The Pantheon

Hidden Master

Giovanni would’ve cursed—if that sort of thing wasn’t beneath him. He was a man of strategy, not impulse. Rage never had a place in his empire. It clouded the mind, led to errors. And right now, errors were luxuries he couldn’t afford.

He remained seated in the central command chair of the Viridian Gym’s underground monitoring room, surrounded by walls of screens—each one a window into another corner of his fractured empire.

First, he lost the Team Rocket base at Celadon City. A masterpiece of underground engineering, one of the oldest roots of their network, erased in under an hour by a full-force League sweep and some meddling Gym Leaders.

Second, Mewtwo escaped captivity.

Third, when they finally tracked it down—cornered the genetic mistake he had once called Rocket’s crowning achievement—he lost two of his strongest assets. Archer. Ariana. Gone. And with them, any illusion that Rocket was in control of the situation.

To make matters worse, their pursuit had led to the decimation of the S.S. Anne.

Giovanni didn’t need the Indigo League’s official statements to know what they were thinking. He saw it in the coordinated strikes, in the presence of Elite agents far from their usual jurisdiction. The Gym Leaders were out in force, the Rangers were tearing through hideouts.

Now, one by one, the monitors around Giovanni blinked black.

Johto. Sinnoh. Even a few assets in Hoenn. All being picked apart with surgical precision. One of the surveillance technicians spoke too loud for the mood.

“Sector 3—Goldenrod—gone dark.”

A click. A camera feed went black. Another. And another. From Goldenrod to Canalave. From the icy corners of Snowpoint to the swamps of Pastoria. The whole of Rocket’s vast web, disintegrating under the scrutiny of righteous fools and so-called protectors of peace.

“Hoenn bases?” Giovanni asked, tone clipped.

The technician beside him didn’t turn, just spoke fast and low. “Mauville’s fallback point—breached. Slateport compromised. They’re using teleport interference signals, sir—like the League tech division.”

Giovanni inhaled slowly through his nose, then tapped the armrest of his chair.

His Persian paced at his side, tail flicking. The sound of its claws on tile was the only consistent rhythm in the room.

He looked up at the monitors again. The S.S. Anne was still burned into his mind—the shredded hull, the psychic blast wave. A disaster, but not one of his making. The League didn’t care. They’d traced Mewtwo’s trail back to Rocket, and now every pawn with a badge or a cape was kicking in their doors.

“Status on the Johto branches?” Giovanni asked.

A different admin cleared her throat. “Blackthorn dragons have joined the Elite Four units. Base Sigma went dark an hour ago. We’re still getting some feed from Azalea… but it won’t last.”

Giovanni leaned back in his chair, letting the hum of the machinery fill the silence. He closed his eyes.

Blackthorn. So, Lance had finally committed fully. He’d brought the dragons.

He exhaled slowly.

Another screen died. Then another.

Giovanni didn’t flinch. His Persian came to drape beside his chair, and watched the chaos unfold. He leaned slightly forward, one hand resting on the cold steel of the console. “Give me the status of every remaining site with active operations. All tiers. No filters.”