Disclaimer: It's been a long time coming, but tonight is the end of the disclaimers, my friends; tomorrow, only one more will remain.
"What- no, no, why the hell would you put them there?"
"Well, it makes the most sense, doesn't it? A couple grunts at this booth, so no one tries to run in and change the broadcast-"
"We're gonna be fuckin' keepin' everyone on the fourth floor, no one's going to be getting to that booth."
"Well, yeah, but if someone does..."
"Fuck it. One grunt there, but no more. I want to concentrate our guys around the first couple floors. Minimum to the hostages."
"How many hostages are we looking at, here?"
"Does it matter?"
"Well, the minimum for five hostages versus the minimum for fifty is a pretty big difference."
"I don't know how many hostages we're going to have. Fifteen, twenty, at the very absolute least."
"Are you two going to be done, any time today?" Proton and Decarli glanced up from where they were on the floor, hunched over the coffee table in the latter's apartment, the blueprints they'd stolen almost a week ago spread out and covering every available surface. Petrel raised an eyebrow at them, laying out along the couch- otherwise known as the bed he currently shared with Proton- one hand instinctively covering his stab wound through his shirt. It had been healing up nicely, the man had been happy to report, and for that, Proton was thankful. He still had nightmares of his lover dying of infection or internal bleeding that they'd somehow missed, waking up in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat, but every time Petrel updated him on the status of his battle wound, he was slightly more reassured.
"This is kinda important, P," Proton said, and Petrel rolled his eyes, huffing exaggeratedly.
"You really should have had that done, weeks ago," he chastised. Proton snorted and turned back to the blueprints, making some marks on them.
"Like Seliber would know what he was doing? Fuck that. Now that I have Decarli, things'll be ten times as smooth," he replied.
"Glad to know my work is appreciated," Decarli piped up, "but we really need to get this floor finished, at the very least.'
"How many people are you putting at the entrance?" Petrel asked. Proton flipped back through the blueprints.
"We've got one post, but a rotating guard," he said. "And I'm not making the same mistake as I did with Silph, either. Everyone I'm putting there is up for promotions, right now. At least one evolved pokemon, each." Petrel sucked in an uneasy breath, and Proton almost leaped to his feet to see if anything was wrong, but his lover merely shook his head.
"I dunno, one guy?" the man repeated. "That doesn't sound like such a good idea, no matter who's stationed, there."
"Don't worry so much, Petrel," Proton sighed in reply, "it's all going to be fine, alright? Now, while we're on the subject, about where you'll be-"
"I already know, you told me, last night. Fifth floor, right?"
"Yeah. But, I was thinking, y'know, maybe Ariana should be around there, too, just in case things go south." Petrel frowned slightly.
"Hey, Pro, c'mon, I'm a big boy," he protested, "I don't need anyone looking after me." Proton shot him an exasperated look, his eyes lingering slightly over where the man's stab wound was. Petrel, to his credit, didn't back down, and merely drew himself up, straightening his back as much as he could. Decarli glanced between the two of them slowly, and as if sensing trouble coming, quickly returned to working diligently on the blueprints.
"I don't fuckin' care what you think about needing back-up," Proton eventually snapped, "I'm putting Ariana on the fifth floor, and that's fuckin' final. Especially if I can't be up there with you. And I don't fuckin' trust Archer, not with you."
"Oooh, don't let him hear you say that." Petrel grinned broadly. "They called, didn't they? They're going to be here, today?"
"Yeah." Decarli nodded. "Right after lunch, I think. They want to go take a look at all the buildings Proton and I found."
"Ooh, I wanna see! Can I come?" Proton shot Petrel and incredulous glance.
"In your state?" he scoffed. "Hell no. You're staying here, where Bernard can keep his eyes on you."
"Oh, c'mon, Pro," Petrel protested, "I wanna see all the cool stuff you've found, too. Besides, I'm an executive, I have rights! Such as the right to tag along while we do security detail. I think I should at least come along and see where the real director's gonna be stashed, y'know? If I'm gonna have to be the guy, and all."
"You're hurt, Petrel." The green executive's eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms stubbornly. "You're staying. Go ahead, ask Bernard. He'll fuckin' agree with me."
"I accept your challenge." Proton scowled as Petrel turned and shouted for Bernard, who appeared not a moment later, looking only mildly interested in what sort of hi-jinks they were up to, that morning.
"What's the deal?" he asked as he dried his hands on a towel.
"Hey, listen," Petrel said, "Pro and the other two are gonna be heading out for a walk around town to take a look at all the useful shit Pro found. You think I'm alright to tag along?" Bernard frowned thoughtfully and paused in his hand-drying, before shrugging.
"You should be alright, I think, as long as you don't over-exert yourself. Just lemme take a look, alright? Shirt off." Petrel sighed heavily and sat up, pulling his shirt up over his head and unraveling the bandages around his navel. His cut was still bad- he hadn't been able to have the stitches removed, yet, but the wound was no longer as bright or angry of a red as it had originally been. Either way, it was painful to look at, and Proton fidgeted as he watched Bernard kneel next to the couch, prodding gingerly at it.
"Be careful," he muttered. Bernard cast him a somewhat amused glance over his shoulder, seeming to consider saying something, but apparently thinking better of it, returned to looking Petrel over. After a minute or so, he nodded, and stood, giving them a faint smile.
"Yeah, you'll be fine," he repeated. "Just take it easy, like I said." Petrel laughed.
"Oh, don't worry, Proton'll keep me in line. Won't you, Pro?"
"Whatever..."
"Good. Then we'll head out a bit early! I kinda wanna see some sights before Ariana and Archer get back." Proton scowled.
"Now wait just a Lugiadamned minute-!"
"Sure, go, have fun!" Bernard waved them off with his hand and sat down on Decarli's other side. "I'll stay here and see if I can help Leo."
"Actually, you can," Decarli mused, "we need to-"
"You're sure it's alright for Petrel to go out?" Decarli sighed as Proton cut him off, and waited patiently for Bernard to resolve the issue.
"He'll be fine, as long as he doesn't get into any fights or try to climb anything." He waved his hand at them again. "Now, go. Shoo. Begone. We've got work to do, and you two sitting in here sucking face won't get us very far."
"We are not-!"
"C'mon, Pro," Petrel chuckled as he finished re-wrapping his bandages and pulling his shirt on, "let's head out before you end up hurting someone."
"But-"
"Let's go. Please? There's somewhere special I want to take you." Proton scowled, but the puppy-eyes Petrel was giving him were too adorable for him to resist, and he deflated slightly, sighing.
"Alright," he muttered, "but the instant you even vaguely look like you're not feeling well, we're heading back." Petrel rolled his eyes, smiling nonetheless.
"Yes, dear."
"I don't understand why we're going this way."
Proton scowled as Petrel merely cast an impish grin back at him, in no way answering his question. They'd been wandering the streets of Goldenrod for quite a while, and Petrel absolutely refused to tell him where they were heading, which all in all, kinda pissed Proton off. He hated it when Petrel didn't tell him things. It made him worry, like the time his lover had disappeared for a few days, only for Proton to find out that he'd been in the infirmary the entire time fighting against a pneumonia. Lugia, they'd gotten into a big fight after that. Though, he supposed Petrel wasn't really hiding anything from him, in this instance.
"We're almost there. Trust me, Pro." Point and case, it seemed more like his lover was trying to surprise him, and though he generally hated surprises as a rule, he couldn't help but be curious enough to not press the issue.
"This better be good," he muttered, "how's your stab?"
"It's fine, love, don't worry," Petrel replied, shaking his head, "geez, the way you go on about it, you'd think I lost a leg, or something. ...C'mon, this way." He turned down an alleyway next to some random grocery store or another, and Proton scowled as he followed along behind him.
"Hey, I'm fuckin' sorry for worrying about you, you asshole, but we have a lugiadamn takeover of the entire fucking town coming up in a few days, and if you push yourself too ha-mphh!"
Before he was able to finish his complaint, he felt something distinctly Petrel-sized slam into him, and his back hit the cold brick wall behind him as warm, moist lips closed over his own. A large, spidery hand was clawing its way up his side, under his shirt, and a low growl escaped from his lips. Petrel took advantage of the situation to shove his tongue into Proton's mouth and down his throat, pressing him back harder against the wall. With another growl, Proton shoved him back, scowling.
"What the hell, you bastard?!" he snapped. Petrel smirked.
"Oh, c'mon, Lance," he said, hot breath tickling Proton's ear, "let's do it. You and me. Right here. Right now."
"We're in public, asshole!" His eyes narrowed, and Petrel paused, frowning.
"You really don't get it?" the purple executive asked after a moment. "I mean... you... you realize where we are, right?"
"In a filthy lugiadamned alley next to a grocery store with broken glass and rattata?" Petrel's frown deepened, and he grabbed Proton again, this time spinning him around and pushing him face-first against the brick, holding his wrists behind his back with one hand while the other snaked around to cover his eyes. Proton was about to snarl something quite inappropriate for public when, suddenly, a feeling of intense dejavu settled over him. This... this was a very familiar situation, but when...?
"Well, shit, kid." A flash- a blur of color and sound, the weight of the water jug in his hand, the wide, terrified eyes of the Rocket as he slammed the jug into his head again and again and again over and over and over until the skull cracked and collapsed and blood and brains went everywhere- and then the purple-haired street vendor staring at the scene in shock. "Remember, now?" For a moment longer, Proton was silent- how could he have forgotten? Of course, he remembered, vaguely, the circumstances under which he'd been kidnapped to the HQ, but to completely forget how Petrel had found him was kinda pathetic. But... on the other hand, the prospect of doing it where they'd first officially met... With a small smirk, he broke out of Petrel's grip and turned back to face him, pulling the purple executive in for a slow, deep kiss.
"Let go of me, bastard," he purred when he finally pulled away, "or I may just have to fuck you up." Petrel merely laughed, edging in for another kiss; the contact quickly became heated, the elder executive's tongue slipping passed his own pliant lips as they pulled each other close.
"Are you two quite finished?" Almost immediately, they separated, frowning and looking in unison to the mouth of the alley, where stood none other than Archer and Ariana, themselves. They looked odd in civvies- Proton was eighty percent sure he'd never seen either of them out of uniform, before. Frowning, he pushed Petrel away, ignoring the man's protests, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he kicked off the wall.
"Now that you're here to ruin our fun," he replied pointedly, "but that's alright. I can pay you back for that, later. You hear the news from Bernard?" Ariana nodded.
"He told us everything." And oh, did she sound upset. Then again, she usually did, these days, especially since that whole incident with Silver. "Petrel. You're alright?" Petrel gave her an awkward shrug, and motioned towards his stab wound.
"Bernard patched me up alright," he said, "but I won't deny, it hurts like hell. With how bad it was, I'm more surprised I'm not dead, than anything else." Another curt nod from the lone woman of the group, and that was that; the subject changed, and Archer took a step forward, clasping his hands behind his back in a way that was supposed to seem sophisticated, but to Proton, merely screamed anxiety. He wasn't surprised. The stress of trying to run a dying organization was starting to get to all of them, especially since Silver left all those months ago. Honestly, if anything, he was surprised they had made it as far as they had.
"We've looked over the reports you've sent us." Straight to business; Archer was rarely anything but. It was a relief, really, Proton hated spending more time around the man than he expressly needed to- and on top of that, it was nice to know that some things never changed, especially now. Archer's leadership was exactly what they needed. "Most of the buildings we can use to house grunts, and what remains of our supplies- the abandoned warehouses in particular, down in the industrial district, will be perfect for this."
"I'd actually suggest against the apartments," Petrel piped in, "when we went for a second look yesterday, it seemed like they actually had a fair bit of structural damage."
"Apartments would have been too big, anyways," Ariana agreed, "no, we're fine with just the warehouses. I'd like to take a look around this Cipher base you found, though?"
Petrel nodded and waved a keycard at her. "Yup, figured you would; got the ticket in, right here. We'll lead the way?" And that was that; they were on their way. Proton stayed to the back of the group as they left the alleyway, taking a right down the street, and watched as Petrel discussed the recent happenings with their fellow executives. For the most part, he ignored their conversation- it was all old news to him, anyways, blah blah blah Petrel got stabbed- though he did notice from time to time that one or more of the others would cast furtive glances back his way, as if they thought he was paying zero attention at all, and idly he would wonder what they were saying about him- most likely, he assumed, Petrel had told them of Proton's slaughtering of the Cipher grunts, which was odd, because Proton had been convinced that, upon hearing the entire story, at least Archer would have been impressed. Nevertheless, he ultimately put it to the back of his mind and focused on their current objective; if his mental calendar was right, they would need to be ready to mobilize in a little over a week's time. Grunts would start flocking to the city over the next few days, which is where the warehouses would come in. Proton was really just glad he and Petrel would get to stay with Decarli, instead. Honestly, he'd no idea how he had survived those years without the man.
The rest of the trip down to the Cipher base was rather uneventful; conversation became sparse, and with not much to not pay attention to, Proton took to ignoring Archer and Ariana entirely in favor of staring at Petrel the entire time, scowling as he watched man move with far greater care than he normally did, and outright glaring whenever the purple executive winced and pressed his hand to his wound. On some level, it wasn't his fault. Proton knew and understood this. Petrel shouldn't have let his guard down. Petrel shouldn't have come without backup. Petrel shouldn't have been so preoccupied with Proton. The Cipher punks were violent little shits that thought they could get away with stabbing a Rocket Executive. But Proton had gone down there, first, without any backup whatsoever, and he had neglected to use caution in any sense of the word. And so on another level, it was his fault- and that pissed him off. The idea that he had been the reason why Petrel was injured so badly just made him want to stab something. Twice. In the throat. Of course, he couldn't; not right now. Now wasn't the time.
They wandered around the inside of the tunnels, Petrel blabbering on about this lift and that storage closet, Archer asking all sorts of random, ridiculous questions, Ariana wondering if any of it was worth their time. Proton contributed nothing, just continued to observe his coworkers silently, as if waiting for something interesting to happen. Archer looked tired; they were all tired, these days. With the takeover looming overhead, there wasn't much sleep to be had, even for a white-jacket, Proton mused. Most of the day was dedicated to work and careful planning, and while he was certain Archer and Ariana had their fair share of stress, he had to deal with not only planning with Decarli, but keeping contact with Seliber, who was currently acting as the department head while Proton and his right-hand-man were busy with the more important things. Then there was looking after Petrel, and taking care of the pokemon, and Decarli's little brat that had to be fed and played with and hugged and all of those other things Proton really didn't enjoy doing with children, and on top of it all, Twitch had decided to start going back to a more nocturnal sleep pattern, which meant the few hours Proton could use for sleep were usually spent taking the damned bat out to stretch his now way-to-big wings. Tired didn't even begin to describe how he had been, the passed few weeks. But it would all be worth it, he told himself. It was almost time to pull out the big guns. It wouldn't be like Silph, this time, either.
Proton would make sure of that.
"Are we done yet?"
"We're on the last floor. Just a little bit longer."
"I have to go pick Virgil up from day care."
"Your fuckin' brat can last another hour without you, I'm sure. Now sit the fuck back down, and let's get this shit done. We're close, I can almost taste it."
"Oh? And what does it taste like, then?"
"I'm gonna go ahead and say 'the blood of the innocent'."
"Figures." Proton glanced up just in time to see Decarli roll his eyes, and the green executive smirked- or rather, half-smirked, half-grimaced. He was reaching the end of his rope, Decarli could see it plain as day. They'd been working on the stupid charts since the early hours of the morning, right after the kid had come back from taking his golbat for a walk and caught Decarli having a glass of wine as he watched reruns of The Phresh Prince of Bel-Aire; to be honest, Decarli kind of regretted it, as the day had passed by oh so very slowly, but the executive insisted they get as much done that day as they could- and apparently, by 'as much of', Proton had meant 'finish it'.' It was now three in the afternoon; Petrel was reclining on the couch behind them with a fedora covering his face, having claimed he would be taking a nap a good half an hour prior- Decarli had tried to be quiet at first, but Proton had repeatedly assured him over Petrel's muffled protests that the purple-haired executive could sleep through anything, and soon he and the Executive were hard at work, arguing loudly the placement of their troops as Petrel continued to groan and whine in the background.
"Just let him go pick up his fucking kid," the purple executive eventually sighed, "get some peace and quiet then, Lugiadamn."
"Then the fuck what?" Proton snapped, "he picks up his kid, then he runs off like the fuckin' pussy he is? No fuckin' way, I ain't lettin' my second get away that easily. Don't you fuckin' roll your eyes at me, Petrel, you know he fuckin' will."
"I just want to get my kid home before they think something happened to me," Decarli cut in, his words tainted with tiredness and desperation. Proton shot him a glare that shut him up, quick, but did nothing to keep Petrel from letting out an annoyed hiss before standing and smoothing down his shirt and pants in a futile attempt to rid himself of wrinkles.
"Will it make you feel better if I go with him?" he asked, and Proton opened his mouth to protest, but before he was able to get a word out, Petrel had grabbed Decarli by the arm and led him firmly in the direction of the door out. The two stopped for long enough to pull their shoes on, during which time Proton shouted some very colorful expletives at them, but otherwise unhindered, they left the apartment and carried on their way silently. It was when they reached the end of the block that Decarli finally met Petrel's gaze, casting him a thankful look as they stopped at a traffic light.
"I never thought he was gonna let me leave," he said, and Petrel let out a weary laugh in response; to be fair, Proton hadn't let them leave; Petrel had just gotten Decarli out of there before Proton could really say anything, and to that extent, the green executive had been looking rather tired, himself. It was good for all three of them to take a break, and Petrel gave voice to this opinion, which Decarli could only agree. "He's been getting worse. I think he's starting to really panic. If this doesn't go through, we lose everything."
"He's really, really anxious," Petrel agreed. "He's barely getting any sleep, and none of this is good for him. I'm starting to wish we'd run from this all when we had the chance. We would have been just fine in Hoenn."
"Well, it's too late to change your mind now, if that's what you were wanting to talk to me about." Petrel shot Decarli a sidelong glance, dry and unamused, to which Decarli only met with an exhausted gaze of his own. The stress was wearing everyone a little thin- with Proton to worry about, it was easy for Petrel to forget, sometimes. It probably didn't help the Decarlis had a son, and one as young as he was, too. Idly, Petrel couldn't help but wonder what sort of position that would put Leo in. Team Rocket was small, now. Fragile. There was every chance that their plan could go down the drain, that they would get arrested or killed and never see the light of day, again. Petrel had a hard time believing a bleeding heart like Leo could ever risk his life like that when he had a family to take care of. Then again, maybe that was just Petrel's inner coward talking. For all the brave faces he put on and all the bullshit he spouted about their duty to Team Rocket, if there was something Petrel had to admit, it was that he didn't much like the idea of dying for it. Perhaps an escape to Hoenn was a better idea than he had originally considered it.
They were silent again for several more blocks, crossing an intersection and stopping for a bus to pass, but eventually, Decarli halted the two of them outside of a small, bright-looking building closer to the school district of the city, a fun, happy sign on the front declaring it to be the Teddiursa Daycare Centre. Petrel hanged around outside while Decarli disappeared through the doors, only to come back a few moments later with Virgil on his shoulders. They started on their way back to the apartment without much fuss, after that.
"I want you to promise me something." The words were said out of the blue, when they were just in front of the apartment building. Decarli stopped in his tracks when Petrel said it, frowning deeply as the Executive stared him down, hard. He didn't reply, but the question in his eyes was obvious: what, exactly, did Petrel want him to do? And with a deep breath, Petrel told him. "I need you to take care of him. I won't be there to keep him calm. I'm going to be a floor above you, but I'm going to have my own squad to deal with. You're the closest thing he has to a friend. You need to make sure he doesn't get out of hand."
"What makes you think he'll get out of hand?" Decarli replied, cocking an eyebrow, "he's seemed... relatively stable, recently, if you throw out the Cipher thing. He should be okay, right?"
"I don't care how he seems," Petrel disagreed, "he's still under a lot of stress, and he could snap at any moment. I just don't want him to get hurt. Can you do that for me—can you just look after him?" With a small sigh and a reassuring smile, Decarli reached out to pat Petrel on the shoulder.
"Alright," he said, "I'll do what I can. Leave it to me, okay? I know how to look after a kid." Petrel opened his mouth to protest to that—Proton wasn't a child, he was a grown man—but considered otherwise, when he mused over what he'd just asked Decarli to do. With a sigh and a nod, he followed the brunet into the building, up the elevator, and back into the Decarlis' apartment. It was quiet when Leo had managed to open the door and let them inside, without even the fervent scratching of one of Proton's pencils as had become the norm in the past few weeks. Petrel slipped his boots off and headed straight into the living room as Leo set Virgil down to help him untie his shoes, frowning curiously as he went—and then, he suddenly stopped in his tracks and smiled. Proton was stretched out along the couch, face buried in the pillow the two shared and sheets wrapped tightly around him. He was asleep; Petrel loved it when he was asleep, especially these days. He looked so relaxed, as opposed to his waking moments, when his face was set in a scowl almost permanently, when his eyes ached with weariness and a longing for sleep and warmth. It was certainly enticing. Without another thought, Petrel removed his socks and settled down on the edge of the couch, wrapping his arms around his lover as he snuggled on up for a nap.
Maybe he'd been wrong, Petrel couldn't help but think. Maybe Proton was okay, and maybe Decarli was right. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. He so desperately hoped as much.
"Are you ready?"
Proton glanced up from his cigarette when he heard Archer's voice. Roll-call had just finished; the grunts were lined up neatly in their squads, a little over forty or so of them. It was everyone who had nowhere else, nothing else, to go or do. No friends. No family. Just a bunch of kids straight out of the school of hard-knocks, with no skills and no hope beyond what meager plans the Executives had managed to throw together with limited personnel and no funds. He didn't reply to Archer right away, instead, he took a nice, long drag on his cig, holding the smoke in for as long as he could, like he always saw Petrel do, and slowly let it all out. He couldn't believe he'd ever given smoking up, before. It was just so damn relaxing. Archer waited patiently as he always did, and Proton had to hand it to him; he was always cool, calm, and collected, even when everything was pretty much shit.
"No," the green executive finally admitted, "are you?" Archer silently shook his head, stealing a glance at his sister and Petrel across the room.
"No," he agreed, "no, and I don't think I ever will be. ...Do you think this is going to work?"
"Let's play a game: it's called 'how many times can we say no before takeover?'" Archer let out a distressed laugh at that and ran a hand anxiously through his hair; Proton offered him a small and amused, if tired, smile, and dropped the cigarette to he floor, crushing it beneath his boot. "Look. We can only do what we can. Push comes to shove, we remind the entire damn region Team Rocket ain't a joke. No matter what happens, it can only get better from here, right?" Archer didn't answer. The two were silent for a good, long while, and Proton joined the interim boss in staring across the room at Ariana and Petrel, watching them fret and fuss going this way and that. They were prepared, as best they could. They had to be. It was the moment of truth. The final stretch. The last measure. It was time.
"You're leading the charge," Archer finally said, "get your equipment and get up front. We're setting out once Petrel's disguise is finished." Proton didn't protest. He watched quietly as Archer straightened his uniform and brushed a speck of dust off his shoulder. It was all about the presentation, after all, and today was crucial. They'd washed and ironed their uniforms, dressed the grunts up in nice, even ranks. Their equipment was pristine and shining, looking for all the world new and unyielding. It was amazing what a little bit of elbow grease could do. At about that moment, Ariana called for her brother's help in assisting Petrel with some prosthetics, and Archer excused himself to run over and lend a hand. Proton slowly turned his attention back to the grunts lined up near the exit, catching sight of Decarli and Seliber near the front. He would be counting on them. He had no doubts they would do him proud, today.
Twenty minutes later, Archer gave the order, and they marched.
The Goldenrod Radio Tower was busy, that day. There was a field trip going through the building, and a new talkshow had called for a large variety of interviewees to take part. Staff ran around the building crazily in a very successful attempt at running things quickly, smoothly, and above all else, on time. The only oddity of the day thus far was that the tower director had called in sick, and to be fair, the man was starting to get on in years; it wasn't as if he were a spring farfetch'd anymore, after all, and the man worked far too hard to not have at least one day off, regardless of whether he was actually sick or not. The Radio Tower was so busy, in fact, that not a single person noticed the oddly large amount of loiterers, that day. Men and women in hoodies and dark clothing just inexplicably began turning up in the lobby one by one, completely ignored by the civilians running hectically around the building. Some slipped up the stairs when nobody was watching them, and some wandered around before heading back outside; there seemed to be no rhyme or rule to their movements, no purpose for their being at the Tower itself, and no one noticed: no one except for a little girl with big, curious eyes, who found the sight of these people quite strange, but was brushed off when she tried to tell her teacher, who was much more concerned with managing the class on their field trip. Later, the teacher would have been wishing he paid more attention when the girl had tapped his arm and asked him what the weird people in black were doing there.
It wasn't long into the day when the first gunshot sounded from out in the streets, and the panicked screams of citizens rang out; a few workers on the upper floors were able to see the commotion below, the man and woman in white with a small legion of people clothed entirely in black from their hat to their pants, all armed to the teeth with guns and pokemon, marching in an orderly fashion down the streets; it seemed their brief reign of terror would be over when a squadron of police cars pulled up and the brave heroes of GPD accosted them, but they were shot dead in a fashion even more orderly than the marching, and that was when the panic within the tower began. The workers on the upped floor tried to run but were met at the doors by the dark-wearing loiterers, who produced weapons of their own and forced them onto their knees on the floor, hands behind their heads. Screams were erupting from the lower floors as though a crop of mandrakes had been harvested; those who were lucky to have avoided the loiterers were running for the lobby door in a mad scramble, attempting to flee before they, too, were shot, but the first few who made it out the door went down, and those who were following them skidded to a frozen halt.
The lobby doors opened once more, but this time instead of anyone running out, the man with blue hair and the woman with red entered, a steady stream of black-wearing grunts pouring in from behind them, shouting orders and pointing their guns and rounding up all of the bystanders in the lobby until they were pressed in a neat little circle on their knees just as the workers up the stairs were. Some people shook with terror, some sobbed, some stayed quiet with their eyes fixed on the ground. The man and woman in white, however, looked pleased, content with the situation, as though everything was going to plan—and in Proton's opinion, standing just behind them with the Radio Tower Director in one hand and a handgun in the other, everything was. The grunts were following his personnel layout to the t, and they hadn't run into any roadblocks yet whatsoever. Things were going even better than according to plan, he thought, because they had, in fact, planned for the worst, and today, it seemed luck was on their side for once in the entirety of their existence.
None of them said anything. The men, women, and children on the floor were told to stand by Decarli, and they were made to march upstairs into one of the larger rooms where they were all put to the back, against the wall. A large portion of grunts remained on this floor; a smaller detachment followed the three executives up the stairs, all the way to the top, where the broadcasting room was. The workers inside were thrown out of their seats and to the cold floor; one tried to fight back, but Proton was quick, and put a bullet in her head before she even came anywhere near them. Archer took his space at the console; Proton forced the director to the floor next to him as Ariana kept her eyes on the workers. The PA was flipped on, and finally, for the first time since they set out, Archer spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Radio Tower," he announced, sounding as though he were announcing afternoon tea rather than a hostile invasion, "salutations. As you have no doubt noticed, the building has been occupied by Team Rocket personnel, however, fear not; we have no need of you or your pathetic facilities save for your broadcasting station. Should everything go to plan and no one tries to play hero, we should be out of your hair within the week, so allow me to make myself clear: you will comply with any and all orders from my agents, or you will find yourself very much wishing you had. We have no tolerance for interference. Remain quiet and obedient, and I assure you, you shall all make it out alive. Though perhaps it may be prudent to have someone you trust explain our terms to you..." The blue executive motioned with one hand, and Proton brought the director to his feet, pushing him in front of the microphone.
"Please," the old man croaked out, "please, listen to them—don't endanger yourselves any more than you already have, please, they will kill you—" Archer pushed him off to the side, and the old man fell with a yelp; a gasp came from one of the workers, and Proton smirked as Ariana shook her head and snorted. Archer, himself, cast the director an amused glance before turning back to the PA system, drumming his fingers idly on the desk in front of him.
"Take it from your very own director, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you will obey us—and we will leave you be, should you. Have a wonderful day." The PA was flicked off; the director groaned from the floor, loud and convincing.
"You damn Rockets," he muttered, voice raspy, "you're all going to Hell for this!" Everything was quiet in the room for a long moment as the three executives stared down at the old man, and after a moment, Proton cocked his gun and pressed it back against the Director's head, finger squeezing the trigger the tiniest bit; there was a collective of gasps from the workers at the side, a shout of "no! stop!", and a muffled, choked sob. Proton and the director exchanged glances for a good, long moment, and suddenly their faces split in mirth and the room was filled with the sound of loud, nearly hysterical laughter.
"Oh my Lugia!" Proton crowed, "that voice, oh my Lugia, do—do the voice again, fuck, do the voice again—!"
The director had to bite down hard on his finger to stifle his giggles long enough to look Proton dead in the eye once more and boldly proclaim "you're all going to Hell!" in his scratchy, scraggly voice, and Proton nearly fell over laughing. Archer gave them a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Ariana sighed heavily, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "children...". The hostage workers, of course, looked almost as confused as they were terrified, and one of them let out a distressed "d-director...?" Proton lent the man a hand and pulled him to his feet, helping to make sure he steadied on his feet alright.
"That was a good impersonation, Petrel," Ariana commented, "I'll admit, I was worried it would be too over-the-top, but you seem to have it down, alright, voice and everything." The director—or rather, Petrel—grinned, cracked his neck, and rolled his shoulders, bringing himself up to his usual height. Proton had to admit, his disguise was rock-solid; if he hadn't been constantly worrying over the purple executive's stab wound, he probably would have forgotten somewhere along the line that the man had dressed for the occasion. Speaking of the stab wound, though, Proton quickly frowned and moved forward to poke and prod at Petrel, who blinked at him and quirked one eyebrow.
"Are you sure you're gonna be alright by yourself?" Proton asked slowly, "I can always spare Decarli or Seliber to hang with you, it wouldn't be a problem—" Petrel merely brushed him off, waving a hand dismissively at the notion, which only caused Proton's frown to deepen; he said no more on the matter, however, as Ariana would be relatively close to Petrel's station, and of course, his beloved would still have Bernard with him after all. He would be fine. Hopefully. Without much conversation (just a confirmation between the four of them that they both remembered and understood the plan as they'd finalized it), the Executives split up, with Archer staying at the broadcast room and Ariana and Petrel off to the fifth floor; Proton was left to the fourth, and it was with a smirk that he entered. Seliber and Decarli, as well as a handful of miscellaneous grunts, had rounded most of the hostages to that floor in particular, and they cowered along the walls, children and adults alike.
"Sir!" Decarli greeted, his face trained in the emotionless expression he always wore in the U—not out of any true lack of caring, Proton knew by now, but the exact opposite. He was uneasy, and Proton could tell. Their job was dangerous. He had a family that didn't know he'd returned to a life of crime. Regardless of outcome, this could only end poorly for him, but Proton's resolved steeled. He was going to make sure Decarli came out of this as smoothly as possible; he owed the man that much, at least. Seliber, on the other hand, was visibly troubled with the situation, despite the fact that his eyes were narrowed in a vicious, intimidating glare that he threw liberally around at their hostages.
"What's the situation Decarli?" Proton asked, and his lieutenant didn't reply, but merely jerked his head towards Seliber, who sprung to attention, himself.
"Takeover complete, Sir," Seliber reported, "troops are in position and the patrols have begun. Interpol seems unwilling to enter the building while we have so many hostages; we should be expecting SWAT and possibly the National Guard, however, it is unlikely they will be able to breach our defenses easily. We're locked up tight and ready to bunker down."
"Alright." Proton grinned, broad and toothy, and twirled his handgun around one finger as though he were just playing. "Then let's get this party started." He flipped the grun's grip back into his palm and adjusted his hand comfortably, casually raising the sight to stare down it at several different hostages in turn. "C'mon, motherfuckers. We're gonna be here a while. Let's play a game."
Five days ago, the news had aired Team Rocket's takeover of the entirety of Goldenrod; Gold hadn't been there to see it, but Kris had. She'd called him from a Center all the way in Olivine to find out where he was, and if he had been okay. She sounded worried; Gold backtracked from Mahogany all the way to meet up with her, there, and then they had taken to Ecruteak, staying in the Center, there. They'd tried to get into the city, itself, but there had been more Rockets at the entrance than they could shake a sudowoodo at, and they'd been forced to return to Ecruteak.
"We have to do something," Gold said, his eye trained on the TV in the corner of the cafe. The news was playing an update on the Rocket Takeover, and though the sound was muted, he could make out the subtitles from where they were sitting. On the other side of the table, Kris stared down at her relatively untouched cheeseburger with a troubled expression. Gold's brow furrowed as his gaze returned to her. "You know we do, don't you? I know it sounds scary, but... We have to try."
"They're dangerous, Gold," she replied, a steel edge in her voice that in no way matched her timid-looking demeanor, "I told you what happened in Azalea. I got lucky. We shouldn't go anywhere near that place. Did you see all those grunts? They had guns. What do we have? Just a bunch of pokemon—that can get shot, mind you. It's not like we can just run in and battle them all into submission." Gold winced as if she'd slapped him and stared down into the goop of his own chili cheese fries. He'd forgotten about the Slowpoke Well. Kris had cleared it long before he'd managed to get there, himself. She'd buried her sentret long before he got there, too. She was right; she was lucky. Lucky that she hadn't been buried, herself.
"You've seen the news," he mumbled, "police can't even go in there. If just one person could slip inside..." The look on Kris' face told him that wasn't going to be happening, any time soon, and ended all argument. He knew she was scared. He knew she was terrified, because of the experience she had in the Slowpoke Well. On one hand, maybe it was because Gold wanted to find the bastard that had tried to hurt her and give them what-for. On the other—well, he didn't have any personal beef with Team Rocket, he supposed, but someone had to stand up to those jerks, and the police didn't seem like they would be the ones to do it.
"You need to listen to me." He looked back up to stare Kris in the eye. He'd never seen her look so serious about anything, before. "You need to listen to me right now, Gold. If you go in there they're going to kill you, and I'll never be able to see you, again. This isn't a game, this is real life, and they'll shoot you without a second thought. You don't want that, do you?"
"I...no. Not really." With a heavy sigh, Gold leaned back into his seat. He may as well have crossed his fingers behind his back; Kris being scared wasn't any reason to not try and save the day. Someone needed to clean up this mess, and the police weren't about to do it. It was up to him, Pyros, and his other pokemon. He was sure, if just one person could get into the Radio Tower... just one... Abruptly, he stood, pushing his chair back and digging in his pocket for his wallet. "I lost my appetite," he lied, "I think I'm going to go for a walk and then head back to the Center. I'll see you there?" Kris cast him a guarded look. He knew she suspected his true intentions, but he was grateful when she didn't say as much. Without another word, he went to pay his bill, and headed outside to walk towards the south of town. When he got to Ecruteak's town limits, his hand went to one of his pokeballs, and with a toss and a sparkle of blue, Houdini the girafarig was at his side. "Okay, Houdini," he said, "we're going to Goldenrod, so hold onto your hat and let's hit the trail. We'll try and make it by nightfall."
The sun wasn't quite ready to set, yet. He took a moment to tug at his laces and make sure they were tight. Then they were off, unnoticing of the red-headed boy walking back the way they came.
Silver didn't know what he was going to do. He'd heard first-hand the instant when the radio began broadcasting Team Rocket's message for his father, and he had been disgusted. His father hadn't even stuck around to look after him, what made the Executives think he'd return just for them? Just the thought of the man made Silver's blood boil. Well, that and the fact that the splintered remains of his birthright was actually managing to accomplish something. Holding an entire city for nearly a week, like that... grudgingly, Silver had to admit that maybe they weren't much of weaklings, after all. What they were doing was... impressive, though not necessarily in a good way. Maybe that was why he'd found himself drawn to Ecruteak, that day. He couldn't quite come up with another explanation for it.
He could try and slip into the Radio Tower, he reasoned with himself. Most of the grunts wouldn't know him, but he knew if he could find an Executive, they'd take him straight to Archer, and then, he'd find a way to stop it all. Somehow. He was kidding himself, of course, he mused as he headed towards a local cafe that had become a favorite of his on his journey; he knew it wouldn't be that simple. Even though Rockets were weaklings, they were vicious weeklings, and there was always a point when numbers could win out by sheer force. One boy on his own with a handful of pokemon probably wouldn't stand much of a chance, and it was a depressing thought. He'd have loved nothing more than to get in there and wreck their shit for even daring to try summoning Giovanni.
If there was one thing Silver wasn't expecting that day, however, it was to bump into the girl with the white knit cap as he made his way into the cafe. Honestly, he couldn't even begin to imagine why she was here in Ecruteak, and to be honest, she didn't look so good. To be honest, Silver didn't really care much at all. He would have been perfectly happy with squishing passed her and getting himself a sandwich, because he was very hungry at the moment. In fact, he tried to do just that, but as he did, she grabbed him by the wrist, halting him in his tracks. "Can I help you?" he sneered.
"Silver," the girl said, "Gold's gone to Goldenrod." That was enough to freeze him in place. Her face just looked so grave—this was something he needed to be worried about, her face said, this could be the death of her little friend from New Bark Town and Silver's strongest rival. He curled his hand into a fist and wrenched his arm out of Kris' grip. Then, he followed her back out the door and down behind the Pokemon Center. Neither of them said anything for a long minute, and Silver could have sworn he saw her trying not to cry; she did a good job of it. "He's been saying it all day," she continued eventually, "he just kept saying someone needed to do something about Team Rocket, and that the police couldn't and... He said he was going for a walk, but I know him, I know what he's doing—Silver, they're gonna kill him."
"I don't understand why you're involving me," the redhead replied dryly, "he's not going to exactly listen to what I have to say, I'm pretty sure." He'd never seen eye-to-eye with Gold, in the past; Kris, a little moreso, as she had been quieter than her loud and brash friend. Silver hated both of them, but if he had a choice of who he would be stuck with in hell for all eternity, it probably would have been Kris. Idly, he tapped his fingers against his other arm. She had always been so strong, in the past. Not as strong of a trainer as Gold, maybe, but that wasn't the strength Silver was even thinking of. He knew about a lot of what happened to her on her journey. He knew what had happened to her at the Slowpoke Well, and what had happened to her pokemon. Even after that, she just carried on. She caught new pokemon and trained them, and though she had long ago deviated from the Gym Challenge, all of her pokemon were decorated veterans of the Pokethlon. He was sure that, regardless of what happened in Goldenrod, she wouldn't cry. She would never cry. She would bottle it up inside and tear herself to shreds one feeling at a time, but she would never ever cry. That was exactly what Silver had done when his father abandoned him.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the wall of the pokemon center and stretched, cracking his back and neck. Gold was stupid, but brave. He would likely try a full-frontal assault like he had on the Rocket base in Mahogany, and Silver knew that would only end in disaster. He would need a good, solid plan, and if Silver was right, he would need a lot in the way of backup. He was more than convinced the Radio Tower would be a nigh-impenetrable fortress, filled to the brim with bloodthirsty Rockets ready to slit the throat of anyone who got in their way. Silver was the only chance Gold would have—especially with all four executives there. Kris' eyes betrayed her worry as he began to walk away from her. "Silver...!" she called, voice tinged with desperation. Silver merely cast a glance back at her over his shoulder.
"Are you coming with me," he said slowly, "or not?" He didn't need to look back a second time to know she was right behind him. Maybe, he thought, just maybe, the Radio Tower scheme would work. Then his father would see just how powerful Silver had become over the passed years. He was looking forward to it.
Days. It had been fucking days since they first took the Radio Tower, and nothing had changed. Every day it was the same: Archer sat up in the broadcast room sending out their message while Ariana guarded her floor and Petrel gave daily updates to the hostages via the PA system, disguised as the Director. There was only so long Proton could take listening to the same propaganda that was keeping the hostages securely under their thumbs, even with as few agents as they had in the organization, anymore. Decarli and Seliber handled most of the work, providing their hostages with water from the fountains every now and again; they needed to be kept weak, but alive, as they were the only real protection their tiny organization had, right now. For the most part, Proton didn't have any problems with the hostages. They were scared and meek and quiet and listened to anything he told them. Hell, he'd even gotten them to play I Spy, like, fifty times with him, already. It just so happened that most of the things he spied could be used to kill all of them. Things were good and quiet for the first five days of their occupancy—but that didn't mean Proton wasn't starting to get near the end of his rope.
He'd barely slept since they made it to the Radio Tower, let alone since he started staying at Decarlis' place, downtown. He forgot to eat a lot, himself, too, and though they brought rations with them, they were meager and unappetizing. He felt sluggish and weak all the time, and he struggled to maintain the appearance of a powerful, fear–mongering executive in front of hostages and grunts alike. Proton, himself, felt that his efforts mostly fell short. He spent his days sitting on a desk, hunched over with his eyes opened wide and staring blankly into space. He would play with the safety of his handgun, unload it and reload it, twirl it between his fingers, anything he could do to just pass the time. He was anxious, and it was showing, bad. It seemed, however, that this was more than enough to keep everyone in line. He'd seen the looks Decarli had been giving him the passed few days, and he didn't miss the way a hostage or two would twitch with each click of his gun's safety. Sometimes it made him chuckle. Most of the time he kept quiet.
At the current point in time, Seliber had run off to do rounds, checking in on all the security points and making certain the rotating guard was keeping themselves awake and alert at all times. The grunts were scattered around the room, only one or two actually standing guard over the hostages; the rest were either eating or taking naps. Proton had no idea how they could even sleep in this situation. Decarli was seated not far from him, digging the dirt out from under his nails with a pocket knife. There was nothing particularly interesting going on at the moment—except for the odd sounds Proton was hearing that he was pretty sure he hadn't the past couple days. Whispers, they were. Murmuring in the crowd. They were talking to each other—they were plotting, he realized, they were plotting to escape. To fight back and ruin everything. Not all of them—a small group of them, the man who the children had called teacher and various other civilians. Their hushed voices carried no meaning to the green executive save for one thing: they didn't want to be heard, so obviously they were plotting something. Finally, he found himself thinking, some action. A chance to actually have a little bit of fun.
"Hey." For the first time in a few days, Proton spoke, his voice quiet and hoarse but with a dangerous edge. At that moment, all activity stopped and it seemed every head had turned his way. Slowly, his eyes traveled across the cluster of hostages plotting near the wall, trying to decide which of them had taken charge. "You guys got somethin', over there?" No one said anything. Slowly, Proton slid off the desk and stood on his feet, and as he approached the civilians, they parted easily before him, eyes downcast, until he came to a stop in front of the group that had been chattering. They looked at him half in fear, half in disgust, and he couldn't help but laugh, loud and cruel. "Show me." Held at gunpoint, the teacher reluctantly turned, holding out the item they had been discussing—a plastic knife. A plastic fucking knife. So much for a weapon. Proton motioned for the man to hand it over, and once it was securely in his gloved hand, he turned it over once or twice before snapping it cleanly in two and dropping the pieces to the floor.
"Someone's going to stop you eventually," the teacher spat, "once the National Guard gets here, you're all dead—!" Abruptly, Proton twirled the gun around in his hand and bashed the man in the head with the butt of it, knocking the man cleanly to the floor. A few people gasped and a couple kids started crying, but Proton payed none of that any mind. He kicked harshly at the teacher, steel-toed boot connecting securely with the man's crotch, and he let out a pained yelp.
"Let's get something straight here," the green executive hissed, loud enough for all in the room to hear him, "we fuckin' told you that, long as you listened to us, and long as you behaved, you'd get out of here scott-free. But I have permission to dole out the punishment each and every time one of you shitnerds fuck up. And you know what? You just done fucked up bad." He spun the handgun so it was once more right side up and clicked the safety off. "Let's see... who gets the first shot...? Eenie, meanie, miney, moe, one of 'em has gotta go..." Slowly, he walked along the length of the throng of hostages, peering each and every one of them over as though they were nothing more than a rotting piece of meat. His gaze washed over the adults, coming to rest on the children huddled together, and specifically to the smallest boy in the center. The barrel of his gun raised to point directly at the boy, and somewhere in his stomach, Proton felt a sick sense of satisfaction, of excitement. For the first time in weeks, he was going to draw first blood, and he couldn't be happier.
Or, he would have been, if Decarli hadn't taken that exact moment to quickly place himself between Proton and the children, eyes wide and body tense. "Proton," he said carefully, "Proton, what are you doing?" Proton sneered; the stupid man, stupid stupid man, choosing this specific moment to undermine his authority.
"Get out of the way, Decarli," he sneered, flicking the action. Decarli didn't back down, merely raised his hands in a placating motion. His voice was even and measured, promising hell to pay if Proton ignored him.
"They're kids, Proton," his lieutenant growled, "don't you dare lay a fucking finger on one of them, they are kids. We're not going down that road, not today. Just put the gun down and walk away."
"What's up with you, you fucking bleeding heart?!" Proton snarled. "You turnin' on us, man?! Huh?! What, you gettin' cold feet? Gonna start a riot or somethin'?"
"Petrel wouldn't want you to do this, Proton, you know that." To Decarli's credit, he didn't falter, and he didn't back down. Any other grunt in the room would have flinched and whimpered and backed out of Proton's way, and they were all complete and utter cowards. Decarli wasn't; he was brave, and stubborn, and that was what Proton always liked about him, why he'd made the man his second-in-command. "Just slowly, and carefully, give me the gun, and go take a rest." Proton stared at him, sneering but silent, for all of two seconds. It occurred to him that the hostages had to get the plastic knife somehow—they'd checked all of them beforehand, no one had any weapons. That meant that someone gave it to them. And who, Proton mused, had been in charge of the food (and by extension, utensil) supplies?
Decarli.
Rage tore through his very being at the thought of his friend, his only friend, his trusted friend, betraying him so horribly, so coldly, and the next thing he knew, the world had become a blur of movement and light and sound and color. When everything shifted back into focus, Decarli lay on the floor in front of him swearing and gasping and shuddering in agony as blood pooled beneath him. One of his eyes was on the floor maybe a foot away, covered in blood, itself, with some fleshy strings still attached. As his friend writhed, Proton fingered the switchblade now in his other hand. There was no room in their ranks for traitors, he found himself thinking, not now. Without another word, he raised the gun once more and shot once, twice, three times into Decarli, watched his body spasm and heave. Within minutes, he was dead. The silence that descended upon the room was deafening. Proton wiped his switchblade on his pant leg and returned it to his back pocket.
"Let this be a lesson to you all," he said, the quietness of his words steeped in barely contained fury, "you fuck up, I fuck you up." He spun on his heel, intending on making his way back to the desk he had occupied, when something stopped him in his tracks. They had one grunt too many. He turned his gaze in the direction of the grunt in question, a female with blue hair, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. When she noticed him staring at her, her eyes widened, and he could see her entire body trembling. Something about this girl was familiar, and she wasn't supposed to be there. She wasn't one of them. As he turned to approach her, she took a small step back, and then another, and another, and he made to lunge at her but she let out a yelp and ran for the far wall, trapping herself in a corner even as one hand flew to the pokeballs on her belt. "Well, well, well," Proton murmured, "what do we have, here? I thought I told you to keep your pretty little neck out of other people's business." The girl said nothing, and Proton grinned, lopsided and toothy in a way that only served to make him look that much more deranged. "All alone in the pyroar's den, tsk, tsk, tsk. Didn't your mama ever teach you better, doll?"
"Mist!" the girl cried. She threw a pokeball down at the ground, and in a flash of red light, the feraligatr materialized and pulled itself to its full height, blue headcrest sparkling magnificently. Proton's grin broadened; Twitch needed the exercise, he was sure. His hand was half-way to his belt when the girl gave her pokemon the order: "Hydro Cannon!" The smile vanished from Proton's face immediately, replaced by a look of dumbfounded shock.
A second later, the blast of water propelled him through the far wall into the next room, and all he knew was a world of pain. Somewhere in the middle of it all, he blacked out.
Truth be told, Petrel was bored. Five days of doing the same voice over and over and keeping the same disguise up was getting really, really obnoxious; he couldn't remember the last time he'd needed to do so for such a long amount of time. To make matters worse, Ariana had found each and every one of the weed stashes he'd hidden when he first got to his station, so there wasn't even anything fun for him to do, nevermind not even being able to phone out for a fucking pizza. Life sucked, and life sucked bad. Stagnation was one of his least favorite things. Currently, it was just after lunch time, and Petrel was honestly considering putting the PA on hold for a while and sending for Proton so the two of them could spend some well-deserved stress-relief together; they hadn't been able to so much as make out with each other since Proton had left for Goldenrod so long ago. Petrel spent most of his days feeling more than a little frustrated with that. On the upside, things around the Radio Tower were relatively quiet. Occasionally they had to deal with negotiations with the authorities, but generally those situations ended with if you come into this radio tower we will kill everyone including you and the hostages, and more or less kept the police and interpol alike off their back. Things, in all honesty, could not get much smoother.
And then he heard the gunshot.
There were some screams, some muffled yelling, and it sounded to be coming from the general direction of Proton's station. Startled, Petrel had flinched, and uneasily he now turned his gaze to the floor in the far corner of the room. It was difficult not knowing what was going on; he assumed that it was entirely possible Proton had the situation under control, after all, it had only been one gunshot. Maybe one of the hostages tried something stupid. Either way, a bad feeling was settling into the pit of the purple executive's gut, and he didn't like it one bit. Anxiously, he fiddled with the pokeballs on his waist, all koffing and his singular weezing. Slim and Helix, of course, he'd left in the PC at a local pokemon center nearly a week before, just in case. They would be safe, there, regardless of what happened; it was all he could do for them, at this point. All he could do for himself. Suddenly, he heard faint footsteps from the hall beyond the room's closed door. It wasn't one of the patrols. It wasn't one of the others. They radioed each other when they were going to be dropping by, and the guards never bothered with this hall, as the only occupants of this side of the floor was Petrel, who was more than capable of taking care of himself. His grip on his pokeball tightened. The door burst open.
"Mr. Director!" was the first word out of the boy's mouth, "I knew I'd find you! Listen, we need your help—!" The boy went on and on and on and Petrel didn't stop him. He looked... familiar. Like he should have known him, but couldn't quite place him, and deeply, he frowned. There was movement beyond the boy not a second later that caught his eye, a flash of red and black, and for a second, he thought one of the guards was going to take care of the little sap for him, but oh, how wrong he was.
"Don't be an idiot, Gold," Silver said as he entered fully into the room, "there's no way that's the director. They wouldn't leave him here, where he could be a problem. He's one of the executives." Gold. That was right. That was that kid. The one Petrel fought while he was high. But what was Silver doing, here? Petrel had been pretty damn sure the kid never wanted anything to do with them, ever again. Gold, himself, looked surprised by Silver's revelation.
"Good call, kiddo," he said in his regular voice. The sound of it was refreshing, relaxing even—he hadn't realized how much of a strain he'd been putting on his throat just keeping in-character for five days, straight, and though it came out a little raspy, it was damn relaxing. With a few swift movements, Petrel stripped himself of his disguise, wincing as he removed well-glued prosthetics. "Guess the jig is up. Gotta tell you, right now, though, I can't let both of you pass."
"Wait, you mean this is that guy who was...?" Not-so-subtly, he gestured up towards the sky, and Petrel couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, what are we waiting for?! Let's bust his ass back to the stone age!" Gold pulled a pokeball off his belt and tossed it to the air, releasing his typhlosion in a flash of red light. When neither Silver nor Petrel made a move to let their pokemon out as well, however, the young trainer looked even more confused than before. "...Aren't you gonna fight us?" It was a good question, certainly; wasn't he? It was kind of Petrel's job to make sure they didn't get passed him. Then again, it was also his job to make sure Proton was alright, and if he fought them, there was no way he could go check up on his beloved like he wanted to, at the moment. Being honest, too, Petrel had to say that out of all of the executives, he had been the least enthusiastic about their plans, as of late. It was... tiring. He was exhausted. This life was wearing him out, and really, the only reason he hadn't left yet was... well, it was because of Proton. Proton was the only thing Petrel hadn't been able to give up, the only thing he would never give up.
"I'm tired," he said suddenly with a sigh, "so, so tired..." Silver and Gold exchanged glances; Petrel had no trouble seeing the pity in Silver's eye. "I think... I'm done with Team Rocket. I'm done fighting for them. You guys can pass." Slowly, he sat back in his chair and watched as the two boys slowly made their way towards the next room. They were half-way out the door when something suddenly possessed Petrel to call out "wait!" The boys stopped and turned around, Gold's eyes locking with Petrel's, and the purple executive couldn't help but grin, even as weary as it was. Gold paused for a minute, chewed his lip, and turned fully back around, nodding to his typhlosion, who resumed his place, ready to fight.
"Gold, what are you doing?" Silver demanded drly. Gold could only smile apologetically at the Rocket heir, offering him an awkward shrug.
"What can I say?" he answered, "I can't just turn down a rematch like that." Silver rolled his eyes, and with a 'be careful', ran off back down the hall. Petrel pushed himself up from his seat and pulled his pokeball off his belt, releasing Monoxide, who belched a thick, puffy little cloud of smoke, and proceeded to float above his trainer's head.
"I'm warning you, kid," Petrel said, "I'm in my right mind, this time. You're gonna have a hard time beating me; but hey, since I'm such a nice guy, if you do, I'll tell you where we stashed the real director. Give you the keys and everything."
"Heheh! Hey, c'mon, now—don't you underestimate me, you hear?" Gold replied, his grin broadening, "I've done a lot of training since we last fought! I'm not going down easily, either!"
"Weeeeeellll, you know what they say~" The executive smirked. "Ladies first."
"Don't mind if I do. Pyros?" The typhlosion bellowed and fell forward onto its forelegs, flames shooting out wildly from its neck. "Blast Burn!"
Suddenly, Petrel thought, the whole rematch thing didn't seem like such a good idea, any more.
Silver was almost to the top. His plan had been ingenious, and it was working pefectly. He had been surprised when he, Kris, and Gold had been able to find spare uniforms and sneak into the Radio Tower under the guize of new recruits. It had been way too easy to pull off; he was going to need to have a talk with Archer or someone about their defenses, because it was just horrible. He was also glad Kris had decided to come with him as he set off to save the day (and also maybe Gold); she was a huge help, and her quiet nature made her perfect for this kind of infiltration. Things had been going great until Proton had started shooting, and even then, once he discovered them, Kris had held her ground and bought them time to run up the tower, and Gold was now doing the same for him with Petrel. That only left two executives in Silver's way, and he would be damned if he let either of them get the best of him.
There was only one more floor above the fifth, as far as Silver knew, and it house the room he was most certain the final two would be: the broadcasting room. Archer had always been a natural with radios, and Ariana was the best PR manager Silver had ever seen. The only problem would be fighting them; while Ariana was less of a fighter, preferring to use the natural toxins of her plant pokemon, that was all she used; Grass- and Poison-types. The Grass-types Silver was certain he'd be fine with, as he had his sneasel to take care of that, but he didn't think a single pokemon of his was any good against a Poison-type. And then... well, then there was archer. His houndoom was going to prove itself the most difficult obstacle, Silver was sure. There was no telling how he would fare against the beast.
When he got to the stairs to the final floor, Silver wasn't exactly surprised to find it blocked, and neither was he surprised to see who was blocking it. Ariana stood there, arms crossed across her chest in a way that betrayed her discomfort as she watched him approach. This was going to be awkward, Silver could just feel it, now; Ariana had always tried to act as a mother to him, when he was still under the Executives' care, and as far as he was concerned, she did a wonderful job of it. He wasn't looking forward to fighting her, at all. "...Hey, Ariana," he said quietly as he approached her.
"Hello, Sweetie," she replied just as quietly. They were silent for a long moment before she spoke again. "You're going?"
"Yes."
"And I suppose I can't stop you."
"This is for the best, Ariana. He's not coming back. He's a coward." A brief look of hurt flashed across Ariana's face.
"He's your father."
"That doesn't change anything. He left me. He just left me. He didn't care; he never cared."
"Yes he did."
"No. He didn't. He never cared about any of us."
"He loved you, Silver. One day, you're going to see that."
"Get out of the way, Ariana, or I'll have Blues rip your pokemon apart."
"...I loved you, too, Sweetie. We all did. I'm not going to fight with you. I can't. Please... please just remember that."
Without another word, she stepped to the side, and nodding politely to her, Silver slowly made his way up the stairs. The door to the broadcasting room was at the far end of a long hall, and every step Silver took towards it, the anxiety inside him grew and grew until it was threatening to bubble over. This was it, he found himself thinking, this was it. This was the end of everything—his home, his birthright. His family. But... that was okay. And okay was good. He would manage without them; he had, this long. None of this would make a difference in his life.
When he turned the door knob to enter the room, Archer didn't even twitch. He was standing near the window, staring out into the streets of Goldenrod. Silver could barely make out the sounds of police sirens and the distant whirring of helicopters. "The National Guard is almost here," Archer said quietly, "we won't be able to hold out another day, at this rate." Silver didn't move an inch. Archer sighed and turned to face him. He looked exhausted, just like the others. The past five days had surely been hard on them; he'd seen the trials they faced on the news, he knew the small number of personnel they were left with. He knew that this mission was one final, desperate attempt to bring the one man back their livelihood depended on. Without his father, they were nothing, and that, above all else, angered Silver to no end. His father wasn't a hero or a fucking saint.
"You sicken me," Silver said, and Archer didn't comment, but his response was clear: I know. Removing the pokeball from his belt, he pressed the button for the release mechanism, and Orchid the meganium materialized in front of him, head held high. Archer looked to his side, where his houndoom sat as his ever-faithful companion, and nodded, and the dark-type advanced, its weary eyes locked on the grass-type before it. It was weak, hungry from starvation. Even at this point, Silver knew, his starter would be able to finish it off without issue. From the quiet, resigned expression on the blue Executive's face, Archer knew that, too. It would end all too easily.
"You left because we could no longer teach you," Archer said, "now show me what you've learned. Show me what's so much better about being a free man, Master Silver."
"Don't worry, Archer," Silver said, "I intend to. Orchid–Frenzy Plant!"
The houndoom never knew what hit it.
There was something–something making noise. Something over him, something making noise, and Proton didn't know what it was or who it was or even where he was. All he knew was that everything ached, his right leg in particular, and when he tried to shift, everything ached worse. He let out a long groan, and the something making noise over him sounded frantic, far more frantic–was it...? Decarli? No–Decarli was dead, so–so–Petrel? Slowly, the form of his lover solidified, and Proton smiled for just one moment before frowning heavily. Petrel had left his post. That could only mean...
"Pro, c'mon, say something!" Petrel was saying quite desperately, "we have to go, Proton, you gotta get yourself together!"
"Geez, asshole," Proton murmured, "can ya be a li'l more quiet...?" Petrel's expression morphed from one of pure panic to one of relative relief, and a moment later, Proton felt the larger man's arm slip under his armpit, lifting him to his feet. The instant Proton's weight fell on his right ankle, he let out a loud hiss of pain. It wasn't broken, he could tell right off, but damn it hurt. Slowly, he chanced a glance around: they were no longer inside the Radio Tower, it seemed, now instead hunkering down inside an alley that Proton knew as being only four blocks away from the Tower, itself.
"You're hurt," Petrel oh-so-astutely observed, "figures, you were blasted straight through a damn wall–I'll check out your leg once we get out of here, Sweetheart, okay? We gotta split, now."
"What happened?"
"Those kids–the ones that've been fucking with us this whole time, they broke in and wrecked our shit, the Guard was right behind them." Petrel must have noticed Proton's preoccupation with their surroundings, as he added not a moment later, "I had enough time to drag you out of there before everything went to shit. They got Archer. I think Ariana got away, but I don't know for sure."
"We need to find her." Determined, Proton tried to push himself away from Petrel and limp towards the mouth of the alleyway, but the purple executive held fast and pulled him back. For a moment, they struggled with each other, Proton flailing and cursing and spitting in Petrel's grasp and Petrel holding him as close and tight as he could until, slowly, Proton calmed and stopped. "What the hell Petrel?! We can't just leave her out there, the fuck if someone finds her?!"
"We can't, Proton!" Petrel snapped back, "Interpol and the Guard are swarming all over the damn city, my pokemon are fainted, you can barely stand and we are no match for a kid with a rattata, let alone an entire goverment platoon with fucking guns!"
"Then what do we do?" Angrily, Proton once more tried to shove Petrel away from him. "What do we fuckin' do?"
"We run," Petrel murmured as he buried his face into Proton's hat, "we run far, far away, and we wait for things to quiet down. We live to come back and save her another day." Slowly, he held out a pokeball, and Proton looked helplessly into it. There was an abra inside. Petrel had only brought six pokeballs with him, Proton was sure of it. It seemed like his beloved had been the only one to prepare for such a situation. No movements were made for a long moment, not even to speak. The shouts of barked orders floated through the city, soldiers capturing or gunning down their underlings and allies. Ariana and Archer were gone. Decarli was dead. Everything had crumbled beneath them in a manner of minutes.
What was the point?
Silently, Proton raised his hand, grasping the top of the pokeball firmly before tilting his head back to look Petrel in the eye. His lover offered him a sad, broken smile. It was for the best. Their embrace tightened. Abra used Teleport.
A second later they were standing in a treeline at a place far warmer–and far wetter– than they had been before. The sky was an angry, churning black, and a torrential downpour fell from the heavens above to drench them in an icy shower. It took Proton a moment to recognize where they were, but when he did, he could only relax: it was Hoenn. They were far, far from Johto, now, with a hardly-used sanctuary just a quick jog into town. Truth be told, sometimes Proton had forgotten that they purchased a house. It seemed like it had been such a long time ago. Above him, still nestled on his head and holding him in his embrace, Petrel took in a deep breath and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Ready?" he asked. Proton nodded. They steeled themselves for a moment, then untangled, and ran out from under the trees and into the pouring rain.
Lilycove was farther than Proton thought it would be. It took them fifteen minutes of solid running to get to the town's outskirts, and more than once one of them had slipped on the wet grass or got caught in the sticky mud. They were soaked to the bone; Proton, of course, had some minor respite, as the brim of his hat kept the worst of the drops from hitting his face, but Petrel looked more like a drowned dog than a man, at the moment. Regardless, they never stopped. They couldn't stop. Every step they took was one more step away from Team Rocket's failure, from their failure. If they could just make it inside, Proton thought, they could try and forget. Let it all go, and live on, just like Petrel said. How desperately he wanted to get inside. It was a blessing when the house finally came into view. Proton pressed himself that little bit harder, getting that final burst of speed. He was almost to the door when he slowed to a stop, acutely aware that Petrel was no longer right behind him. Brow furrowing, he turned on the spot, barely able to make out Petrel's form several yards away through the rain.
"Herod," Petrel called to him, and Proton had to say he was more than a little confused.
"I'm... sorry?" he called back. Petrel took a few of his obnoxiously large, tall-person steps, coming to a stop not even a foot away from Proton.
"Herod," he repeated, quieter this time, "my name. It's not Lambda Orpheon. It's Terenti Herod." He didn't expand, and Proton didn't press him.
"Terenti...," he murmured, tasting the way the name felt in his mouth. It was... foreign. But not bad. He liked the way his throat felt when he said it, and just to make certain, he repeated it a few more times under his breath. After all this time, he thought, of course Petrel–Terenti–would choose such a melodramatic moment as this to finally tell him.
"What about you?" The words startled him a bit. Proton had to admit, he didn't have Petrel's sense of drama, and he hadn't been planning on telling him, any time soon. He already knew Proton's real name was 'Lance'; honestly, he mused, how much more did his lover really need? Regardless, Petrel had opened up and finally told him. Perhaps it was only right that he return the sentiment.
"Lance Herod-Di Mercurio." There was another long silence after he said that, in which Petrel stared at him in mild disbelief that slowly gave way to surprise.
"Are... you saying...?"
"Cut the shit. I know you keep a ring in your pocket. You gonna fuckin' propose, or what?"
Not a minute later Proton found himself back in Petrel's embrace, and the taller man backed him up until they were finally on the house's front porch, out of the rain, with their lips locked and their kisses only increasing in fervor. Eventually Proton's back hit the door, and he turned his head to the side to fish in his pockets for the keys, letting out a soft sigh as Petrel leaned to instead kiss his neck, nipping and biting here and there. When the door was unlocked, they tumbled inside and into the entryway, tugging each other closer, pulling at each other's clothes, desperately scrabbling in an attempt to give into their primal urges and forget the entirety of the past week.
"I love you, Lance," Petrel murmured against his lips, "I love you so fucking much."
"I love you too, Terenti," Proton replied, "now help me get this fuckin' uniform off before I start dry humpin' you–" Obediently, Petrel reached to start unzipping Proton's uniform. He'd just been about to get the green executive's top off when a startled cry of "Holy Hell!" froze the two in their places, and their collective gazes snapped in the direction the voice came from. There, in the living room, coming just out of the kitchen, was a purple-haired boy garbed in red, with two young men, a blond and one with thick, wild hair, wearing similar fashions just behind him. Sleeping bags were strewn across the relatively barren livingroom floor, and looked to have been freshly put out. They hadn't been there long.
"...Hey, Tabby," Petrel greeted awkwardly. His little cousin simply continued to stare, cheeks reddening by the second, at the scene before him.
"Ye guys weren't gonna... in the entry...?" the boy asked weakly, and the two behind him turned to each other snickering.
"Uhhhh... yeah, well, we didn't know you guys were here," Petrel replied, "sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you all, didn't even realize you were here, frankly..."
"We, uh, we jes', ye know, decided te pop in an use the place as shelter, ye know?" Tabitha laughed, "I, uh, I still got a spare key, it worked, so..." Proton cleared his throat, and the two cousins quieted, turning their attention to him.
"Why don't we leave them to their thing down here," he said, "and you and me, we go upstairs and use the fuckin' jacuzzi tub?" Petrel seemed to brighten at the idea. They bid their goodnights to the boys and climbed up the stairs with every intent on continuing where they left off.
Maybe this was all for the better, Proton thought as he sat on the edge of the jacuzzi tub merely minutes later, waiting for the water to fill it. They could have a new start, here. A new life. A better life. He didn't know how they would manage it, of course–they would need credentials to get any sort of jobs, and they lacked any sort of valid identification, but... maybe it just wouldn't be all that bad. It was hard to believe everything they'd known, everything they'd worked for, had more-or-less disappeared, just like that. It was harder to believe Archer had been arrested, that Ariana would be nowhere to be found. They they would no longer have a home in Team Rocket. Nothing in Johto or Kanto worth returning to. All they had left was their pokemon, and each other. That was alright, though. Maybe that was all they really needed.
As Lance stepped into the warm water with Terenti and sat, his body was soothed, his worries washed away by bubbling jets and large, calloused hands massaging his neck and shoulders. It was alright to relax. It was alright to rest. It was alright to finally, finally let go.
"This is it, isn't it, Petrel?" Lance asked, "the end of our old lives."
"Yeah," Terenti replied, "I guess it is. Beats getting shoved into a teeny-tiny little cell, though."
"Beats it by a mile," he agreed. "Beats it by a motherfucking mile." Terenti chuckled and leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Lance's cheek.
"Let's not worry about that, right now," he continued, "we've had a long week. For now, let's just focus on us. We'll have a good, long, rest, and figure everything out in a week or two." Lance turned and leaned to kiss him back.
"Sounds like a good idea. Let's do that."
And they did.
Fin
AN: Epilogue for the next chapter. I swear to rayquaza it won't take another year. Seriously.