Clouds were rolling in overhead, big, dark blobs that threatened to spill but more likely than not would pass right by, leaving everything to burn and waste away in the dying light of the desert sun. It was eerie, this far out into the sands; there was hardly any noise, not of people, not of pokemon. Only wind, rustling sands, and the quiet breaths of Petrel next to him.
Proton hunkered down behind the rocky outcropping at the edge of the canyon, dressed in his civilian clothes rather than his Rocket fatigues, his entire body distantly sore from the immense effort of not moving. He had been completely still since they took watch, something that he couldn't say for Petrel, who shifted every so often before his knees could lock up. The outcropping wasn't huge, maybe came up to Proton's waist when he was standing, and Petrel, who was an enormous tropius of a man, had to squash himself down into a variety of pretzel-like shapes just in order to keep his head down. From the persistent way he bitched about his knees and back, Proton was starting to become convinced that the so-called "pins" in him weren't just a stupid lie to throw idiots off the scent of the bomb he dragged into the region with them. And did it really matter? Not particularly—unless his moaning drew the attention of any of Cipher's peons, in which case, they were both inarguably screwed.
Proton, to his own credit, hadn't been on a real heist since he was still a stupid grunt with something to prove and everything to lose, and all he'd done then was hold the bolt cutters until the time came to rip open a specific chain-link fence. On the way out, his job had been to hold onto the pokemon they'd stolen from the Center. He hadn't done the best job. A detective had followed his shoddy workmanship all the way back to their safe house, which had been a little warehouse on the far side of town, near some docks. He probably would have gotten in trouble for it if he hadn't cleaned up his mess so quickly... er, by making another, bigger mess. It had taken weeks to get the stains out of his gloves. But he'd gotten some great intel out of the guy as he was snapping his ribs, which judges and cops were gunning for them in Vermilion, and all. Somehow that got him promoted to security. His first big raise. Who'd have thunk?
"What the hell is taking him so long?" Petrel grouched as he shifted his position again. He peered through a pair of binoculars at their target: a lone, moderately sized structure out by itself in the middle of the desert. There were no roads leading to it, but that didn't seem to matter in the sand-logged Orre region. They just... didn't have tires. Or wheels. All of their vehicles just kind of... floated. Somehow. Maglev? There was definitely some intense magnetic disruption out in the desert. It fucked with their equipment enough to be a nuisance, making screens fuzzy, bells and whistles go off randomly, the whole nine yards. It meant they had to be quick: at any moment their own tech could perform the ultimate betrayal.
Proton looked from his gear over to Petrel. "Give him time," he said, "only so fast one li'l zubat can go." He looked back to the screen. One day, he thought to himself, pokegears would be amazing, like a little handheld computer with a nice screen, a good camera, and more functions than a Swiss army knife. For now, he had to settle for the LED screen, a rotating bezel, a few buttons, and the four things it could do: phone, text, map, radio. Of course, there was also one special little function Proton had installed himself: sonar.
He watched the little screen as Twitch flew around the perimeter of the building, clicking and waiting for his echolocation to bounce back to him. When it did, it of course gave his blind little zubat an idea of where to go next, but it met with a little microphone device Proton had attached to his pokemon's neck and was transmitted straight to his gear in the form of data that drew little shivering dots on his screen in the vague shapes of what his little buddy was seeing.
"Rotating guard on the half hour," Proton mused out loud, "no real walls to speak of. They're either arrogant pricks or confident motherfuckers."
"It can be both," Petrel agreed. "See a good spot?" Proton frowned and tapped his gear, then turned his head to the rapidly darkening sky, pressed his thumb and forefinger between his teeth, and gave a sharp whistle. Twitch resumed circling the building. He studied the sonar screen for a good while before whistling again, lower this time, and his pokemon came to a halt.
"There," he decided, "must be a garage or a loading dock or something. We can hide behind equipment and jump a few peons."
Petrel leaned over, craning his neck to peer at the gear over Proton's shoulder. His brow furrowed as he studied it, then he turned to poke his eyes over the outcrop. Proton watched the servos whir and click before Petrel turned back to him.
"They're all short," he finally said, "you'll be fine. But me? I'd be wearing a damn crop-top."
"And you'd look very nice in one," Proton shot back. "In fact, if everything goes smoothly, I'll buy one just for you, to celebrate our victory."
"I literally won't be able to get in the building. I don't think their peons typically dress like that. So unless you've got any other bright ideas...?"
Proton rolled his eyes and let out his sharp whistle. Twitch went on the move again, circling around to another side. He held the gear so Petrel could watch with him, faces nearly pressed together to get a good view of the tiny screen.
"Alright, there," he declared again, "look. Fire escape in the back. We move quick enough, we can get to the roof and head down without being seen."
"No cover," Petrel disagreed. He quirked an eyebrow, eyeing Proton quizzically. "You're really bad at this, aren't you?"
"I'd be fine if you weren't so fucking tall. If you have a better plan, I'm all ears."
"Lemme see." Petrel swiped the gear from Proton's hands before he could protest, then paused, thinking, before he mimicked Proton's whistle, straight down to the harsh pitch. Twitch resumed his recon. There was something very normal about Petrel when he focused himself. With his eyes glued to the screen and the world tuned out, he scratched and tugged absent-mindedly at his goatee. Something cracked in the distance; Proton's ears perked up, and he swiveled on the spot. Some fallen rocks, but nothing more. When he turned back, Petrel hadn't budged, still glued to the gear and lost in thought.
Petrel trusted him, Proton realized. To watch his back at the very least. He didn't know what he'd done to earn that trust. They'd never been on a mission together before. And Proton knew, from experience, that no one trusted each other in Team Rocket; your best mate was just as likely to stab you in the back as anyone else just to get the last hamburg set in the mess, let alone to get all the good graces for a finished job. But Petrel seemed to just expect that Proton was watching his back, and doing it properly.
But then, they were alone together in not only foreign territory, but territory owned by Cipher, themselves. Was it suicide? Not hardly. Talk around the base had always been Cipher was destabilizing by the day. Was it dangerous? Anything unstable always was. And so, at least until they got back to Kanto, Proton would extend the same courtesy to Petrel.
For now.
"We'll go to the loading bay," Petrel finally decided, "but we'll wait forty-five for the guard to shift. One guy tall enough I can replace. Otherwise, if they're moving cargo we might have prime opportunities to create a distraction." He tossed the gear back to Proton, who swiftly caught it and let out a warbling whistle. A few moments later, he held out his arm, and Twitch perched comfortably on him, clutching tight to the sleeve of his jacket.
"Good work little guy," Proton praised. He took a second to adjust his hood on his back before nudging Twitch up his shoulder. The little zubat, used to this dance by now, crawled his way to settle into the hood like a little kengaskhan pouch. It was always good to have someone watching their six, and Twitch, he found, was more reliable than even a growlithe.
They waited in a comfortable silence for the patrols to shift once, then waited more for the next shift. Proton didn't see the purpose of half-hour rotations, especially all the way out in the middle of fucking nowhere, but he supposed that caution was how Cipher stood the test of time. Even back at HQ their sentinels only swapped out every hour at best. But then, they had dedicated sweepers; maybe Cipher was lacking manpower.
Petrel gestured casually and hopped over the rocks, crouching low as he advanced on the compound. Proton followed after him at an interval of ten paces. It was dark, now; dusk had passed into darkness, with stars and moon obscures by the heavy clouds. Under night's cloak, they danced just out of the edge of the guards' perceptions, rounding one after the other into the loading bay. Petrel took cover by a stack of crates, and Proton ducked behind a series of large barrels. There were other things, larger crates maybe, covered with heavy tarps. Occasionally there were heavy breaths, rattles. Pokemom cages, he assumed. It very well could work in their favor.
Taking out the peons was embarrassingly easy. On Petrel's mark, Proton let out one of his sharp whistles, and as the pair of peons came forth to investigate, the executives circled around behind them and knocked them out in short order. They dragged the unconscious bodies behind some cargo and stole their uniforms, quickly dressing next to each other.
"So how'd you get into all this, anyways? The pokeball stuff, I mean," Petrel asked him as they straightened their clothes out.
Proton slid the white Cipher helmet over his hat, flipping the visor over his eyes. "It was a school thing," he admitted, "high school science fair. Heard college recruiters were gonna be poking around, wanted to do something that would turn a few heads. You know how it is."
"I never went to school," Petrel replied, snapping his gloves into place. "Well, not outside, anyways. We were tutored on-base. That was back in Tiksi."
They covered the bodies with a spare tarp they found laying around, then with key cards in hand, unlocked the door and let themselves in.
"Tiksi. That's the Siberian base, yeah?"
"Yeah. Built from an abandoned USSR military camp. My brother and I were born there."
They paused at an intersection and peered both ways before Proton shrugged and motioned down one of the hallways.
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"He's a piece of shit. Boss gifted him to a friend of his in Alola."
"Huh. What's he do there? He's gotta be old enough to work, right?"
"Yeah. We're twins. He works. I dunno, some bullshit pokemon biology assholery. I don't bother asking."
Proton stopped in his tracks, frowning in confusion as he processed the information. When he noticed his colleague was lagging behind, Petrel stopped as well, turning impatiently to wait for Proton to catch up.
"Wait," Proton said, "hold on, wait. You've got a twin. And Archer and Ariana are twins. How the hell did that happen? What're the chances?"
"Arceus has a sense of humor, I guess," Petrel answered. "Or are you legitimately asking me to crunch the numbers while we're in the middle of a heist?"
"I just think it's weird."
"I bet you have a twin, too. Life's funny that way."
"I'm an only child, dumbass."
"A secret twin, then. Now can we keep moving, please? I'd like to get back in time to watch my program."
The infiltration was smoother than a voltorb's rollout. They nodded to other peons on patrol in the late hours, just sort of wandering until they came across what looked to be some kind of lab office. Proton stood guard while Petrel jimmied the lock, and the two slipped quietly inside. Not bothering to flip on the lights, they swapped places, then: Petrel remained at the door, peeking out the crack he left open to keep an eye on things. Proton went to the desk and flipped on the computer, leaning low over the keyboard to stare into the monitor's burning light. He brute forced his way through the login password and began poking around through the different file directories.
"So then why Rocket? I mean, you were shooting for school. We don't exactly send grunts to night classes."
"What, not even you? You went to med school at least, right?"
"Fuck no. Like I had time for that."
Proton poked his head over the monitor, staring in disbelief. Petrel looked back to him.
"What?"
"You're a doctor."
"Yeah."
"And you didn't get fucking trained?"
"I got trained. I just... didn't go to school. It's not like that matters."
"It matters a lot, actually?"
Proton shook his head as Petrel rolled his eyes. Suddenly all of his stays in the infirm seemed a lot, lot less safe. Frankly, he was surprised none of his little trips left him dead or something. He went back to poking around the files.
"You didn't answer my question. Why Rocket?"
Proton let out a frustrated huff. "There's not much to tell. You saw that shitty van. My ma's a fucking crackhead, spent all her money on nose candy. Had to feed myself most days. Stole from the wrong guy, got my ass kicked, got a uniform. Pay was better than at the Mart, so I stuck around. I've got her in rehab, now."
"Well, good for you. Bet she's real fucking proud to know what her darling baby boy does for his cash."
"She thinks I'm a league challenger, halfwit. Come here. Need you to read something."
Petrel frowned, peeking out the door again before crossing behind the desk and leaning over Proton's shoulder. His eyes darted across the screen, then wordlessly, he pointed to a folder, and inside that, another document. A .txt file opened, and Proton skimmed through. Nothing stood out to him, and from the blank look on Petrel's face, nothing did for him, either. Proton went to exit the file when something caught his eye. Something important. Something he'd seen before.
Ein.
That was the name in the Cipher pokeball before it shorted in his office. This had to mean something.
"What does it say?" he pestered, and Petrel shrugged.
"I don't know," he answered, "I don't get it. Something about shadows. That there..." He pointed to a string of letters, numbers, and symbols on its own line. "That's some kind of chemical formula. I don't recognize it, though."
"I'll copy it down," Proton decided. "See anything else?" Petrel shook his head, and returned to his post at the door. Proton began scrolling through the file folders again. He wasn't sure how long he was at it. There was so much to sort through. It would take him hours just to decide what was worth looking through, and then hours more to sort through that. He still needed to steal a pokeball, too. Did every Cipher peon use a modded pokeball? Or would they have to go looking for specific ones?
"Proton."
Everything was background noise, now. He furiously searched through folders, opening, exiting, clicking, opening, CTL+F, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
"Proton, pick up the pace."
There was an annoying buzzing in the back of his head. But that... what was that...? He paused on one specific file, his eyes skimming words he didn't know and zeroing in on words he did. Limiter. Energy compressor. Stasis relay. Pokeball stuff. He reached for his pen and paper.
"Lance, get your fucking mask on!"
Proton's eyes shot up to Petrel, and he only fumbled for a moment as he caught hold of the gas mask. He slipped it on over his head and tightened it as Petrel, already encased in a gas mask of his own, activated the decompression mechanism on his pokeball and materialized one of his koffing. An alarm was blaring and peons were nearly at the door. Petrel didn't even have to give the command. Completely in sync with his master, the koffing chortled and squeezed itself in, expelling a heavy cloud of poison gas that fell on the approaching peons. Proton watched, intrigued, as the peons inhaled the gas and fell to the floor, clawing at their throats and choking on it. Angry hives turned to boils that erupted and dissolved, skin peeling from the flesh in large, sticky chunks. A delightful shiver ran up his spine, but he had more important things to attend to.
"Hurry the fuck up, genius!" Petrel snapped over the wailing alarm, "there's gonna be more on us any second!"
"I'm working on it!" Proton hissed back. He scribbled down a few more lines, then, cursing, popped to his feet. "Shit, shit, shit! I need more time!"
Petrel leaned out to peer down one hallway, then glanced over to the other. He began to spring in place on his feet, shaking his head and loosening up his hands.
"Fine," he finally said, an odd sort of determination in his voice, "I got your back. Keep down. I'm going back to the loading bay." He spoke sweetly to his koffing, then, with a final shake of his head, he bolted off down the hall. Proton waited, ears perked, as he heard more footsteps, further away. Another pokeball opened. A scuffle; the smell of ozone. Bodies dropped. "Come and get me, fuckers!" Proton let out a breath. Petrel could handle himself.
He turned back to the screen and began to work.
The sounds of Petrel's mayhem ricocheted around the building. It wasn't uncommon for Proton to hear an entire goddamn explosion, or Petrel's shouts, heckles, and laughter. Whatever he was up to, he was absolutely steamrolling his competition. Proton focused as best he could on his work, scribbling anything he could find. Finally, when it felt like he'd exhausted all his options, he clicked his pen in and pocketed it along with his paper.
"Alright, Twitch," he said to his zubat, "let's blow this shithole." Twitch chattered, and Proton felt the familiar grip of his little claws on his neck and shoulder. He booked it down the hallway, following the trail of bloated, purple, burnt or corroding bodies Petrel left behind him. It was anything but refined, and Proton wondered if this was his usual MO. The scale of destruction was impressive, and there would be no doubt come the morning that Cipher's base had been the target of a planned attack. If he'd particularly cared at the moment, he'd have realized how pissed Giovanni was going to be, but instead, he did his best to take in the scene as he ran: death. Destruction. Wanton chaos.
He wanted to see the base come down. The entire damn base. The thought seized his mind before he could stop it, and once it grabbed hold, he didn't want to swat it away. He wanted to watch it crumble. Catch fire. Burn to cinders. He wanted to see every last peon broken, bleeding, dying under the rubble or in the sands. They would bring it down together. They would watch Cipher burn. The excitement boiled over in Proton, his hands itching to snap a neck, break any bone, just simply stab something. He got his chance when a peon jumped him from the side, swinging a tire iron at him, but Proton ducked under the attack and punched him in the kidney, grabbed him by the neck, threw him down, held him there, broke his fucking jaw, smashed his orbital socket, bashed his skull in. It wasn't enough.
He whirled around, pulling himself back up to his feet, eyes darting for the next target. There was fire everywhere, and scorch marks from pokemon attacks. Petrel's explosions had cracked open cages, and angry pokemon, frightened pokemon, every pokemon was rampaging around, trying to flee. A sandslash rolled over a peon with its spines in a rush to escape. A pikachu fried one who tried to grab it. A haxorus ripped a man apart in front of Proton's eyes, and he watched as another peon edging up behind it with a shaking hand and a pokeball at the ready. That was it. Proton coiled and charged, running straight for the peon. He was half-way there when an arm caught his waist and yanked him back, and he snarled and kicked out - only for Petrel to smack him upside the head and yank him harder.
"We gotta go!" Petrel shouted over the commotion.
"The pokeball!" Proton replied. He couldn't see his colleague's expression, his face still hidden by the heavy gas mask, red eye shielding practically glowing in the light, but he knew Petrel wasn't buying it. He shook his head and tugged Proton again.
"Steal a van," he commanded, "while I finish these motherfuckers off!" Proton seethed, his eyes flashing from Petrel to the peon carefully sneaking behind the dragon, and finally to the van. There was still time. He could still...
The haxorus whipped its tail, catching the peon in the stomach. A second later, the dragon had whirled on the spot and lunged, claws tearing at skin and ligament and bone and sinew. Its beak snapped and ripped at hot flesh, and deciding maybe Petrel had the right idea of things, Proton let out a long breath to try and calm himself, then turned and ran for the truck. It wasn't locked, but the keys were missing. He dropped and scrambled between bodies, taking advantage of the distraction to keep himself out of sight. Pocket, pocket, pocket... there! He pulled a set of keys from a nearby peon and climbed into the driver's seat, then turned the keys and listened to the engine roar to life. Now, how did you put it in drive...?
He could see Petrel work in the side mirrors of the van, running here and there to let his koffing out and prime them. All six, ready to explode. He was surprisingly quick on his feet. Graceful, even. Proton found himself idly wondering if Petrel had ever been a dancer. Just the way he moved... It was like a completely different person. Soon, the six koffing were set, each growing larger with fumes, beginning to glow with energy. Proton kicked the passenger door open in anticipation. Petrel was half way back.
In slow motion, he watched pain twist at Petrel's face. Watched him hunch and stumble. Watched him fall. The koffing were bright enough to be stars. Proton ducked his head.
Kaboom.
It was some time later when Petrel woke.
Every last part of him felt like shit. Face felt raw. Shoulders hurt. Chest hurt. Legs. Back was shot. He was laying somewhere hard. Cold. Not the motel room. Not a hospital. Something was ringing in his ears. He tried to push himself up, but hot pain shot up his arms like someone had taken a knife to his skin, and he groaned before flopping back down. They felt stiff. He tried to flex his fingers, but the same pain met him. Fuck.
Almost the same instant, and a green blob was over him. He fought through the pain, the tunnel vision, tried to focus -
"Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy. You're alright. Banged up, but you're alright." The blob helped him sit up.
"Fuck," he slurred, "what... what happened...?"
He was leaned back against something uncomfortable - rocks, he imagined - and blinked and wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut. His vision swam, but slowly began to focus. Proton was kneeling in front of him, watching him. Petrel was too tired to try and understand why. He grunted and shifted to try and get a little more comfortable. They were in a cave. A little one, probably back in the canyon. The sky wasn't nearly as dark as it had been, before. Daybreak soon - same day? Different day?
"You got caught in the explosion," Proton was explaining to him, "I had to drag you to the van. Everyone was disoriented, so I think we got away before they could really try and track us."
"Why?" Petrel asked.
"Because of the explosion. I just said. You alright? Hit your noggin?" Petrel shook his head, his eyes dropping to his swollen arms. The pain was astounding. They were probably broken. But it seemed Proton had tried his hand at medical treatment. Both arms were wrapped between sticks in a shoddy attempt at a splint. He could still feel where the energy from the explosion singed him. Proton's hands came near his face, and Petrel jerked back. A pause. Proton spoke again. "It's okay. I just want to see. I found some meds in your pack, I'm just going to try and clean the burns."
Grudgingly, Petrel relaxed, his eyes never straying from Proton's hands. He didn't like people touching. He was hurt. Vulnerable. He would be damned if he died out here. How easy it would be for him to have just been conveniently lost in the bombing. It would only make Proton's station go up. His nose wrinkled with disgust and his lip curled upward into a sneer as Proton took antiseptic ointment in his hands and reached for him. Petrel jerked his head away again. It was useless, though. Proton's hands - soft hands, far softer than they looked - pressed to the sides of his face, rubbing the ointment along what Petrel realized was the seam where the gas mask had met his face. It was so raw. It stung like a bitch, but he knew very well it needed the treatment.
"Why did you carry me back?" he asked again.
"Because," Proton said, "you were trusting me." Petrel snorted, and Proton looked him in the eye. Nice eyes. Green eyes. "You weren't?"
"No," Petrel told him, "and if it were me, I would have left you to die." Proton didn't say anything for a while. He just continued to rub the ointment into more raw spots. "You're an idiot if you think you can trust any of us. You had to know that by now."
"Don't be such a bitch. I still could."
"Then what do you want from me?"
Proton snorted. "Nothing, asshole. Fuck me for being a team player, I guess. Won't catch me makin' that mistake again."
His hands lingered. Then he pulled away.
"Everyone wants something," Petrel disagreed. "That's how people work. That's how everyone works."
"Then what did you want from me?"
That was a good question. One Petrel didn't have an answer for. It had been his idea to drag Proton to Orre, after all. Well, he had business, but he always had business. Could have come any other time. But no, he specifically brought Proton along. He wasn't sure what he wanted. He knew it must have been something. As nice as it had been to take a little vacation, to roam around with someone, to share a meal or two... There was always a reason. A web. A scheme. Petrel liked having Proton around. But Proton wasn't always Proton. After all, he didn't respond until Petrel called him 'Lance,' did he?
"I don't know," he lied through his teeth, just as naturally as he breathed. His voice was smooth, light, and he offered Proton a charming smile. "A bit of fun." A moment later, Proton grinned right back at him.
"We had a shitload of fun, ay?" he snickered, nudging Petrel lightly with his elbow. "Fuck, if this is how your heists are, count me in. It was exhilarating."
Before he could go any further, his gear began to buzz. The two looked to it in unison, and Petrel watched Proton take it from its clip and hold it up, studying the number. Then, with a final look to Petrel, he turned and headed to the other side of the cave as he answered.
"Hey, Ma. How's it going? Yeah... yeah... No, I'm training out in Route 47... Yeah, I had to freeze the bank account, but the payment should go through soon..."
So secretive. He kept it from his friends, Petrel remembered. Kept everything from them. His mother, Petrel decided, must have been very important to him. Very important. And that was it. He knew what he wanted, and he was more than happy to take it and put a name on it. Master Giovanni, he thought, would be happy, too. Petrel smiled as he settled further back against the cave wall. Proton glanced over as he continued his conversation, and their eyes met. Proton smiled, too. Petrel watched him for the rest of the conversation, and thanked him politely when he was finished and tossed over a protein bar.
He was going to have fun with this.