serious."
"You don't know anything. You're just a kid," scoffed Rex dismissively, turning away again.
"Hehehe!"
The Pocket Detective chuckled darkly to himself, a wicked smile spreading across his little face. He pushed himself of the bed with a grunt, and slowly walked across the room to Rex's bookcase. The place where he kept his diary.
"Don't tell me you're going to let the Brotherhood win," said Pocket softly as he stood before his target. He cracked it open and began reading aloud.
"Dustwave. Souleater. Lowlife. Hellbent. Happy. Recluse. Replica."
Rex stared the young boy in the eyes, hands balled into fists.
"Stop it," he growled.
"Psynoid. Turmoil. Trapjaw. Stardust. Soulmask. Doom Dragon. Ghost Wolf. Nightmare."
"Okay! Okay, okay! Stop it already. Please, please, stop! Just listen, will you?!"
Rex closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. The memories were coming faster now, flooding over him, overwhelming his ability to fight them off. The pain. The humiliation. The despair. The fear.
"...Death Smoke."
It was too much. Rex slumped over, his chest heaving, tears pouring down his face. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, sobbing loudly. Pocket stepped closer, peering at the pathetic sight and giggling to himself.
"Hehehe! Poor you. It must be really painful knowing these freaks are still out there living happy lives while you're stuck here feeling sorry for yourself, huh?"
Rex glared venomously at Pocket, who returned the look, unflinching.
"Oops. Did I make you mad?" said Pocket sarcastically. "Sorry, that was mean, wasn't it? I didn't mean to make you cry."
Rex wiped away his snotty tears with his sleeve and tried his best to hold himself together.
"I'm not crying," he grumbled, wiping his cheeks roughly. "It doesn't matter to me anymore. It's over. I'm... going to get a job and try to live a normal life."
"You're going to get a job? How's that going to work? You just told me you can't even remember your own name! Are you planning on taking someone else's?"
"I'll figure it out," groaned Rex through the thick veil of his misery. "Just, no more of this. No more fighting. No more killing people."
"Good luck, Rex," said Pocket, unmoved. "Don't work too hard. Maybe if you make enough money, you can afford a maid to clean this place up. Or maybe an assassin to kill Death Smoke, since you're too busy pretending to be helpless to do it yourself. That'd probably be a good investment, right?"
Pocket laughed to himself, looking smug and victorious, then quickly ran out of the room and hid behind the door when Rex sprang up in rage.
"Oooh, scary!" giggled Pocket with glee. "Scary Rex, Rex who's afraid to fight! Why don't you save some of that anger for the Brotherhood? Heehee."
"I'm sick of thinking about them. I don’t want to live like this anymore. The Brotherhood can do what they want," said Rex, dusting the crumbs of dried blood off his black coat. "I'm going to live in the real world now. Get out of my apartment. Leave me alone."
"Hmph," Pocket sniffed. "Whatever you say, Rex. Good night, sweet dreams, sleep tight. Oh hey. I'm going to take the trash out for you on my way out. Don't say I never did anything for you. We're all in this together. Hehehehe!"
