Disclaimer: Writer's block sucks.

Days passed and turned into weeks. Proton worked just as he always had, but things felt... different. He wasn't sure if it was a good different or a bad different, but it was different all the same. On the plus side, he had more cash. Once Giovanni had finally given him his pay, he sent what he could home and took the rest - still meager, but less so than before - into town one weekend to buy himself a new pair of kicks at a thrift store. Petrel had been absolutely appalled when he'd seen the only mildly tattered black converse.

"What the fuck are those?" he'd demanded, "didn't you talk to Master Giovanni? You know he can take care of that stuff for you, right?"

"Yeah," Proton had replied, "but they were cheap."

"Oh, fucking hell. You idiot, you're playing right into their fat fuckin' capitalist hands, you know that?"

Proton didn't have the heart the remind him that Giovanni's money had to come from somewhere. Eventually, of course, Petrel let him be; both of them had work to do, after all. While his first days as an Executive felt infinitely more lax, Proton began to notice that as time went on, more and more paperwork began to arrive at his office. Stacks soon became mountains of the most mundane shit he'd ever had to look at in his life. It was a constant wheel of compiling, filing, and editing reports and the stacks never seemed any smaller no matter how much he sent back to Archer. This whole paper trail probably wasn't the best idea, to be honest. It felt... too incriminating.

But Proton supposed that as long as the security division was up to snuff, it wasn't something they expressly needed to worry about; and they were, in fact, up to snuff. Soon enough his crew had vetted the entire security department, clearing every last grunt and admin. It was both inspiring and defeating: on the one hand, Proton was relieved there were no further moles in his own division. On the other, he guiltily had to admit to himself that he had kind of hoped there had been one; he was dying for the chance to get his hands on another weird pokeball. Either way, their efficiency in such a short time was a godsend, as it allowed Proton to spend his time working by himself in his office.

It wasn't just the paperwork—first it was his project. Proton wasn't keen on the idea of pissing Giovanni off after their last meeting. The boss's dangerous look stayed with him even well after he left that day, a burning mark in the back of his mind that served to remind him just how precarious life at the top was. He wasn't stupid. He'd known it was going to be stressful when he applied on the off chance he even gotten past the first interview. There had been something freeing about being a relatively unnoticed admin that he'd never appreciated before getting the daily reminders posted under his office door that Giovanni was expecting something extraordinary with his project's proof-of-concept—or else. The threat was never written or even implied, but somehow Proton still felt the malice radiating off the papers, and every day he worked diligently on his latest blueprints. He didn't know if a perfect capture rate was possible; frankly, even if it was, he didn't know if he would be able to deliver. But as long as it kept him on Giovanni's good side, and as long as he was still getting his paycheck, he would jump through whatever hoops he needed to stay in the game. And so, that whole first week, he worked and worked and worked, and when shift was over and his crew was going home, he worked more, calculating equations and drafting, redrafting, re-redrafting blueprints over and over as he tried to make the math work out. When he couldn't make it work out going forward, he went backward, finishing his capture equation and formulating hypothetical hardware that would output the power it needed. Finally, when it felt like he couldn't push anything any further, he wrote up another paper, then made a clean one like Petrel had showed him and took it all the way to Giovanni's office.

Giovanni, naturally, wasn't available. When Proton pressed Matori to try and at least make an appointment, she was steadfast and blocked him at every turn. He was pretty sure she disliked him as much as Ariana did. In the end, he resorted to leaving his papers with her to pass along to the big man himself. He never heard back about it, even now, when it had been easily two weeks since. With his project on the back burner, he spent his time digging into his mountain of fucking paperwork and when he could, he would roll up his sleeves and get his hands a little dirty in his block. The anxiety of having to wait for the boss's reply, the frustration of the bureaucracy, all of it washed away while he was snapping the bones of insolent shits who refused to do their jobs.

At the end of the day, when he couldn't bare to look at his work any longer and he had no intention of passing out at his desk for the umpteenth time, Proton would wander back to the apartment and collapse on the couch with Petrel to watch one of his many VHS tapes or DVDs or even the news, share a bag of popcorn, and get wasted. Petrel would bitch about his grunts, and so would Proton, and it was... relaxing. With all the work going on, there hadn't really been time for his crew to go hit the bar like they usually did, and these late-night sessions with Petrel were almost meditative. One night, they were idly watching the news, keeping score—they were running 3-1—and getting their sweet tooth on with a couple hot fudge sundaes Petrel whipped up that were absolutely orgasmic, when Proton's mind began to wander to his pokeball project.

"Hey," he said randomly, "how long does it take for boss to green-light a project?" Petrel frowned as he licked some fudge off his fingertips, shooting a sidelong glance over at him as he thought.

"It depends," he said between licks, "his schedule's pretty crazy. Between the League stuff and his business stuff he's not always able to get to us very quickly." Proton huffed in disappointment and leaned further back into the couch with a frown, stuffing another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

"Dammit," he said around it all, "I'm on fuckin' edge, man. He was pissed with me last I saw him."

"Yeah," Petrel laughed, "yeah, he gets like that. Terrifying, I'll give you that. But if you were in trouble, you bet your ass you'd know it by now."

"I guess." They quieted as another crime story ran and held their breaths, watching as the on-scene reporter interviewed a witness; they pegged Rocket down within seconds, full security footage of a couple grunts and their meowth fleeing the scene. Proton groaned and Petrel fist-pumped, cackling.

"Yeaaah, bitch, that's right!" he crowed, "pay up, loser!" He held his bowl forward and Proton rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he transferred one of his last two cherries to Petrel's sundae. He immediately popped it into his mouth, savoring every last taste.

"There's something else," Proton admitted once Petrel had finished gloating, "something... weird. That happened."

"What, did you kiss?" Petrel snorted.

"Yeah, right," Proton scoffed, "like I'd kiss Boss of all people."

"Like I would fuckin' know what you're into. So? What the hell happened?"

Proton considered his next words very, very carefully. The other executives all respected Giovanni quite a bit, that much was certain. He didn't want any of them to get the wrong idea and end up thinking he thought poorly of their boss. On the contrary, Proton, too, thought very highly of him. He was a very successful businessman as well as an extremely skilled Gym Leader. What wasn't there to be impressed by?

"He just seemed kind of displeased with me," he settled on, "he offered to take care of my expenses, and when I refused, he..."

"The fuck did you refuse him for?" Petrel interrupted him, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, no shit if he's pissed at you. He offered you something nice and you turned it down."

"What, and I assume you didn't?" The look on Petrel's face answered for him, and Proton's eyebrows raised. "It don't bother you he got control over ya like that?" Petrel laughed aloud, deep bubbles of mirth that expressed to Proton a level of incredulous disbelief.

"What fuckin' control?" he chuckled, "he owns Rocket. He already has control. No, no, no, you see, it's the opposite of control—boss has more money than any of us could ever spend. All of our needs and worries taken care of, no questions asked; this is freedom."

Freedom. Ha. Hardly. Proton remembered the look in Giovanni's eyes when he made the offer. He remembered the gun placed plainly before him during the interviews. He remembered murdering his rivals simply because Giovanni found them inconvenient. No. This was bad news. He couldn't trust Petrel to make a sound decision, because he'd not only bought the kool-aid, he'd grown up swimming in it. Naturally, then, an inconvenience was the last thing he wanted to present to Team Rocket. All he needed was to make sure he could get the cash...

"Yeah," he lied through his teeth, "maybe you're right. I never thought of it that way."

Petrel eyed him quietly for another long moment, then nodded in satisfaction. "You should let me think for you more often," he snickered, "I seem to do a better job of it than you do." Proton didn't answer, instead offering some non-committal grunt and the shrug of one shoulder. As long as Petrel seemed happy with the situation, Proton was certain it was fine. After all, it seemed like the others often pissed Giovanni off, and nothing extreme ever seemed to happen. These were little issues, and Proton was certain his worth as an Executive far outstripped any petty squabble he kicked up between himself and the boss. Letting the worries settle far off to the corner of his mind, he focused back on the television and took another bite of his ice cream.

"Oh, shit!" he said through a mouthfull, "season's almost up, who do you think's going to the Kohjoh Series?"

"What?" Petrel asked.

"You - you know. The Kohjoh Series. Who do you think's going to...?"

"Is this... is this a sports thing?"

The rest of the night followed the trend of Proton explaining to Petrel very carefully that, yes, baseball was a sport.

The next day, Proton woke bright and early, rising with the spearow. He dressed in his uniform as usual, but with big plans for the day - working with the gang nerds on the intranet and the electronic filing system, yippee! - he didn't stay to catch coffee or a bite of breakfast with Petrel, and instead, took off down the halls, a spring in his step and in full knowledge of the best vending machines on his way to his office. He was passing a maintenance grunt in one of the halls when he heard it. It was a faint, metallic creaking sound. Naturally, it must have been the grunt. They were maintenance, after all. Proton thought nothing of it and continued on down the hall. Well, something put a stop to that pretty quick.

As Proton walked, the creaking grew louder, and he looked up just in time to see a huge metal light fixture come crashing down from the ceiling. Desperately, he lunged to the side, ducking his head under the crashing debris. Bits of plaster fell from the ceiling onto him, and he coughed as he inhaled its dust. In only seconds, everything was still, and it was then he chanced a peak.

The lighting fixture was a twisted, heaping mess, and right where Proton had been standing was a sharp, jagged edge that had pierced into the very floor. He stared dumbfounded at the spot for a long moment, then exchanged looks with the trembling, white-faced grunt on the ladder.

"I'm sorry!" the grunt said, "I—I was just tightening it, and...!"

"Watch your fuckin' hands!" Proton exclaimed in reply, "you tryna kill me?!"

"No, no!" came the quick placation, "of course not, uh, Executive... uh... Executive..."

Proton let out a mangled growl and drew his hands over his face, taking deep breaths as his stomach turned in knots. The knots turned to something hotter, and Proton's lips pulled back in a snarl as he strode quickly forward, rounding the debris to grab the ladder and give it a firm shake. The grunt quickly came scurrying down. Proton rounded again on them; they began to back towards the wall.

"If you can't do your fuckin' job properly," he hissed, "we can replace you like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis, and the grunt flinched, staring hard down at their boots. "You drop anything on me again, I'll peel your fuckin' fingernails off one by one. You get me?"

The grunt nodded; Proton backed off and watched them slink off down the hall, their head lowered. It was only when they were out of sight that his shoulders sagged and he let out a long hiss of air. Anxious tension drained out of him like an unplugged tub. It had only been an accident. He didn't know why he'd reacted so strongly, he mused. Maybe Petrel was rubbing off of him — or maybe he was just fed up with grunts' bullshit. Either way, he realized, it probably was best to just forget it.

Face set into a scowl, Proton marched the rest of the way down to his office, pointedly avoiding conversations, greetings, and whatever happenings occurred in the halls around him. None of it, Proton realized, was worth shit. Smalltalk. Day to day bullshit. Grunts who were walking on top of the world because they could smoke a joint or snort a line before they had to go back out into the routes to mug kids for their pokemon. Admins who whined and complained to each other over how hard their jobs were, making sure those grunts went where they were told and brought back what was demanded of them. Most of 'em were barely fuckin' adults. His mind turned back to the day of his promotion, and what Giovanni had asked of him; it had only taken him moments to so delicately lodge a bullet in his rivals' heads. How many of these kids could do that without throwing up?

He came to his office door and let himself in, letting it swing shut glamorlessly behind him as he flipped on the lights and slid around his desk. He sunk into his chair as he pulled his laptop to him, and as he flipped the screen up and booted the system, he kicked his feet up to rest comfortably on the corner of his desk. Maybe he would eventually become an amoeba with incredible back problems, but for now, he was comfy and settled in — it was time to work. And work, like always, was boring. Again his mind returned to the day of his promotion, then to the hit in Goldenrod. When he first got picked up by Rocket, he thought life was going to be a lot more like that: a lot of action, a lot of running from cops, a lot of excitement. Instead it was... mostly this. His leg began to bounce, and his trigger finger twitched and itched. He wanted to do something exhilarating. Instead, he sat and waited for his pokeball coding software to open.

It was fun. Interesting. Once, only years ago when he was just a kid and entered into the school science fair, he first broke a pokeball down into its material components and wrote a cute little essay about what the parts were and his basic, idiotic understanding of how the pokeballs were programmed to work. He'd spent so much time digging at the library for that information. Ended up having to beg to use the library at Goldenrod U. Blue ribbon. Scholarship money. He was going to be a pokeball engineer at Silph.

And look where he fuckin' was now.

Proton's lips pursed as he watched lines upon lines of code scroll on by. He was hidden away from the world in this dusty closet, instead of gazing down at the sprawling majesty of Kanto from a fancy corner office. No, life didn't turn out at all how he'd wanted it, had it? He was just another fuckin' disappointment in the footnotes of history.

The sound of his own fist slamming onto the desk jolted Proton back to reality. He hadn't realized his fingers were curled so tight; he flexed them inside his gloves, watching the leather crinkle in an oddly satisfying pattern as he did so. He stretched them out, feeling the tension release, and soon his attention again shifted as he heard the computer's little ding. His personal pokeball source coding finished loading. Leaning forward, his hand again formed a tight fist as he rested his cheek on his knuckles and began prodding through the code with his free hand. There weren't enough hours in the day. Were there ever? But Proton was going to crack this stupid formula if it killed him. Well, that was easier said than done. It was a lot of code to go through and as much as Team Rocket afforded his research, their pokeballs on hand were, uh... well... was it too rude to say "ancient?" Years old, at least, while technology was soaring ahead. Maybe even a decade. They weren't the old turn-knob pokeballs, but they weren't no spring torchic, either. Opened slow, compared to the shiny new ones Proton would see when he went window shopping.

Now, Proton wasn't one for catching a ton of pokemon. He had his zubat, and that was it. He hadn't even gone out of his way to get Twitch. Their friendship had just happened, and Proton had saved up change off the street until he could get a single damn pokeball in the first place. Maybe 200P didn't seem too expensive, now - what was that, the cost of a shitty candy bar? But to little kid Lance, that had been like buying a sports car. Proton settled back further into his chair and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. It felt awkwardly light. Squeezing the sides open, he frowned into the change pocket. 50P, 10P, 20P, 50P, 5P... 235P total. He stashed the wallet back in his pocket and hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. Figuring he wouldn't be gone too long, he decided to leave his computer on, and locked the door after him as he stepped back out into the hall. He didn't think there would be time to make the hike down to the bus stop and make it back in time to get anything of use done. The bus up the mountain only came around every couple hours, and he'd need to start the walk now to finish the round trip by the next day.

This would have been a problem for him even a few weeks ago, but now Proton was pretty damn sure he had a sweet new in. He found himself not much later at the glitter-stenciled door of Petrel's lab, rapping sharply at the wood with his knuckles. He let himself in as he was bid to enter, and was treated to the sight of Petrel hunching over a large microscope at one of the lab tables, stacks of petri dishes surrounding him. He was observing one in particular, frowning through the lens for a minute before turning to scribble illegible characters into his nearby note pad. His attention thoroughly glued to his work, he hardly looked up as Proton approached, merely pressing his eye back to the lens to observe the culture for another long moment.

"Heya, Petrel," Proton greeted, and Petrel grunted in reply. "I was wonderin' if you wouldn't mind drivin' me to town for a bit? I got some errands to run, wanted to get some shit before dark."

Petrel adjusted the focus of his lens slightly before finally pulling back, shooting Proton a brief glance before he scribbled a few more lines in his notebook. "I'm busy," was all he said, "take the bus." Proton frowned.

"I gotta walk to the stop. That'll take hours. Ain't like I got a pokemon to ride. Ain't got a bike, either."

"Walking is good for your health. Take it from me. I'm a doctor."

"C'mon, don't be a dick." Proton sat back on the edge of the table, leaning over Petrel's work to observe. Finally, Petrel pulled back from the microscope, setting the dish to the side, and leveled Proton with a distasteful stare.

"Do you mind?" he groused, and Proton grinned.

"Just a quick drive?" he tried again. "You look like you need to get out. I'll buy you a pack."

"Like you could afford my brand."

"I got more saved up than you'd think. Live a little. It's one li'l drive. PokeMart and back."

Petrel heaved a massive sigh and turned his microscope off, settling back into his own seat. He must have been there a while. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his joints creaked and popped as he moved. Despite his intense stare, however, Proton did not look away. His smile, in fact, broadened, and he casually bopped Petrel's shoulder.

"We can put the top down."

Petrel's shoulders loosened, and his jaw unclenched. Proton could see a far-off look in his eye as he imagined the trip, and that was that. Petrel pushed himself up to his feet and shuffled towards his desk to collect his things.

"Only a quick drive," he said pointedly, "I'm in the middle of recording data for my experiment. Remember the koffing piss?" Proton quickly snatched his hand away from the petri dish he was in the middle of picking up, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he recalled the smog, the smell, and the way a single drop had started to burn holes in the floor. Petrel laughed. "We'll need to get changed. Pit stop at the apartment, then we're on the road."

And soon enough, they were driving down winding mountain roads, wind blowing through their hair and buffeting their faces. Proton enjoyed watching the scenery as it sped by, absorbed in his thoughts of pokeballs and how he was ever going to get the math to work out. The mountains eventually bottomed out, and as they approached the city limits, he watched the last bus fly by them in the opposite direction, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at their timetable. It was still, to its own credit, a long drive, but Petrel's car was comfortable and much less awkward than the bus, even if Petrel mostly kept to himself on the drive.

Blackthorne City itself was much more comfortable than Goldenrod was. It had a lot of old culture to it: shrines, temples, local craftsmen, the Lake of Rage. It had a few local izakaya and a club that were run by the organization, and so there was always a safe house they could run to if they needed it. They even passed the bar where he whooped Carillo's ass along the way. Proton couldn't help but smirk as they drove by.

The most important thing about Blackthorne City, to Proton, was its local university. Blackthorne Uni was prestigious in the greater KohJoh area, second only to the university in Saffron City. The main campus was on the south side of the city, and although the buildings themselves were difficult to spot, their Battle Arena could be seen from anywhere in the city. Proton loved to catch a glimpse whenever he could. He'd been preparing for his entrance exams the day he'd run afoul of Team Rocket. It was funny, how life turned out.

The car parked with an abrupt lurch, and Petrel threw it into neutral and pulled the parking break. Proton followed him out of the car and into the mart, beelining for the pokeballs as Petrel headed back to use the restroom. The pokeballs were all lined up in baskets and hanging from hooks attached to the shelves. Some were in sealed packs of three, five, a dozen. Some were just sitting by themselves, waiting for someone to pick them up. Mostly, they were the standard pokeballs, a comfortable red and white. There were some greatballs there, too, a daring blue. Finally, the coup de grace, the ultraballs, were at the endcap, its black-and-yellow casing begging Proton to pick it up. His mind wandered to the few coins in his wallet. Next time, he decided to himself, next time he would get an ultraball. For science. For now...

He took a single pokeball from one of the baskets and made his way up front just as Petrel came back out. His fellow executive took one look at the single, sad pokeball in his hand and his brow raised with some manner of exasperation.

"Really?" he deadpanned, "you made me drive you all the way to town for a single fucking pokeball?" Before Proton could even answer, Petrel had shaken his head and went to browse the pokeballs for a minute. When he returned, he firmly pressed a greatball and an ultraball into Proton's hands. "Here. Fondle these balls. I need a goddamn drink."

"Dude, I don't got the cash for—"

And again Petrel was gone, moving with a sort of energy that was anathema to his usual slow limp. In short order, he rounded up a few coffees, some beer, and an armful of snacks, then went to plop them all onto the counter. He looked at Proton expectantly.

"I'll spot you," he offered, "hurry up. I want to go home."

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but—"

Petrel rolled his eyes and turned away, pulling out his wallet to slide a few bills across on the money tray, and asked loudly if the cashier would add the three pokeballs to the sale. Proton uttered a frustrated cry, but the cashier only nodded and took the bills in hand, counting out exact change with the speed of an alakazam accountant.

"Fuckin'... hell," Proton groused as they headed back out to the car, "I mean, yeah. thanks, but I told ya, I had it."

"And now you still have it," Petrel replied, "you're welcome. I'm telling you, it's sad an Executive can't even afford a few pokeballs." When Proton was seated, Petrel dropped the pokemart bag onto his lap and then buckled himself in. "You wouldn't have these problems if you just took Master Giovanni up on his offer. Long as you don't spend like an idiot, he gives you some free reign."

"I'm not forfeiting my own fucking agency to boss. I can pay for myself"

"I don't see the big deal. You live off his payroll, anyways."

Proton shut his mouth tight at that. It was different, he wanted to snap, but he knew no matter what he had to say, Petrel would never believe him. He'd already swallowed the hook, and arguing wouldn't get Proton. anywher. It just wasn't worth the headache. With a frustrated sigh, he settled back in his seat and watched Blackthorne Uni's Battle Arena pass by as Petrel started the car and began the drive back to HQ.

Proton went to bed fuming, that night.

A/N: Been a while! Don't worry, I'm still writing. ;) Finished my second degree and am living in an existential crisis of not being able to find a job (like everyone else right now) but I'm intending, now that I'm free from school, to start writing more frequently.

Constructive criticism and feedback is always welcome, so please review and subscribe to this story if you're interested in reading more!