a/n: giftfic for /Haine-chan/
note on ages: proton is 21, lyra is 17.
~|satan's seventh bride|~
He falls in love with her eyes in the Slowpoke Well at the edge of Azalea Town.
It is just them (and his defeated grunts) among the steady drip of water along the cavern's roof, locked in a battlefield of stalactites and stalagmites and puddles of grainy, muddy liquid, the air thick with the smell of smoke and the own trademark aroma of Toxic; a sharp, pungent scent that burns the nostrils as surely as the poison burns the flesh and corrodes bone. Toxins are everywhere, on everything, but her, the girl with the white hat and the mahogany pigtails and the plain brown eyes which are anything but plain.
(statistically, 75% of johto's population will be born with brown eyes but her's are something special entirely; soil and dust and desert sand, two chthonian vortexes with an inexplicable gravity threatening to pull him in)
She's young, a fledgling, so he assumes that victory will be assured; after all, she commands only a lowly Bayleef, a pure Grass-type susceptible to all of the attacks in his lethal arsenal. Therefore, he's quite surprised when his Koffing goes down with a heavy squelch, its lumpy, misshapen face/head splattering in the muck, it's eyes drawing shut, and he knows, beyond a trace of a doubt, that it has fainted, and he has lost, and the Bayleef girl with the magnetic irises is staring at him with something like disgust in her earthen gaze, and something like anger, brimming like blue fire around the darkness of her butterfly lashes.
She's beautiful, then; or, she starts to become beautiful. He laughs when she shouts at him, tells him he's a monster, tells him what the hell is wrong with you?
God, he even loves her when screams.
Being an Executive has its advantages, those advantages being commanding a 24-person squad of grunts stationed in every major city or town, constantly recording and relaying information to people like him-their superiors.
The girl has begun to attract attention because she's carving her way through the Rocket agents like a knife through warm butter-easily, like slipping your fingers into water (and not even having to wipe free the lingering droplets). Because of her recent string of victories against their operatives (his operatives; he should feel offended but he isn't, that she's mowing through his grunts like an Arcanine through a nest of Rattata), Archer has labeled her a Liability, all in capitals because that's how dangerous she is, and has issued an order for every grunt, upon spotting her, to attack her without fail and without hesitation.
"Don't you understand, Proton, that this is a recurrence?" his boss demands angrily in their temporary hideout, an abandned industrial complex teeming with machines of all shapes and sizes, his office a throne room of wires and steel. The man's eyes flash. "You remember, years ago, Giovanni was destroyed by a child. A mere boy." He sighs. "We cannot allow this to happen again. This time, instead of ignoring the problem, we will attack it at the roots. This girl, this contender-we will crush her so thoroughly, so completely, that when we rise, the people will know not to feign defiance." A sneer twists his pale lips into a moon-crescent of arrogance; Proton feels a sense of loathing for Archer. Archer has the features of a king, proud and petulant, and he has no time for petulant bastards. But Archer also holds real power, and he knows that if he wanted to, he could (maybe) whip out a Pokeball, release his hellhound, and reduce him to a pile of ashes in minutes. So he holds his tongue, bites his lips, hears the man out.
"What's our next move?"
Archer grins. "You want to be a part of it?"
He pretends nonchalance. "I'm bored. You've only sent me to hick towns like Azalea, having me twiddle my thumbs and abuse Slowpoke. Give me something interesting, for a change."
"You want an interesting assignment?' The grin widens (grotesquely) and bile lurches in his stomach. "Alright, then." Some papers are shuffled, a report is handed to him. "I was originally only going to delegate this task to Ariana, but perhaps you'll be of some use here."
He scans the report. "A power plant?"
"A strategic move. One of our largest facilities, and most heavily guarded. This girl is easy to analyze. When her people are faced with a threat, she will not stop to attack the perpetrator. We are the perpetrators; the grunts are the bait, you and Ariana will be the trap." Archer's heavy brows slant, eyes narrowing. "Read through the mission parameters. Be ready. Do not fail. Destroy the girl, and we win."
"It's not quite as easy as you think," he murmurs, but Archer can't hear him and he's already out the door.
Ariana is an imposing woman, with fiery-red hair that cascades like living flame from her head to her shoulders, meticulously styled to helmet-shaped spikes. The rest of her is just as red; her eyes, hot coals, her lips, fresh hearts torn from chests with draconian fingernails glossy with blood. She's made of flint and fire, a walking, talking, sharp-tongued empress, and to be honest, she intimidates Proton. But only by the barest fraction; they all are, after all, Executives, colleagues, all striving towards the same goal (world domination) and their battle capabilities are the same. She is his comrade (as much as he dislikes it) and theoretically, because of this, he should have nothing to fear from her.
His colors of black and teal contrast with her white and scarlet. She purses her lips as he strides into the room housing the main generator, walking with his typical confident swagger.
"Proton," she says, her voice as smooth as honey. "A pleasure to see you."
('A pleasure to see you' means, in Ariana's dictionary, 'You make me sick')
"You're looking well," he smirks, and Ariana's eyes harden. Her smile grows steely.
"Just don't fuck up this operation," she mutters, fluttering her hand disdainfully and calling her treacherous Arbok (he swears the snake eyes him with open hunger) to her feet while directing several of the grunts. "I know Archer sent you. I have no idea why the man would even consider deploying you on something as delicate as this, but-" her heels click five stiletto gunshots on the tiles as she taps her boots, "-you had better pull your weight. I won't be babying anyone today, especially not you."
She's as venomous as her serpents. He grins.
"I'm a big boy, Ari. I can handle myself."
"Shut up, Proton, and keep to your roles," she barks, annoyed. "If you botch this up, I'll have your head on a silver platter."
Her Arbok hisses.
"I wouldn't dream of letting you down," he answers, and swivels around, departing quickly before she has the chance to sic her cobra on his ass.
x
Sure enough, she arrives with a storm clawing at her ankles, tearing her way through the compound hastily but methodically. He has to admire the easy, almost luxurious way she takes in dispatching the grunts, the expendables. Her body is a frenetic whirlwind, her hands moving like conductors' batons as she directs her team to attack and defend, to press on and withdraw. And, lo and behold, the mushroom-shaped white cap still rests on her pretty little head. Proton is intrigued, viewing the security footage with the interest of a Fearow who has just found a particularly enticing piece of prey.
She is so calm, so demure in her red shirt and blue overalls and thigh-length socks, the perfect picture of blurred innocence. Yet, her lines are jagged, war-like, commanding and assertive and by Arceus, she is resplendent. This is her element (the battles, the wars), this is her perfect environment; for all he knows, the power plant could be her very own ecosystem where she (not them) is the apex predator. Forget Ariana (or himself), the girl is wondrous. See how she utters commands like a veteran Trainer and her Pokemon respond in the same way that the tides respond to the pull of the moon. Watch the flow of her limbs, in such beautiful motion that it hurts his eyes, hurts him all over. She's breathtaking.
He realizes that he wants her, that he wants her badly.
(she is bellona; the fight is in her blood, he can see it so clearly)
They meet in a white corridor, the fluorescents flickering overhead like Illumise and Volbeat trapped in plastic. She glowers. He smiles at her, flashing white teeth. His hands stray to his belt, to the spheres clipped there, just as she reaches and pulls out a Pokeball from her bag.
Light explodes into vivid definition, coalescing, shaping, rapidly morphing in the span of several seconds into their monsters. His Weezing. Her Meganium, the rosy petals ringed around its neck flushed and full of life. He wants to change that. She stands defiantly, proud (but not arrogant) and strong; a girl who is also a pillar.
She's beautiful.
"I'm afraid I can't let you go on any further," he announces, tipping his own cap in her direction. "You'll have to pass through me if you wish to proceed."
"I know you," she responds, her voice calm (but perhaps with a hint of fear?) as their eyes meet. She points a (trembling) finger. "You're the man from Azalea. You butchered all those Slowpoke."
"I didn't butcher them," he drawls, lazy. "I only snipped off their tails. It doesn't hurt, because Slowpoke are congenital anagelsiacs by nature and have an increased tolerance to pain. They didn't feel anything at all. And besides," he adds, winking, "what's a pretty girl like you have to be worrying about some ugly Slowpokes? Shouldn't you be setting your sights on something a bit more aesthetically appealing instead?"
She (blushes) glares. "I care because it's wrong to exploit anyone or anything like that. You sold those tails for money, didn't you?"
"Didja think I only cut off the tails for fun? I'm not that cruel." He sneers. "Yes, I sold them to make a profit. That's how the world works, kid. Supply and demand. People demand the tails because they have anesthetic properties. I supply them with what they want and then I get paid."
"That's terrible! You can't-"
"Why not?" He cocks his head to the side, quizzically. "We've got an economy for a reason. Those Slowpoke are probably so caught up wallowing in their own crap that they won't notice I've done anything wrong. And in time, their tails will grow back and I'll just do it again. It's a cycle, kiddo. You can't stop it."
"Don't call me a 'kid'," she snaps (and inwardly, he thinks, goddess of war). "I'm not that young."
"You aren't." He taps his nose once, twice mockingly. "But you're younger than me."
She growls, frustrated. "Meganium, Razor Leaf!"
Her saurian beast whips its neck to and fro, calling up a cloud of green leaves meticulously filed to razor-sharp points. With a wail, it releases the barrage (and he thinks that the leaves look like a flock of emerald Spearow).
"Sludge Bomb," he orders.
His Weezing belches up a spray of murky gray-green liquid, the muck hissing as it touches the leaves and instantly begins to corrode the organic material, neutralizing the assault at the cost of its own offensive capability. Within seconds, scorched bits and pieces float from the space between like confetti.
"Shadow Ball," he commands next, and the two heads of his Pokemon open their mouths wide, summoning onto their tongues grains of stygian energy, the tiny pebbles soon expanding into burgeoning, almost macabre balloons, oozing foul miasma. The girl backs away, frightened (by just a bit). He feels disappointed.
With a click of his fingers, the spheres cannonball forward like missiles. She scrambles, calling up options to her lips, but her command is halfway vocalized when the orbs collide, singeing flesh and eliciting a pained cry from the Meganium, which teeters precariously off balance on its stocky legs. Meganium have never been carnivores, aggressive attackers; at best, they are only passive-aggressive, and that is their fatal flaw. He laughs, his Weezing spewing vitriol in the form of a sizzling Toxic. The spray fans out and splatters onto her Meganium, instantly seeping into its bloodstream and discoloring the flesh. The creature squeals like a child.
Her arms dive in, retrieve a golden canister, shoot out a light mist. The mist settles onto her wounded Pokemon, counteracting and dispersing the venom within seconds; the liquid leaks through its pores, the toxins negated. He raises one eyebrow in interest.
"Full Heals. Expensive, aren't they?"
"That's beside the point," she snarls. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"Proton," he replies (and a smile for the pretty one). "An executive of Team Rocket. And what may your name be?"
"Lyra," she says. "But that's of no concern to you."
She utters, Solarbeam, and he feels hot wind whipping around his legs, sees the lights dim and flicker, senses the palpable thrumming of (solar) energy gathered into a single, tenuous point, folded into the Meganium's petals like origami constructions. His Weezing rasps smoke. He waits.
Bang.
He's been defeated again (but strangely, he doesn't care, he still doesn't care).
She (Lyra) still stands guardedly, arms crossed, lower lip jutting out. Her Meganium stands with her, a bastion of defense. That's all the species has ever been good for, really; defense. And here he is, his Weezing fainted, himself left wide open for an attack (maybe, because Meganium are a bit slow), the girl he's fallen in love with hovering, so strong but so fragile at the same time. Those eyes are burning holes into him again; laser beams of death, miniature suns encased in titanium sockets. Her lips are cherry-red (and he wants to kiss them, kiss away that fragileness written all over her skin and really make her beautiful again).
He executes a graceful but exaggerated bow. "You've won, milady. Will you be passing through now?"
"Shut up." Her voice is full of rancor.
Pulling himself back into a standing position, he grins at her, laughing inwardly at the ferocity emanating from her every action. "What's the matter?"
"It's no business of yours." She starts forward, eyeing him with open hatred (but also curiosity).
He gestures, parting to reveal the empty corridor. "Well, the offer still stands."
"That's the most obvious trap ever," she scowls. "A perfectly deserted corridor? What a load of Tauros crap. The grunts are hiding in the ceiling, behind the walls, or under the floor, just waiting for the right moment to ambush me." She spits at his feet. "I'm not going."
"You'll have to, if you want to defeat Ariana and bring our project to a standstill."
"Who's Ariana?" she asks, faintly curious.
He drums his fingers. "Oh, no one too important. Just a female Rocket Executive with a particular hatred for my very fine ass and who's been holding her own vendetta against small children for years now since the last kid took down Team Rocket with a fucking Pikachu and screwed shit up for all of us."
She blanches. "You mean... Red? You- you knew Red?"
"I fought against him," he drawls. "Kid was a hell of an opponent. Damn near killed my entire team. Actually, he did kill one of them. A Koffing, I think. Or maybe the Ekans? Perhaps those two Rattata... shit, Lyra, it's been so long that I've forgotten."
"Are you screwing with me?"
"If I was..." His lips peel back. "... I'd have come already and you'd be a twitching heap on the floor. And then my grunts would kill you."
Her mouth opens into an 'o' of horor, but he waves away her concerns with an impatient flutter of his white-gloved hand. "Take it easy, kiddo. I was joking. I'm not into brunettes, anyway. Oh, and I only have one grunt which..." He pretends to mull over his thoughts. "... yep, you defeated him already. He was the scrawny guy, y'know, the one with the purple hair and the black outfit and that mole on the side of his cheek-"
"Fuck. You," she chokes out, flabbergasted. "What are you-what the hell are you talking about?"
"Nothing in particular." He taps his foot, miming looking at a watch. "Besides that, you'd better hurry. Ariana will only wait so long before she comes here to kick your ass, after all, and if we get caught together, we'll be in trouble."
"Why?" she questions. "Aren't you... on the same side?"
Grinning wolfishly, he responds, "We're united only by a mutual goal. Other than that... it's every Rocket for himself or herelf, you know what I'm saying?"
Disgust again. "You people are a load of psychos."
"You don't know psycho I could be, if I wanted to," he murmurs, suddenly centimeters away from her lips, his nose almost touching her ear, and she tenses like a Stantler caught in the line of sight of an Arcanine. Her body turns to stone. Carefully, meticulously, he runs his fingers through one of her pigtails, braiding it into intricate knots. "I could kill you if I wanted to."
"Then why haven't you done it yet?" she hisses through gritted (frightened) teeth.
"Because you interest me." He says it like it's obvious (like it should be a fact) and tweaks her playfully on the game. "Life is a game, the pieces vary like the outcomes, and so far, you're the most intriguing piece on the board at the moment. Of course, that might change, but for now..." He tilts her chin up to face him, and she gazes into the cerulean seas of his eyes as she gazes back into her own fiery orbs, and something (sparks) shoots through them. She shudders.
"... I do believe that I'll be content with simple observation, Lyra."
She shakes free of his grip, and her Meganium growls as best as it can. He chuckles, stands back, leaves the pathway open.
Tentatively, she takes a step, then another, then another and another as she starts passing through, her vision darting all over as she desperately tries to keep track of her surroundings.
"You're being paranoid, you know."
"Screw y-" She thinks better of her statement, and revises it. "Burn in hell."
Then, almost as an afterthought, "Proton."
He's still grinning that same old shit-eating grin after she leaves, her Meganium trailing her dutifully. The air smells like flowers and piss.
Ariana throws him against the wall, chillingly livid. Her face is a rigid mask of composure. Archer steeples his fingers and watches from across his desk. Petrel, his cohort, snickers at his misfortune. He's getting royally bitch-slapped.
"What on earth were you thinking, you little shit?" Ariana inquires, casual but deadly. Her Arbok is out and its fangs are gleaming white and its tongue darts in and out like a second snake, a self-contained example of duality. "You fucked up the mission. You jeopardized our success. You let the cunt through, you arrogant ass."
Petrel snorts laughter, snickering even as Ariana whips her head around and burns him to death with her eyes. There's something oddly amusing about the whole situation.
"I helped, didn't I?" he asks after a charged lull. Ariana snarls, but he continues, "I played my part. I slowed her down."
"You were supposed to stop her altogether," the woman snaps (spouting ichor). "And if you failed at that, which you did (no surprise there, her lips whisper), you were ordered to help back my team up at the central power room. Even that you neglected to do." She draws a step closer, her eyes crimson and swirling like abysses, and he has to remember that she's a killer, too. "What do you have to say, Proton?"
He says nothing. She swivels, exasperated, and barks, "I'm tired of his games. I demand that he be offed. Right now. He's caused us enough trouble as is, and is utterly inefficient at his assigned duties. He's trash, in essence."
Archer examines the mahogany of his table while Ariana taps her heels against the floor and Petrel tries to hide his smile.
"What would the benefits of disavowing one of our top agents be, Ariana?" inquires Archer, looking up abruptly and fixing Proton with his cerulean orbs, the very picture of professional calm. "Proton's proved himself at handling several other tasks we've thrown at him. He only slacks and acts like an arrogant ass because he's... not stimulated enough."
Petrel guffaws. Archer's eyebrows slant downwards, blue glass shards, and Petrel shuts up.
"He requires challenging missions, intriguing and complex assignments. He needs to be pushed to his limits to really get into action. Am I correct in this assumption?"
He doesn't respond, only gives a barely perceptible nod of his head.
"And how else does one become intrigued except by studying an intriguing subject?" Archer smiles placidly, but Proton knows well that inside the Executive's head, cognitive gears are whirring and whizzing like the elaborate inner display of an Azalea cuckoo clock. The man has never been one to state his claims outright, always preferring subtle machination to brash action like Petrel or Ariana. And perhaps that's what makes him so damn terrifying at times. Even he has to admit that he's got no fucking idea what Archer's planning, but he's already deduced a bit from his line of questioning and his most recent question has led him to draw a very startling conclusion.
For once, he wonders how much body language Archer has been trained to read, how many hidden quirks and idiosyncrasies the man knows how to interpret. Gritting his teeth, he readjusts his poker face, but one slip and Archer has gleaned all the information he needs to know. The bastard is eyeing him like one of Ariana's pet reptiles, probably thinking of a number of ways to push him in the direction that he wants him to go.
Shit. Fuck. Damn him.
"What interests you, I wonder?" Archer muses, shuffling papers idly as a means of keeping his hands busy. "What about the girl attracts you?"
Burn in hell, fucker. Resolutely, he keeps his mouth shut, but his lips are straining against their mental bindings.
Petrel chortles. "Got something goin' on with the little lady, eh?"
"Shove it up your ass, Petrel," he responds, coolly, unperturbed.
"I bet you'd like to, wouldn't yo-"
"Shut. Up. Petrel," he repeats, tonelessly and without inflection. Petrel does, but damn, the smile never leaves his features; it's like a poster caught against a telephone pole in fall, blown by the wind, tattered edges fraying but leaking carnival attractions and he wants to wipe it off of Petrel's face.
"Proton," Ariana grits out. "If you fucked this up just for one. Stupid. Child. I. Will. Murder. You. Do you understand, you bastard?"
When he doesn't respond, she clicks her fingers and her Arbok slams him against the wall; the paintings in Archer's sparse, Spartan-decorated office shudder, the paperweights tremble, the papers shift by inches.
"Do you understand?"
"Release him," Archer orders with a weary sigh. "Cease these theatrics, Ariana, they will get you nowhere in this discussion."
She's still angry, but she gestures again and her Arbok loosens its grip, dropping from his waist like a heap of blankets, still eyeing him with open hostility as it slithers back. His ribcage feels like it's been put through the digestive tract of a a Charizard. He exhales as quietly as he can, trying not to let on that he's in pain.
"Here is what I propose," says Archer, back in full business mode, this machination slipping as easily from his mouth as water down a drain. "Since you've got such an apparent interest in this girl," his eyes are dark, darker than storm cloud, and just as sinister, "you'll be delegated to full assassination duty. You will catch this girl."
A pause for Proton to absorb his words.
"You will catch her, and interrogate her, if need be. You will bring back any valuable information, and if she does not comply, you will kill her immediately and without hesitation."
His fingers glide over pens and paperclips, sinuous, careful. "This problem has, I believe, progressed beyond what I had initially imagined for her. I had assumed she would only be an unwanted obstacle. A minor detriment. I was wrong. You see, it is essential for us now, if we are to proceed as planned and without obstructions, to kill this girl before she grows. Before she spreads." Lips curled into a sneer. "I think it would be very inconvenient if the League were to get involved, don't you think, Proton? If the Champion and all his wyrms and drakes came marching in with bellowing trumpets, through our doors and smashing our house of meticulously constructed cards? If your failures allowed for the conception of such a scenario?"
Gentle tapping. Metal against wood. Contemplation, business-like and cold. Archer glowers, frigid fire smoldering from two points, awaiting his answer.
"Such a scenario will never be brought to fruition, of course," he assures the Head Executive. "I'll make sure of it myself."
"You accept your mission?"
"Yes."
"Good." Archer gives a serene nod of his head, a smooth, quiet motion. "And if you fail, then there will be, of course, repercussions."
I know that full well, you fucker, don't patronize me.
"So," says Archer, pushing back in his chair and swiveling around to view the scenery through his seven-foot wide and long plexiglass windows, fingers clasped, "do not fail. That is your directive, yes? Eliminate the girl, and all shall be well. I like you, Proton," he adds, as an afterthought. "I like you, because you are one of our best field operatives and you haven't done us any large wrong. Yet. It is good to maintain this equilibrium, correct? Do not disappoint. Do no wrong."
"You're being too lenient," Ariana says.
"I am being fair," Archer replies. "I am giving him one more chance. A chance for redemption, in light of his recent losses, because I have faith in him. Am I correct in placing that faith in you, Proton?"
"No," he answers.
Fuck you, he answers.
"Do not dishonor this organization."
"I won't."
"Remember," Archer calls as he exits, "the boy."
He is a killer. A predator. A wolf amongst flocks of sheep. A god among mortals. A king among peasants.
These people around him do not even know who he is, cannot register his face and translate into visual information fast enough before he strikes them down. They are sheeple, government-addled sheeple too drunk on peacetime and amity to be prepared for the crashing tides of war. When the cymbals clash, when the drums beat, their castle walls will crumble as easily as rotted wood against a gale.
He is Abaddon, he is their destruction, their death walking with them, through them, hidden in plain sight but they are too dumb to see it dancing before their eyes; those bone-hands, that scythe, black as tar, soul ink-stained and dripping. He smiles and flirts, teases and maneuvers; this is child's play, his environment. He is an apex predator, the top of the food chain, they are simply his prey.
A plastic cup full of whipped cream, caramel, and desert-sand coffee slides across and he grabs it, paying and tipping the barista as he leaves the coffee shop and enters the brisk autumn chill of the outside world. Bundled up in an inconspicuous black coat, jeans, and a scarf, he slips through the normal passerby, weaving in and out of the human rivers nonchalantly, all while surreptitiously keeping a lookout for his target. This is what he does best, because he kills, he is the reaper come to take the girl away. The girl with the hypnotic eyes, like fire.
In Goldenrod City, he finds her first at a hard-to-find bicycle shop, tucked neatly in between the skyscrapers and shopping centers like a tiny candy parcel wrapped in paper and gaudy ribbons. The doorbell jangles as she walks in and then out, having made her purchase. Idly, she gets on her new bike and rides away, and he watches her, perched on a rooftop like a crow, eyes analyzing, finding, detecting.
She moves to the Game Corner, its lounge cheaply exotic, decorated with plasticine mahogany, faux leather couches, potted run-of-the-mill garden plants housed in extravagant-looking jade vases attempting to find a balance between normalcy and wealth and fails; they are as fake as the rest of the room, with its flashing tables, desperate patrons, the heavy smell of cigarette smoke and bad alcohol, of meth and marijuana and who knows what else. The owner pretends nothing is amiss when clearly, many things are. His nose wrinkles in disgust.
The girl plays at a lone table for a while, tiredly flipping over the digital tiles, collecting meager amounts of points and losing accumulated stashes when she gambles too much and too far. Keenly, he discerns which tiles are the right ones and which are not, hovering only inches away from her slender shoulders although she doesn't notice him. Her fingers are pink and her nails are seashell-glossed, and they click on the glass as she taps and collects and taps and loses. It is a cycle. She sips from a juice bottle purchased from a vending machine. The juice is reddish-pink and looks like bloody stool. It is strawberry-passionfruit flavored.
After approximately one hour and eight minutes, the girl gets up and leaves, discarding her now-empty bottle in a wire trashcan and exiting with the smells of the miniature casino still clinging to her clothing like a second, unshakable layer of skin. He crumples his paper cup and continues to follow.
Shopping malls and fast food, advertisements for Pokemon supplements and lotteries to win Master Balls and Rare Candies. Drugs and power, power and drugs. She enters the raffle three times and wins two Rare Candies, which she slips into her bag, cradling them like they are precious jewels nestled in the soft palms of her hand. Grape soda on her tongue, eyes intently watching a match below in the in-facility battlegrounds. Now, he is on the opposite end of the arena, still observing. She furrows her brow, calculating battle strategy, and he can see it, really see how her mind works, gears and dials and clockwork mechanisms meshed together in full harmony; a world of numbers and intense calculations. She pores over every move, every decision like it stretches into eternity and beyond.
(There is something beautiful about the twist of her lips when her predictions are correct.)
Then, her footsteps click-clack away and he's following her (once more) through winding streets, blaring lights, cars and pedestrians and their pets; Snubbull and Smoochum and weak, pathetic little things these corporate wheel-runners can't even bring to their full potential. Excess power lingers in the air waiting to be taken, they still can't feel that mystical thrum. It's saddening. He sees in color, that she and him are the only gods here in this sea of slate-gray humanity, they are the only ones who can see the shifting kaleidoscope and eat the fruits that it bears. Latent power, untaken power; power they drink with their black-hole eyes and their abyssal lips and their galactic talons, power that is harvested only by them and no other; and it is this that excites him, that drives him; that exclusivity.
They meet across mud-puddles and filthy newspapers and trash cans overflowing with the city's ugly sewage
(the truth)
and her eyes widen.
"What the hell?" she snaps. Her hands reach for her belt, but he wags his finger at her, telling her to stop.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
"As if I could believe that."
"I'm here to say," he goes on, heedless to her interruption, "that there are people trying to kill you. You've got a bounty on your head, and a rather sizeable one, at that."
"Thanks for stating the obvious," she jeers. "I take it you're my assassin, then?"
He feigns hurt. "Jumping to conclusions already? And when I was so helpful at our last meeting?"
"That wasn't help," she deadpans. "You had an ulterior motive, I know it. You're waiting to strike when I'm most vulnerable. You're a fucking sicko."
A theatrical hand to the heart and a stagger back. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words, my dear..."
"Screw off with the pet names."
"If you want."
"What is that you want, you creep? I'm in a hurry."
"No, you're not." He tilts his head to the side. "Your body language is slouched, relaxed, indicating that you are in no hurry at all, merely bored. If I would dare to venture further, I'd say you were even... at ease. With me."
(A faint blush, pale rose, tinges her cheeks, but vanishes just as quickly as it is born)
"You're reading my body language horribly, horribly wrong, then."
"Am I?" He smirks. "I've been in my profession a long time, you know. These things are tools of the trade, bits and pieces you pick up over time."
She edges away. "Stay away from me."
"I'm trying to help you," he asserts again (and he is, really, he is). "You're in danger, out here like this. You should go. Talk to a Gym Leader. See if they can help you. And sleep in a Pokemon Center from now on. Hotels are too vulnerable, too easy to access. Check your food, too; you never know what might be slipped in. And-"
"Shut up," she barks. "Just... shut up. Please."
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Somewhere you can't find me."
"If I can find you, so can they."
"Aren't you one of them?" she questions irritably. "What's the meaning of all this? Tailing me here, trying to convince me that you're a good guy... what the fuck is wrong with you people?"
"If you knew," he whispers, "you would wish you hadn't asked."
That seems to frighten her a little, jarring her out of her frustration with him and minimizing her line of sight to a crystal-clear lense. She backs away, short, unsteady steps at first that quicken into full-on sprinting. Mud gets on her socks, on her legs, and she doesn't care, she only wants to get away from him. That's fine.
"Lock your doors!" he yells.
She doesn't turn back.
He dreams about her that night. Fever dreams, smoke dreams, hallucinatory visions with cigarette ashes and wine bottles and flashing lights; auroras, that's it, he remembers.
A six-armed goddess, resplendent. War. Kali. She touches him and grows a lotus from his saliva.
"I am Death," she whispers.
The lotus rots, crumbles like so many flakes from pie crust. Her mouth opens wide, a furnace, and from it a Charizard's blistering flames pour. They encircle him, crash down with thunderous force, and he wakes up, exhilarated and terrified and exhilarated and too warm.
So he opens the window and stands, shirtless, letting the cold touch his bare skin.
He stands like that for quite some time.
"I've found her."
"Excellent." Archer's voice crackles. "Have you two made out yet?"
"Petrel."
His colleague's rasping, hacking chuckles fills their connection, and Proton calmly waits for the fits of mirth to pass before resuming their conversation.
"Aw, man. You would kill me, wouldn't you, if you were here?"
"You never know if I'm not."
Petrel guffaws. "You're fulla shit, Proton. Anyway, Archer told me to tell you-"
"Why the hell isn't Archer speaking to me in person, then?"
"He's indisposed at the moment, moving us into Stage 4. Just so you know, this is a secure connection; we had our technicians isolate this line just for this talk. So don't shove a stick up your ass, you prick."
"Get to the point."
"The point?" He can almost see Petrel's nasty, rat-like leer through the phone, his fingers suddenly tactile. "The point is, it's been three weeks already and no progress. The girl. Have you killed the girl?"
Subconsciously, he imagines decapitating Petrel on the spot, tearing his limbs from their sockets, watching the man's eyes pop like mines. The receiver trembles, shakes minutely.
"No. But I've tracked her down."
"Buddy, I hate to say this, but you're behind schedule. The boss wants her head, and he wants it now. Silver platter on not, the main thing's that he wants her dead in some alleyway." A snicker. "Losing your edge already, Proton? She charmed you somehow?"
"Cut the crap, Petrel."
"Archer said-"
"What did he say?"
"They're sending someone in to clean up your mess for you."
Pause.
Petrel giggles, Proton wants to the snap the phone in half and strangle the man with the cord. "Ooooh shit, Proton, the crap's hit the fan and all that. You fucked up big-time, mister, you are royally screwed now- Proton? You still there? Dammit, you fucking hung up on me, didn't you?"
Like a discarded skin, the phone dangles limply from its empty cradle, buzzing static in response to Petrel's storm of cursing.
x
Spotting her in the crowd is like trying to single out a single grain of rice inside a silo filled with it. His senses are on hyperdrive, his eyes laser beams honing in on everyone with the same amount of high-strung scrutiny; his hands reach instinctively towards his pockets, where he knows his monsters will be kept.
But he doesn't want to cause a scene, doesn't want to generate unnecessary suspicion, so he bites his lip and tries to seek her out through conventional means.
And there, lo and behold, she stands in front of a vending machine debating whether to purchase a can of lemonade or a fizzy black soda, legs crossed, wearing only a light jacket to ward off the autumn chill.
A teeming sea of people surrounds her, suits and ties and dresses and heels and scuffed sneakers matched with ragged jeans. He squints, tries to see her again, but the crowd has drowned her out.
Peripherally, he observes a fleeting spot of motion that would have otherwise eluded a pair of untrained eyes. He is far from that; he is Death, he watches the world with his one thousand pupils and he sees a black shirt, a red 'R', and the hiss of snakeskin against concrete, feels his body hum to that familiar sway of venom. A loaded gun, a sniper rifle of cynaide and arsenic, a bullet forged from a cobra's poison.
Ten seconds.
His hands rip the first sphere from the magnetic grip and it flies, ascends, dims the sun and explodes, and the pedestrians yell in puzzlement and alarm as a supernova explodes from the orb's equatorial opening, expands, gathers and takes on form. Her little head and her pigtails bob and she looks up and sees his Pokemon, gasps in anger.
Seven seconds.
"Sludge Bomb," he whispers, breathlessly, and his Weezing rumbles, belching thick, steaming ichor in a curving, precisely calculated arc courtesy of its two synchronized brains. Geometry sweeps overhead in the exact curve of a rainbow, glistening and oily and twisted into a myriad of kaleidoscopic colors, whooshing down like a wet missile. The Ekans hisses, draws back its head, and prepares to shoot.
Four seconds.
Gravity should be pulling down his bomb faster and faster, but times seems to slow to sluggish pondwater thick and choked with mud and weeds; his target slips further and further out of reach, eyes wide, mouth agape, bellowing orders to ignore it and continue. And a strange sort of disbelief, as they make eye contact and the grunt sees who is attacker is and promptly reacts with horror, sinking horror that roots the man to the ground by the soles of his shiny boots. Needles, honed to fine pinpoints, detach and seek with a simple exhale of air.
Zero seconds.
The poison is condensed into a semi-solid and still, it strikes the ground with a resounding splat even as it cracks the roof and begins to eat at its foundations, dissolving stone with a powerful hunger. The force of the impact jars the aim of the Poison Spikes, diverting its planned trajectory enough to render them non-lethal. They sink harmlessly into automobile doors and lay there, burning rust-holes in the chrome finish until the corrosive properties wear out. The grunt shrieks, a loud, siren sound that echoes and reverberates across Goldenrod, his flesh boiling and running off the bones like tallow until he is nothing but a complex skeleton, tumbling off of the building in scalded rags and shattering on the streets below.
One minute.
They watch in mute horror at the corpse that has fallen out of the sky. He takes his chance and weaves through the onlookers, grasps Lyra's arm, and takes her away, with only a hastily muttered, "Let's go."
"Let go of me," she snaps, shoving him away.
"I just saved your life," he responds, feeling off-put by her aggression. "You should be grateful. I didn't lie, did I?"
"You killed a man," she says. "You killed him."
"In my defense, it was his life or yours, honey."
"Stop it with the damned pet names," she hisses, enraged again. "I-you-you are absolutely sick, you know that?"
"Perhaps you'd think better of me with two Poison Spikes in your neck," he responds, holding up the two defused pins between his fingers. "Poison being pumped through your bloodstream, tearing down your immune system, and infecting you with a slow muscular degeneration coupled with mild encephalopathy, rendering you a bloated, limp, frothing wreck in under an hour. That's more to your fancy, isn't it?"
"You didn't have to kill him," she mumbles, cowed and wary. He sees the dip of her neck and relaxes considerably, softening the edges of his words.
"Yes, I did," he whispers. Her eyes look back up, cautious, but he continues, "You have no idea what these people- what my people would do if given the chance." His pupils glint like midnight. "You have no idea."
"Do you, then?" she asks.
He tips his cap to her, bitterly this time. "I'm a killer, sweetheart. I know better than anyone how dark human beings can be. Those stories about the boogeyman, about Darkrai being under your bed if you don't eat your veggies? Don't believe in those fallacies. Believe in the evil of human nature.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to leave."
Before he can, she reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, anchoring him to the ground. He twists around, intrigued.
Her cap is down, covering her downcast eyes. He pulls it up, carelessly brushes away her brown coffee-colored bangs, and tilts her chin up. She looks like she's fighting back tears.
"I-" She struggles to get the words out. "I don't know why you-"
"Because you interest me."
And suddenly, that dam of hidden photographs and vintage memories breaks and spills and she fists her hands in his hair, their bodies interlocked like the threads of a tapestry, their breathing heavy and fevered, their mouths furiously mashed on top, dancing, kissing with a passion that rages across him like a volcanic eruption, like a solar flare.
They scrabble desperately like insects before a flame, their hands knot in each others' clothing, twisting the fabrics into crumpled-paper surfaces. Hands run along bare skin, under shirts, searching and trying to find; she is more passionate than he anticipated, her eyes burning through him, searing circles and pentagrams into his soul with burning brands. Her eyes; this is what he remembers.
A girl who burns, who sets him on fire in that smoky city alleyway and kisses him with lips that taste like guilt.
Where have the lines gone? he wonders, naked and alone in his hotel bed, remembering the taste of her chapstick on his tongue, cherry and strawberry.
His fingers trace signs through empty air, he draws the sheets closer around himself, relishes in the feeling of warmth. Time runs faster when it's just them, when he lets himself hold her like a fragile thing in his arms, when the sword dulls and he finds himself unable to end this girl, end her. He is truly fascinated by her; she is scientific beauty, she is divine beauty, she is a goddess of war and an artist who paints her canvas in mud-smears and blood-trails. Red, red, red.
She seems to bleed, at times.
They're sending someone to clean up your mess for you.
Petrel's words echo in his mind, mnemonic traces filling his brain to the bursting point with their pointless repetition in Petrel's drunken slurrring, calling him weak, calling him a blunted edge. He doesn't quite mind, honestly.
He is Death.
But even that fact doesn't stop the situation from escalating.
Winter, and hollowed cherry trees in a park full of defiant flowers adorned in springtime hues completely at odds with the snow-cloaked setting. The bitter tang of black tea lingers in his mouth; she sips hot chocolate topped with generous mounds of whipped cream from a Styrofoam cup and she smiles hesitantly at him sometimes, like she's not quite sure if this is right or is it wrong.
He's not entirely sure, himself.
They slip further and further into this fantasy, leaping into empty pages with reckless abandon, illustrations springing up from where there was once nothing but desert wasteland. It's soothing, in a sense, like warm water on a December night and whiskey to send a pleasant afterglow throughout his frigid limbs afterwards, wrapped in a bathrobe and observing the city skylights. His tea has drops of alcohol added in, that's what takes the sharpness off of the unforgiving bitterness. He drinks. She drinks.
"Proton," she says, still testing his name on her tongue like a new word in her vocabulary (which it is). "Proton, do you... do you ever wonder?"
"About what?"
"The future," she replies, vaguely and dreamily. "What's ahead."
"Never do, sweetheart," he answers. "I never do."
Lyra gives a small nod and goes on draining the last of her hot chocolate. Her Meganium sits next to her, giving him the evil eye.
How funny.
December 24. Christmas Eve.
The two of them stand beneath the glow of a streetlamp in a pier, the waters sloshing below them. Fish and other aquatic creatures swim even in these chilling conditions, oblivious, uncaring, to the cold embrace of winter. Wrapped in coats to guard against the frost, they are holding hands, actually holding hands; her hands are warm through her mittens. His are coldblooded and dead.
"Have you been hurting?" she asks him, curious.
"What kind of a question is that?" he retorts, but she does not falter, launching another query.
"Your job. Team Rocket." She pronounces the organization name like it is a curse, a horrible, filthy word that should never be uttered by human lips lest they corrupt the speaker. He's heard her speak it like that before, but now her every syllable is bloated with even more rancor. Gently, she turns to him, grips his arm. Eyes wide open. "You're conflicted about something. I can feel it."
"It's nothing for you to worry about-"
"No!" She shakes her head fervently. "Proton, I- well, we've been... seeing each other for a bit, now, and I... I think I've gotten to understand you a little more."
His heartbeat thumps thumps thumps.
"You... you've got secrets to hide, things you've kept from other people, haven't you?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
thumpthumpthump.
"No, it's different for you. Because they weigh you down, don't they; they make you feel like you're drowning."
Like he's drowning.
"It's hurting you, it's tearing you apart, Proton. I can see it." She gnaws on her lip, dark lashes aflutter. Her eyes are muted, now, not as bright as they were before, but they fit this occasion; they are the color of the night, burnished black-brown.
"You know nothing, Lyra," he replies coldly. "Don't pretend to a knowledge you don't know. You don't know about me. I know about you, not the other way around."
"I'm not trying to imply that I know who you are, nor should you do the same with me. It's just that I see you sometimes, and you look so, so... dark. Is that the right word?" Lyra's eyebrows knit together in thought. "Yes. Dark."
Her grip tightens. The lights blink, startled.
"Like, bent over, Proton. Why can't you sleep?"
"I'm an insomniac."
"Is it because you can't forget?"
How could he? He is a reaper of souls, he can never forget because these are permanent memories, not impermanent ones. Red, black, red, black tiles, they all blur and melt and shift before his eyes, rearranging themselves from neat checkerboard squares into messy paint splatters. He gulps, feels Lyra shift ever closer, breathes in that cherry fragrance. She smells of spring.
"Maybe," he mumbles.
"Proton, you can tell me what it is that's on your mind." Closer, closer. "It's fine."
"It's not, Lyra."
"It's fine," she asserts, "because-"
"-I love you."
And the magic words, and his true name, and he sighs and tells her.
"I'm supposed to kill you. You're supposed to be dead, lying in an abyss somewhere at the bottom of a lake, your dead eyes gazing at sunlight you'll never be able to feel on your cold cheeks again while the seawater burns your skin and the ocean claims you as its own." His words come out too fast, but she still listens. Introspective. Wide mahogany irises.
He feels tears; they hiss, they steam, they burn as they drop onto his clothes. He is crying, he is crying, he is crying, this isn't real.
Her hand slips away.
"Fuck, Lyra-" He's only grasping at straws now, a tall man in a tall coat against this inferno of girl and dragon. Lyra regards him with blankness plastered all over her features, an expressionless doll from a living, breathing human in seconds.
"Lyra, shit, I-"
He loves her so damn much this tears him apart, like she said; this drowns him, this drags him screaming into the ocean depths, this shoves him into the Earth's core and awaits his immolation with greedy intent and sticky fingers and a bloodstained shovel.
"Lyra."
The wind whistles through him; he is as hollow as a scarecrow.
"Lyra."
There is no more room for words as she hugs him, embraces him like a mother bringing a weary child to her breast. He slouches over, folding into her as easily as origami figures, the creases of each long limb as perfect and as sharp as something drawn with a ruler. This is a good hurt, a hollowness that is soon overtaken by a brilliant heat that blasts from her into him.
"You don't have to be afraid anymore," she murmurs into his tired ears. "You don't have to run. You don't have to hurt."
It's a good hurt, this feeling of redemption.
"You're right."
Flick.
"I don't."
He's disappointed, almost, as the dagger pierces her side and she gasps. Those eyes, which had once held such fiery potential, are now dull embers smoldering in a crumbling fireplace. He will draw that spark out again if he needs to, with any measures necessary.
The knife hand drags up, around, squishing and cutting and slashing. She gasps, wriggles like a Magikarp on a hook, struggles against his arms like she did that eternity ago, before she went from a lioness, an apex predator, into a domestic animal lapping at his feet. Jungle queen into a housecat.
"I love you, Lyra."
He lets go and she falls.
He miscalculates.
This is the end, he is sure of it. His world is toppling as its foundations shatter into glass shards, as the walls cave in, as thrones and crowns and all these notions of royalty disappear in a final blaze. He laughs at the Apocalypse, he laughs as Hell breaks loose and his men scream in fear and pain and burning metal crashes from the ceiling like so many comets headed towards Earth, a legion of a different kind.
He grins as she walks up the stairs to where he sits, his captives terrified. She brings her six-monster army, raises seas, destroys nations, makes civilizations of the gods bow and sink into the ground. All around her, destruction blossoms, sings discordant melodies, raises its pitch until the windows shatter and the building shudders and the earth feels as though it will split in two from the sheer power that radiates from this firegirl.
Her stomach is a map of scars, her eyes as cold as black holes. She gestures, her Meganium bellows and sends a laurel wreath of vines flying at his neck, lifting up into the air and exposing him to the callous, merciless stretches of the universe, the cold parts where not even the demons dare venture. Stars shatter. Antimatter leaks from these caged dimensions. Corpse-flowers grow and decay; a perfect cycle of entropic harmony.
"I love you, Lyra," he laughs. "I love you, I love you-"
It hurts so good.
"I love you-"
He does, can't she see it? She is the most beautiful he has ever seen her, wreathed in flames, cloaked in rubble, wearing a crown of matted brown tangles fashioned into briars and thorns, eyes absolute black. He has helped her ascend to godhood, has helped her transcend her mortal confines, her limitations; he has done more for her than any man could.
"I love you."
He is still saying that when he dies.
a/n: please don't favorite without reviewing! :)