Proton had absolutely no idea how Petrel managed to talk him into boarding this flying metal death trap to the worst shithole on planet Earth, but here the both of them were, sitting in the back with Petrel in the window seat, Proton next to him, and a complete stranger in the aisle. Their pokemon were stored in the plane's on-board computer, and between the two of them, they had one bag of essentials each, and not much else. Proton hated every minute of the long flight. He'd say it felt like he was trapped, but that wasn't the truth of it. He actually was trapped, strapped down into this tiny seat with next to no leg room and his own mortality staring him in the face as Petrel watched the ocean pass by below them. The plane would certainly crash into the depths, and they were all doomed. Petrel, of course, assured him he was just being melodramatic.
They had gathered their things and left HQ not long after their trip to Viridian, taking just as much time as they needed in order to arrange tickets and create a vague plan of action. There had been a side trip to the Intelligence division in order to scrounge up whatever documents they could on Cipher without arousing Archer's suspicions. The only thing more nerve-wracking had been when Petrel set off the metal detectors at the security gate. Proton had thought for a long, horrible stretch of time as Petrel was taken off to be patted down that the idiot had brought something incriminating and the both of them would end up in the slammer. Yet Petrel had come back relatively quickly a free man, and none the worse for wear, though looking disgruntled by the entire process.
"What the hell was that about?!" Proton had hissed to him in undertones as they speed-walked towards their departure gate, and Petrel had grimaced.
"It's nothing," he had dismissed, "I just have a few pins in me, is all. Happens all the time." Proton wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not, but he had decided not to press the mater. Now, they were five hours into their flight, and he was begging any higher power that would listen to make their fiery crash a quick and painless death.
"Hey," Petrel said, "I think I see a wailmer!" The plane trembled and Proton froze, his hands gripping the armrests like his life depended on it. Another tremble; he squeezed his eyes shut. When everything evened out and it no longer felt like the plane was getting ready to nose-dive, he cracked them back open to see Petrel staring at him with honest amusement.
"Is this really the first time you've been on a plane?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah," Proton bit back, "with all that cash I had laying around, I had my own fucking private jet, did you know?"
"These things are pretty safe," Petrel continued as though he hadn't heard, "but if you need to calm down, I've got some gummies you can have."
"Fuck off!" Proton snapped, "I'm not some kid, you can't bribe me with candy!" Petrel shrugged.
"Alright. Suit yourself." Petrel returned to looking out the window; Proton hunkered down in his seat, squeezed his eyes shut, and went back to praying. Their seatmate, who seemed pretty awkward about the entire ordeal, put their headphones on and tuned into another in-flight movie. The plane shook violently once more, and Proton jumped as his stomach twisted. He hurriedly grabbed the paper bag from the seat-back pocket in front of him and doubled over, retching. Petrel patted his back patronizingly.
"There is no god," Proton gasped between heaves.
"Just three more hours to go," Petrel told him cheerfully. "Sure you don't want that gummy? It's medicine."
"You could have told me that sooner!" Proton protested. "You've been getting off on this, you sick basta–uuurrgghh..."
It took a little bit for his stomach to calm down, but when it did, Petrel took the sick bag to dispose of it and returned with a water cup, which he made Proton drink before handing over the gummy. It was good; might have been home made, because it was chewier than the kinds Proton had bummed off friends in the past. But it was a delightful crisp apple flavor, which was a lovely bonus on top of... whatever it was supposed to do. He didn't feel the effects right away, but Petrel assured him that was normal. It must have been only half an hour later when everything was just kind of good. Colors were more vivid, and he could feel the wind and air carrying them safely through clouds. He was completely and totally relaxed, floating along with the plane like it was some sort of dream. Even the bruises from being hit by Giovanni's car and the pain of his twisted ankle seemed distant and removed.
"This feels nice," he remembered saying.
"Yeah," Petrel laughed back, "I sure bet it does."
Time seemed to stretch out and contract both, like he was aware of every passing minute but still racing through it. The plane was still caught in turbulence here and there, but it hardly bothered him. At some point he heard Petrel telling a stewardess that everything was fine, that Proton was just under the effect of some medication or another. At another point there was food, and it was orgasmic. The tastes were like nothing he had experienced in his life before, the flavors deep and astonishing, and all of it from a little microwave meal they plopped in front of everyone. No one else seemed impressed, but Proton devoured his like a starving man. Eventually the plane landed and there was a bus or a taxi or something, and they were driving down a long, bumpy road. Here, too, the sky was vivid and the sands glistening and gorgeous. Proton wanted to go lay in the sands, feel them move, feel the wind. His memories became very, very fuzzy after that.
It was some time later that he woke in a shitty, creaky motel bedroom to the smell of warm, thick, stale desert air, his head pounding and his mouth dry. He licked his lips and smacked them, trying to swallow around the discomfort, bleary eyes struggling to focus on the cracked ceiling. Where the hell was he? And what had been in that gummy? He slowly pushed himself up to sit, the thin sheets pooling around his waist as he scooted back to steady himself against the cheap metal of the frame's headboard. His back was sore, and with each movement he could feel the distant throb of his bruises. His ankle was... mildly better. Still hurt when he moved it, but not as bad as earlier. He scratched idly under his t-shirt as he took a look around the room. It was small - about the size of the dorm he shared with his squad back in the admin barracks. There was space enough for the single bed, a dresser with an old TV on top of it, and a desk with a beat-up wooden chair tucked neatly under it. One door to the left, and another to the right with a closet door next to it. The bathroom, he discovered as he heard a toilet flush. Petrel popped out a minute later, drying his hands off on an old towel, and he flashed Proton his usual practiced smile.
"Well, look who woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he greeted. "No, really. Scooch over. There's not much room." Proton stared at him dumbly for a second before turning his eyes back down to the mattress, slowly processing the number of beds in the room. One, he finally decided, and as his head hurt far too much to kick up a fuss, he scooted over to the edge without complaint. Petrel carefully sat himself down on the side closer to him and then swung fully up to sit next to Proton, leaning back against the wall. The bed creaked in protest under them; it was small, and cheap, and most certainly not meant to hold more than one person. Petrel heaved a deep, relaxed sigh, and checked his watch before reaching for the remote at the worn bedside table. He clicked through channels until he found the news, then turned the volume up just a tad. Everything was in a language Proton didn't recognize, but that was fine. He didn't think he'd even want to pay attention to anything in this state.
"What the fuck did you give me, man?" he croaked, and he didn't miss the devious glee flash across Petrel's face as the other man glanced over at him.
"Oh, come on, that can't be the first time you had edibles, right?" he snickered, "I was a grunt once, too, you know. And an admin. I know how the parties can get."
"Did you seriously fuckin'...?" Proton rubbed his eyes. "Did you seriously drug me? You said it was-"
"Don't get your panties in a twist," Petrel cut him off, "you were three minutes away from throwing yourself out the emergency exit. I spared you hours of bitching. Now!" He shifted, turning on his side, and Proton raised an eyebrow. They were practically touching; he could feel Petrel's breaths as much as he could smell the nicotine on them, could feel his body heat, even. Petrel didn't seem particularly concerned, but Proton edged as much as he could to the side of the bed. It really didn't help. "You said you needed to work some magic for us."
Oh. Yeah. Proton scratched his hair and then held out his hand expectantly. "Need your pokeballs and the laptop," he replied, "and don't fuck with me, right now. My head hurts." Petrel laughed.
"You've come a long way from 'I'll allow it,'" he teased. "Look at you, almost acting like a grown-up. Papa Giovanni will be proud." He picked himself up and then opened the closet door, pulling out their meager luggage to plop them up on the desk. Their pokeballs, of course, had been stored in the plane's internal bank during their flight. It was marketed as a convenience, but Proton, despite never having taken a plane before, knew it was more than that: pokemon could be scanned for potentially dangerous moves, and could simultaneously be kept out of the hands of anyone who may have been tempted to use those moves while they were in the air. When Petrel had explained his plan to smuggle their pokemon onboard to avoid this little roadblock, Proton had looked at him like he'd grown an extra head. There was a much, much easier way to get around it.
Petrel passed him the laptop and the pokeball dock, and Proton booted it up, then clicked through his start menu to his pokeball maintenance program. It took a few seconds to load up, but once it did, he held out his hand again, and Petrel handed over his pokeball belt. Proton took the first pokeball and plugged it into the dock. Petrel sat back down next to him to watch over his shoulder as he worked, fingers flying over keys and intermittently clicking with the trackpad.
"Most people don't know you need to run routine maintenance on your pokeballs," Proton idly explained as he worked, "not that they would understand how to, anyways. They hold data for living, breathing things, after all. Glitches can build up over time and result in abnormalities. And even the people who know how to run maintenance... hold on... almost... there." He isolated an element of the program's UI, then clicked a few more times. The screen displayed the pokemon's information, alongside a low-poly 3D render of the pokemon itself. In this case, it was one of Petrel's many koffing, showing its name (this one was Sulfur,) the name and trainer number of its master (whoever the fuck Terenti Herod was,) its condition (gorgeous,) and its moves: Tackle, and not much else... or so it would seem. "...They don't fuck around with this sort of thing. It's not supported by Silph's software and can screw your pokemon over if you're not delicate about it." He clicked, clicked, clicked, and typed away, watching the screen as Sulfur's moves were adjusted. Sludge Wave. Venom Drench. Corrosive Gas. Explosion. He adjusted a few values, then saved and ejected the pokeball from the dock, setting it to the side before beckoning for the next one.
"This is so fucking cool," Petrel said as he handed it over.
Koffing after koffing, Proton adjusted moves and level displays. Hyper Beam. Flamethrower. Toxic. Payback. Sunny Day. Protect. Each had their own moves that Petrel had so lovingly taught them, but each followed a similar pattern in the end: Explosion. Explosion. Explosion. All six, primed and ready to be set off at Petrel's whim, with a huge stock of revives in their bag to keep them at the ready. When he finished, Proton handed the pokeballs back to Petrel, who ran his hands over them in excitement.
"I can't believe it worked!" he exclaimed, "I mean it, Pro, that's rad as hell. What about your zubat? You gonna beef him up in there?" Proton shook his head.
"Wouldn't work," he explained, "I didn't actually change anything, just... rolled back the data, per say. Parlor trick, all it is. Twitch ain't for battlin', anyways." His work done, he shut the laptop and set it to the side, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck as he settled back against the headboard. "Can't believe you wanted to wear a fuckin' lead vest over them. This was much easier. Now, it's your turn. When we meeting the guy?"
Petrel checked his watch again. Proton didn't know much about the guy, only that he was one of Petrel's numerous underground connections. Rocket didn't really have many footholds in Orre, due at least in part, Proton assumed, to Giovanni's apparent reluctance to bother with Cipher. The entire region was under their rival organization's thumb, as far as he knew, but that didn't mean they had nothing. No outposts or bases, certainly, but a market presence, even if it was a minor one. Pokemon were in high demand in Orre, as the native pokemon population was virtually non-existent in this day and age. Despite this, the professional battle scene was attracting all sorts of tourists, and plenty of Orre natives were happy to compete, too. Pokemon that were common in Kanto could bring a small fortune in Orre, and Petrel was the one who organized the deals.
"We've got a few hours," Petrel announced, "then we'll meet him in the square. Wanna grab a bite or something? I could go for something greasy right now."
"You're not gonna drug me again, are you?" Proton asked flatly, "because the last time you asked if I wanted something to eat, you drugged me."
"Well, we don't have to eat. We could do... something else." Proton raised his eyebrow again as Petrel leaned closer, his lips curling into a sly smirk under half-lidded eyes. "Anything else, really." He was leaning in, but Proton stood his ground. Closer. Closer. Petrel was leaning over him now, their legs pressed together with less room between them than there had been laying next to each other. His head dipped. Proton shoved him over.
"Fuck off," he said, and Petrel laughed as he rolled and popped up to his feet on the other side of the bed.
"You know you want me. Look at how red your face is!" Proton scowled and huffed, pushing himself up as well. His face... did feel warm, and Petrel only laughed harder at his discomfort. "Go get ready. I'll buy you food."
As Petrel waited for him to get changed into something suitable for the harsh environment of Orre, Proton tried to pretend the heat built up inside of him was just the warm desert air.
The rest of the hotel was just as shitty and run down as their room, but no one gave them a second look as they locked their door behind them and headed out onto the street. Proton wasn't sure what he had been expecting of Orre. He knew it only as being distant, weird, and desolate; he imagined a wasteland, trainer caravans and camp sites, with not much else. Looking around, he still wasn't sure if he was right or wrong. The town they were in had the shell of something much larger than itself, rusted, dilapidated buildings clawing up the sides of a crimson canyon like aging metal vines. It was a narrow town, that was for certain, built up instead of out, but despite its apparent age, there were plenty of people on the street. Most had the obvious look of a thug up to no good, and the sounds of pokemon battles carried through the dead-hanging air. Suddenly there was shouting from down the way, and Proton watched as a lone, baby-faced police office dashed straight by them towards what appeared to be the edge of town, where two men were slugging it out over something or another.
Petrel inhaled deeply and stretched his arms out to either side in the sun, sighing with relief. "Welcome to the town of earth, wind, and money!" he exclaimed, "Pyrite Town, baby! Let's tear it up!" Without waiting for Proton, he set off down the street, and had made it several yards away when the former finally turned to notice he'd gone missing. Proton hastened to fall in step next to him, his eyes darting around this way and that, taking in hologram signs, large digital displays, the absolutely bonkers fashion. He couldn't read anything, and so he found himself edging anxiously closer to Petrel as they went. They passed through a large square where the bulk of the pokemon battles seemed to be taking place, towards a large, crumbling dome on the other side of a long, rickety bridge suspended over a deep, deep chasm. It swayed and creaked with each step they took, but the two made their sure-footedly across. Proton thought for a minute they were going inside the big dome, but at the last minute Petrel changed course, taking him off to the side where a line of food stands delivered to him the most heavenly smells, and his stomach grumbled with hunger.
True to his word, Petrel bought a couple hand pies, something that was sort of a novelty for Proton. They were fried and hot, wrapped in paper and foil and leaking grease as he held it. He wanted to go and find a place to sit down and eat, but Petrel assured him that it was normal in Orre to just... walk around and eat. It was strange at first, but Proton quickly forgot about his own etiquette when he took his first bite. Pork, beef, spices, so many spices. And the cheese! Unlike anything he had in Johto! He was happy to munch as he followed Petrel back into the streets, window shopping as they walked together. There was nothing luxurious, no boutiques or anything fancy like that, but all sorts of little shops selling sturdy clothes, dusty mining gear, trainer supplies. They were busy licking the grease and juices of their meals from their fingers as Proton dragged Petrel into an occult shop where he browsed gemstones and fortune-telling supplies. His eyes hand just landed on a pendant with a peculiar-looking stone when Petrel dragged him right back out, ignoring his protests.
"Come on, we spent twenty minutes looking at those damn shoes!" he said as he tried to wiggle his sleeve from Petrel's grip.
"We're out of time," Petrel told him, "we gotta meet the guy." Proton tugged his sleeve again, but he deflated. Yes, getting his work done so his boss didn't accidentally-on-purpose murder him was probably a better use of his time than some rocks. They returned to the square in the middle of town, standing around near the edges to watch the battles commence and end in an eternal loop, one after another after another, hanging around near the corner of the alley. It wasn't long until someone showed up. He came right up to them, standing beside Petrel to watch the battlefield as well. At first Proton thought he was just any other spectator, and so he didn't pay much attention. After they watched a round in which a cacturne swiftly and brutally demolished a kadabra, however, the guy spoke, and mercifully it was in a language Proton could understand.
"Didn't expect to see you so soon," the guy said, "it was nearly a year, last time."
"What can I say?" Petrel replied without looking to him, "I'm full of surprises. Shall we?"
"Lead the way."
Proton felt Petrel turn next to him, and so he turned as well, following the two into an alley and far back into the shadows, away from the hubbub and buzz of the streets. The guy was a young man, maybe a few years younger than Proton himself and around his same height. His hair was a sandy brown, his eyes stunning amber. He wore a long blue coat over road leathers, and a broad, reflective pair of sunglasses were perched atop his head. At his waist were two pokeballs, and he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the alley walls as he considered Proton right back.
"So, who's the new guy?" the guy asked.
"This is Proton," Petrel introduced him, "he's the one who needs you. I'm just along for the ride."
"I don't come cheap," the guy said, "you know that. What is it you need?" Petrel dug in his pocket for a cigarette and lit up, taking a long drag around a cheeky smile.
"We need a Cipher base." The guy laughed.
"Cipher?" he repeated, "yeah, I can get you Cipher. But my rate just went up. That's suicide for me, man, you know?"
"Heeeyyyy, Wes, we're buddies, aren't we? I hooked you up, last time, you owe me." Wes laughed again, shaking his head, then held his hand out expectantly. Petrel passed him the butt and he took a drag, himself.
"It's dangerous for me just to meet you," Wes said, "Gonzap sold out. Cash was tight. And I'll bet you can guess who's got us on payroll, now."
"Goddamn. Giovanni's not gonna like that." Petrel rubbed his temples and motioned for the cigarette back. "Your boss knows who he's fucking over, right?"
"Giovanni should have paid better. You know what we were getting? Five fucking percent. Five. Can't wipe my ass with five."
"Cipher can't be paying that much better if you're here." Although they had seemed to largely forget that Proton existed during their conversation, the moment he spoke up, both of their eyes shot to him. Proton looked carefully back between the two. He could see the gears turning in Petrel's mind, and he realized his friend was trying to calculate a best offer to pitch. Wes, on the other hand, was guarded. Strange. Not a grunt - no, Proton thought as he eyed him, his stance, the use-worn pokeballs at his hip. Admin. And he was hardballing. That ended here and now.
"I came as a courtesy," Wes tried to tell him, but Proton cut him off.
"You're planning on jumping ship, and ya think you can take us for a ride, but you're not in a position to negotiate," he continued. "In fact, I bet we could take this conversation to Gonzap as a courtesy..." Wes raised his hands, waving them to placate Proton.
"Alright, alright, I get it," he said. "Look, I'm not trying to start shit. I just need... a little extra assurance, is all. When shit goes down, I don't want to be caught between everything. I just wanna fade out, nice and quiet, and take the ferry out of the region before anyone notices I'm gone."
"We can make sure that happens," Petrel confirmed, "and I have everything else you asked for right here." He patted the bag slung over his shoulder, then twisted it around to plop it on the ground. He stared at it then for a second, bent his knees awkwardly, started to lower himself, and grimaced. "Sorry, overshot myself today. You'll have to open it." Wes knelt next to the bag and pulled the zipper open, letting out a low whistle as he peered inside.
"You weren't fucking around," he mused, "this should be enough to take out half the building, at least." Proton came to peer over his shoulder. Wires, packages, a screen, and a... was that a detonator? It only took a few seconds for Proton to realize he was looking at the components of a bomb, an actual fucking bomb, not just a handful of koffing, and he swore quietly to himself as he took a step back.
"The hell do you need that for?" he hissed, "fuck, Petrel, is that why the airport security...?" Petrel grinned at him. They had been much, much closer to prison than Proton had originally thought. Before he could berate Petrel for doing something that stupid, Wes zipped the bag up and threw it over his own shoulder. Then, he took a PDA from his pocket and tapped a few times on it before motioning to Petrel. Proton watched as he fished his Gear out of his pocket and flipped it open, tapping for a bit as well before nodding.
"This the place?" he asked, "looks big."
"It's the only Cipher base I know," Wes admitted, "and I've only been there once. We were blindfolded on the drive in and out. Big place, lots of computers. A lab or two." Petrel looked back to Proton, who shrugged.
"It'll be hard to tell from that alone. They're bound to at least have grunts, though. Someone's gotta have one of those pokeballs."
"Godspeed and good luck," Wes told them. "With any luck by this time next week I'll be long gone and you'll never hear from me, again." He held a hand out to Petrel. "Thanks for the biz."
"Don't blow yourself up," Petrel replied, shaking his hand. "I expect to see your handiwork on the news." Wes laughed and that was where the conversation ended. He left them there in the alley, and Proton heaved a heavy sigh.
"He was kind of a dick," he said.
"Takes one to know one," Petrel countered. "Want a smoke?"
Proton took the cigarette from Petrel and inhaled, blowing a tendril of smoke and idly watching it rise. A bomb. He shouldn't have been surprised. All six koffing knew explosion, after all. He took his hat off to run a hand through his messy hair, then jammed it back on. It was a lot less painful than he had expected. Now all that was left was to get into the base, steal some pokeballs, maybe some code, and then get back to KohJoh before anyone knew they were missing. Archer was always so busy with his work that Proton doubted he'd realized anything was amiss, yet; he had no clue where Ariana was, and Giovanni was all the way in Viridian. There was very, very little to worry about. In fact, he would go so far to say that everything was progressing along rather smoothly.
"We should go back to the room and regroup," he finally said, "when do you think we should hit the base? Tonight? Tomorrow?"
"I could use a nap. Tomorrow, sundown. That alright?"
"Yeah. Long regroup, then."
"Long regroup."
He took another long drag, then passed it back to Petrel, who eyed the cigarette for a moment before popping another out of his box and lighting it from the end of the first. Then, he crushed the used one under his boot. With a jerk of his head, Petrel motioned the two of them off towards the alley's mouth, and nonchalantly, they took the long walk back to the hotel. Their room was untouched, just as they had left it—a surprise to Proton, certainly—and when they'd shut and locked the door behind them, Petrel stubbed his cigarette out in the provided ashtray, then shrugged off his shirt and kicked off his boots and socks. Scars covered his back, Proton noticed; surgical scars, in fact. They were neat and precise around his shoulders, his spine, traveling down to his waist. Some looked older than others. All of them were kinda cool. Proton shook himself as he caught the thought, then following Petrel's example, he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and plopped onto the bed. Petrel was still in the process of sitting as Proton reclined.
"What a day!" Petrel sighed deeply as he carefully laid himself back, crossing his ankles over each other as he settled back, propping the pillows up behind him. "I'm gonna sleep well tonight, I think." He glanced up at Proton. "I gotta sleep on my back, but I don't move much. Don't sweat it if you roll over on me, it doesn't bother me."
"You going to sleep already?" Proton teased, nudging him. "Didn't think you were so old." Petrel laughed.
"You got to sleep on the ride over. I've been awake since we left the base. I think I'm due a nap." He sighed again, settling further into the mattress and shut his eyes. "Wake me up on time and I'll take you to my favorite breakfast place. Feel free to mess with the tv."
Petrel slept through the rest of the afternoon. He snored, Proton learned. It wasn't loud or distracting, just a quiet sort of background buzz. Soothing, even. A lot like when he was still living in Goldenrod, hearing distant cars travel down empty streets. His problems were a country away. He was relaxed—no. That wasn't quite it.
He was happy. For once, at peace.
As Proton began flipping through tv channels, he considered that he ought to have been working or preparing or something productive. But not, he decided, right now. He wanted to hold onto this feeling for a little while longer, while he still could.