His chest was on fire. He was gasping, sputtering, heaving, but each potential breath sucked into his lungs only a deep, wet, coldness, weighing him down and asphyxiating him. His feet scrambled for purchase, his hands clawing at the sides of the metal canister for some semblance of control, some meager handhold to push himself up. The hand around his neck and wrist caught him with a vice like steel, rendering his attempts pathetic at best and an absolute disgrace at worst. His brain stuttered. His hands clawed. He kicked his feet. Boot met loafer, and the latter refused to budge. His vision blurred. He was fading.

Just on the edge of passing out or maybe passing on, he was yanked up, and he gasped for air, coughing and retching, expelling water onto the stained concrete. It had been a long time since he'd been in here. Longer since he was on the receiving end of it all. His eyes began to clear. It was an unfamiliar block to him. He wasn't even certain how they got here. All he knew was that Giovanni hadn't uttered a single fucking word since they entered. He just sat on his throne, one of their many interrogation chairs, his legs kicked up on its extent. He leaned heavily on his palm, one finger pressed to his temple as he watched the spectacle in front of him, and every now and then he checked his watch. He looked bored.

Proton coughed and spat up more water, chest heaving and lungs gasping. His eyes wildly searched out Giovanni's face, brain churning back into gear as he raced to think of something to put an end to the situation, but before he could utter another word, Giovanni glanced up and dismissively motioned with his other hand. All Proton registered were the tips of Archer's white loafers as the senior executive plunged him back in, grip just as tight and unyielding. Proton began to struggle again, trying to kick out at his crotch, his toes, his knees, anything he could feasibly try and reach. His hands clawed again for purchase, but the one Archer kept firmly in place against the canister. The other slapped at air, then at Archer's hand on his neck, finally scratching and tugging at his fingers. His struggles grew weaker. He tried to throw his body weight but he couldn't get good leverage.

Archer pulled him back up.

"I didn't do shit," he coughed once he'd expelled more water from his lungs, "I didn't do fucking shit, we went for three goddamn days and –"

Giovanni motioned. Archer shoved him back under.

His struggles were weak straight from the plunge, this time. He could barely hold his breath, wheezing pathetically into the water as what little air he had left escaped him in large, gulping bubbles. He was going to die here in the bowels of HQ. He always knew it would end up like this, somehow. It's not like he got out much. But he assumed it would be quicker. Mauled by a rampaging granbul. One of the grunts knifing him in his sleep. Interpol invasion. Or maybe he'd have hung himself before any of that could happen. There was a time when it had been especially tempting, once. By Lugia, had he hated himself, then. Still did, some days. Not enough to go, anymore. Not like this.

Not like this.

The thought repeated in his mind like a skipping, broken record. He could even hear the record scratching with each weakening gulp of water. Not like this. Not like this. Not like this. Was there anything to live for? Who the fuck knew. But that was his decision. Not anyone else's. Not Archer's. Not Giovanni's. Proton would decide when it was time to die. He'd go out in a blaze of fucking glory when he did. But quietly, secretly, down here, where his murder would be rumors secreted away between grunts?

Over his fucking cold-ass grave.

His shoulders heaved. His body tensed. His feet stilled, his hands gripped the edges of the canister, and then all of him relaxed, nearly slipping. There was some talking; who the fuck cared? And the instant Archer's grip began to slack, Proton's fingers gripped the canister, his heels dug into the ground, and he threw himself backward, flinging himself up to ram the back of his head straight into Archer's nose. It hurt like a motherfucker, but for Proton it was a dull thudding in the back of his mind.

"I am fucking sick-"

He whirled around, his knee jamming up into Archer's crotch before he grabbed his forearm with two hands, using the momentum of the other man doubling over to yank down hard, throwing him to the floor. Archer scrambled to roll to his feet, but Proton roared and pounced on him, pinning him down and grabbing him by the throat, squeezing and squeezing until his face began to turn purple.

"-Of this bullshit, you smurf-ass piece of shit!"

He pulled one fist back to punch Archer in the face, but before he could let it fly a swift kick upwards smashed his jaw up into the rest of his skull, making blinding stars explode in front of his eyes and toppling him over. He laid there, dazed, barely hearing as Archer pulled himself to his feet, gasping for his own breath. Something sharp and pointed pressed to Proton's ribs, and as he came back to his senses, he saw Ariana standing over him with a sneer on her face like she'd smelled something particularly unpleasant.

"I think we should just kill him now," she said, voice low and positively dripping with malice, "he's a liability, Giovanni. Certainly you can see that, now." She dug the long, thin heel of her shoe further into Proton's ribs, and for a second he thought it was going to slip between two and puncture his lung. She looked over her shoulder, and Proton followed her gaze, first to her brother, rubbing his neck, and then to Giovanni. Something had changed in his expression. He was getting off on this. The corners of his lips were curled into a mildly amused smirk.

He loved to play god, didn't he?

"Your concerns have been noted, Executive," he said smoothly in his practiced businessman's voice. "I don't think we need to go that far today. Executive Archer, your thoughts?" Ariana glared at her brother, and Archer looked carefully between her and his master.

"I appreciate her caution," he rasped, "but I defer to your judgment, Sir." Giovanni's smile broadened, and he motioned for Ariana to back off. Her glare burned on him for a moment longer, and Proton wondered if she was going to slap him again. She had the biggest balls of them all, that was for sure. Maybe she was thinking the same thing, because he could see her fingers flex in violent longing. She took her foot off his chest and stood back along the wall, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. Proton shakily pushed himself to his feet.

"What the hell," he said, hysteria tinging the edges of his voice, "is this all about?! We went on a heist. We got what we went for. We didn't get caught. We weren't on the news. And another fucking thing, I didn't see you drag Petrel's ass down here, this was all his idea in the-"

"Quiet," Giovanni ordered, and Proton shut his mouth. His head and shoulders were entirely soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks and a large water stain down his front. Even his shoes were wet, his socks damp against his toes. He was a drowned rattata in an arcanine's den, and it was almost time for supper. He shivered at the thought.

"I made myself clear, didn't I?" his boss continued. "I told you, specifically, in no uncertain terms, to leave Cipher be. That they were a non-starter. Were those not my exact words, Executive?"

"Yes, but-!"

"I won't allow myself to be undermined by a boy who allows petty pipe dreams to overrule his duties. Perhaps I was mistaken in promoting you?"

"It's not some fucking dream, I'm on the edge of a goddamn breakthrough -"

"Did I say you could speak?"

Proton deflated.

Giovanni finally pulled himself up from the chair, rolling to his feet and closing the distance between them, eyes leveled to eyes. Proton refused to look away. Soon they were squared up against each other, inches apart, Giovanni looking down on him. They were a world apart. The architect and the tool. A hammer. That's all he was. Replaceable. Proton reminded himself to behave.

"The only reason you're still alive is due to your performance overseas," Giovanni informed him, "and even then, I still have my doubts. Why, with my most trusted confidant whispering in my ear, I might just change my mind. Unless you have something to offer that makes you worth my while?"

Proton waited.

"You may speak."

"What if I told you," Proton said to him, "that I can give you the tech to make your shock troops unstoppable?"

"You have proof, of course?"

Proton shifted anxiously on his feet, then reached carefully into his jacket and withdrew a small, folded piece of paper. He took his time unfolding it, taking great care in displaying the codes and formulas he and Petrel had jotted down before their grand escape. Giovanni reached out to take the paper. And then Proton did something very, very stupid.

He flung himself to the side, wadded up the paper, threw his head back and swallowed it. Just like that. Unhinged his jaw like a fucking ekans and ate the bitch before Giovanni or either of his little lackeys had a chance to process what was going on, let alone react. It hurt a little going down, but a few paper cuts in his esophagus was a small price to pay to ensure his continued existence. He half-expected one of them to tackle him down then and there, but seeing the three of them still in a mild state of shock, Proton looked between them before speaking again.

"And what if I told you I was the only one who can give that to you?"

Silence for a minute. Then, to his own shock and astounding Archer and Ariana further, honest laughter bubbled up from Giovanni. It was the most entertained Proton could ever remember seeing him. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Then I would tell you to work very, very fast, Executive."

Giovanni's cruel smile would haunt his dreams for some time yet.

The power was off in Petrel's apartment. So was the heat. Proton had no idea how they managed to isolate the place like that, but they'd managed. Petrel was sitting back against the couch and staring into space. He was shirtless, wearing only his loose pajama pants, both of his arms in casts and slings. His head turned as he heard the door close, but much like Proton, his face remained in its natural resting bitch state.

"Oh. You're still alive," he greeted nonchalantly. "That's nice."

"I'm just as surprised as you are," Proton told him. He kicked off his boots and trudged through to his bedroom, stripping his street clothes off and tossing them in his hamper before wiggling into a fresh pair of boxers. He didn't have another jacket, and still shivering from the positively delightful bath Archer gave him, he wasn't about to go lounge around in the cold-ass apartment in just his underwear. He took the comforter from his bed and drew it tight around his shoulders, then paced back into the den and settled on the couch next to Petrel. They sat like that in silence for a while, staring blankly together at the dark TV screen. Proton fidgeted. Petrel was still.

"So how long is this gonna be a thing?" he finally piped up, and Petrel turned his blank look onto him. Proton motioned to the lights. Petrel's gaze followed his hand.

"Ah," he said, "yeah. He was pretty pissed, huh? I'd guess he wants us in here two, three weeks?"

"Oh, goody. Archer gets to fucking drown me and all you have to deal with is being grounded."

"Mm. Do me a favor? Go take a peek in the fridge."

Rolling his eyes, Proton stood and made his way to the kitchenette, pulling the fridge door open. Nothing. Not a single fucking crumb was left. He wasn't shocked, and he wasn't worried, not really. He'd been hungry in his life before. A lot of water. A lot of naps. But nothing for two weeks...

"They cleaned out the pantry, too," Petrel called over to him. "Pain in the ass. Bastards took all my weed."

Proton shut the door with a grimace and returned to the couch, sliding down into the warmth of his comforter. Petrel scooted closer to him, eyeing him expectantly. With another roll of his eyes, Proton lifted the one end of the comforter, and Petrel scooted inside. He was just as cold to the touch as Proton was, and honestly, Proton wasn't sure if, together, they were making things better or worse.

"So... what do we do?" he asked, and Petrel shrugged.

"I'd say work, but..." He looked pointedly to his arms. "I'm sure you have shit to do, though. What did he say about the notes?"

"Told me to work quick," Proton answered, "and I'm not about to fuck this up. I... uh... hope." Petrel chuckled, leaning his head against the back of the couch.

"You don't sound so sure. You need help deciphering it? Don't want my bold sacrifice to be for nothing."

"Yeah, I'd definitely appreciate that. Gonna have to wait a few days to get 'em out of me, though."

Their eyes met. Petrel's usual dark, apathetic pits were stoked with a flare of confusion.

"What, you mean you...?" he asked, "just like... in front of them?"

"Yup."

A moment longer, long and drawn out. Then, Petrel turned his head away, snickering as he tried to hide his laughter. Proton grinned, unable to keep the mirth out of his own face. His shoulders began to shake with laughter of his own. He turned in on Petrel, then, grabbing him by the shoulder as the giggles dissolved into laughter proper, and Petrel, too, his deep, rolling laughs meeting Proton's. It was hilarious. It was terrifying. They laughed and laughed together in the cold, all the pent-up energy of escaping Orre and falling back into Giovanni's uncompromising command expelling from the both of them. Their sides were hurting when the laughter died down, Proton catching his breath and Petrel trailing off into a coughing fit.

"Bold," he complimented, "fucking bold of you, you little shit. I'm surprised he didn't off you then and there."

"It certainly got his attention." Proton left the warmth of the comforter, throwing his end around Petrel's shoulder as he headed back to his room to get a scrap of paper and a pencil. Then, he returned to sit himself on the floor next to the coffee table, leaning over it to begin scribbling. "I remember a bit of it. Should be enough to reverse engineer whatever the hell they were working on. Hey!" He looked up. "You got the pokeball?"

Petrel frowned and shifted, leaning away from one of the couch pillows to reveal a standard pokeball looking a little worse for wear, half its paint burnt off from the explosions at the Cipher base. Proton hadn't been able to believe his luck, really, because Petrel hadn't been the only thing he stuffed in the truck during his escape. Petrel had gone down, and the koffing had exploded, singeing everything around them and leaving a small crater in the loading dock. The force of the explosions had been more than enough to send pokeballs flying, including this particular one that had rolled and gotten stuck against one of the truck tires. Proton had enough time to scoop it up after he'd secured Petrel into the passenger's seat, and after his talk with him the next morning, Proton had convinced Petrel to help him smuggle it back into the base. He'd been sure Giovanni would have confiscated it from him the instant he set foot on the base, and he hadn't been far off. After surviving the plane ride home with Petrel bruised, broken, and ashen-faced next to him the entire time and no weed between the two of them, Giovanni had been waiting with Archer and Ariana at the airport. Proton didn't know much about the ride back beyond being roughed up, blindfolded, tied up, and thrown in the trunk of the car. The rest was history he would rather not repeat.

The pokemon inside the pokeball, of course, would have been very unimpressive if it hadn't been for its origin. Even now, as Proton took the pokeball in his hand and activated the overview panel, he could only wonder if he'd gotten anything worthwhile, or if he was about to hinge his entire existence on something completely and entirely useless; after all, who would care about one stupid mankey? Proton hadn't had a chance to run any tests, yet, but something in his intuition told him that perhaps, for once, he was about to catch some sort of break. He just needed to work hard, and work fast.

"Let me know if you need any help on the physical side of things," Petrel told him, "I don't know much about pokeball science, but biology is kind of my schtick. I'll be able to supervise you - it's not like I can do anything else, around here."

"Thanks." Proton rolled his shoulder, placing the pokeball next to his paper as he began to work. "We're close to something amazing, Pete. I can feel it." He scribbled for a while, frowning as he concentrated, trying to remember the specific letters and numbers they had recorded before. Like... a 3... an H, probably... And... Like... He scribbled harder. After a moment, he stopped to admire his handiwork, then like a child showing their parent a picture they colored, held the paper up for Petrel to see. "How's this? Look like anything?"

But Petrel didn't look at the paper. He was staring at Proton, head tilted slightly to the side like a hoothoot, looking as though he were struggling to figure something out. Proton waited, looking from Petrel, to the paper, then back again. He wasn't blinking. Proton began to sweat. He started to lower the paper back to the table, and Petrel spoke.

"Pete?" It was light. Curious. Like he'd discovered some small bug on a leaf, and marveled at its colors. He placed the paper down.

"Yeah," he told him, "Pete. That's you. Like... you know. A nickname. Since we're... you know... around each other all the time."

Petrel still didn't blink. Proton coughed and resumed scribbling, then lifted the paper up for him to see in another lame attempt at deciphering it.

"What, like... we're friends? Or some shit?"

Proton swallowed hard. He would have rather left to go work in his room, but something about those eyes - those dark, all-consuming pits-

"Yeah," he finally said, "or some shit." Finally, he looked away and kept his eyes there. "Now, can you tell me if this looks right?" There was another long bout of awkward silence. He wondered if Petrel was finally listening, or if he was going to be hung up on 'Pete' all night. Should have kept his gob shut. He'd gotten comfortable, living here with Petrel. He'd nearly forgotten why it was grunts avoided him when they could. Archer and Ariana were terrifying in their own rights, their own strict, unforgiving, vicious ways, but Petrel was unpredictable at best. A ticking time bomb. As dangerous as the others, but with the added bonus of never being quite sure what or when would set him off.

"That's atropine." Proton looked up. Petrel was still staring at him. "They use it in some medicines. Poisonous in high doses. Hallucinogenic, if you play your cards right."

"Oh. ...Uh, thanks."

"No problem, Pro."

It was said so awkwardly, so unsure, that a smile couldn't help but split Proton's face. The unease drained out of him. Friends or some shit, indeed.

The next few days passed mostly the same. The two kept themselves buried under whatever sheets they could find. Proton spent his time working at the coffee table, wracking his brain for anything he could remember. Some of it was code. Some of it was more chemical equations. Petrel would help him with those, naming off what he could, expanding where he was able. Most of it seemed to effect the brain, he remarked, and the mystery deepened further. There was going to be a lot to research - but until Proton could dive into the pokeball's coding, there was nothing they could determine for sure.

Otherwise, while Proton worked, Petrel... just sort of powered off. Proton was certain that, if he needed Petrel up and about, he could crack open the paneling on his back and replace his batteries, then watch him spring to life like a wind-up toy. Any time he looked, he caught him staring blankly into space, hardly moving to so much as breathe. It was unnerving. But whenever he did catch him like that, Proton would remark that they both needed rest to ignore their angrily protesting stomachs. Cold and hungry, they would bundle up together for warmth and drift off on the couch. At the very least, the water was still running, so when they woke, Proton would fetch them both something to drink, and he'd have to help Petrel to even use the glass. It helped with the hunger pains, a little bit, kept Proton's mind of things, but the gnawing would always return to him in the end. He tried to keep it out of his mind, but he had no idea how they would last a few weeks like this. All he could do was keep his head down and hope.

But time was nebulous, and stretched itself into infinity. Rapidly Proton lost track of day, week, month, all overtaken by sluggishness and hunger. He wasn't sure how much longer they would have to spend in the apartment. Every minute was the same. Every second passed as an eternity.

"Hey," Petrel said once, his eyes still distant, hardly moved from his spot on the couch, "do me a favor." It was a common demand, since their return. Do me a favor, grab me a drink. Do me a favor, bring a pillow. Do me a favor, rub my shoulders. Petrel was liberal with them, as though Proton owed him every last one. Proton, having not much else to do and unwilling to put up with Petrel's bitching, would appease him, just like this time.

"What do you want?" he replied without looking up.

"Go into my room. There's a false panel in the bottom left drawer of my dresser. Bring me what's there."

Proton rolled his eyes, but stood, and under Petrel's watchful eye, went to crack open his bedroom door.

It was the first time he'd been inside. Even since the first day he was reassigned to the apartment, he'd only ever seen Petrel go in and out, and there might as well not have been a room there at all. Since their return from Orre, they only used the bathroom across from Proton's room, as it was closer. He wasn't sure, entirely, what he expected to see inside Petrel's, but he was a little surprised to find it mostly normal. A bed big enough to fit his friend's obscene height was backed up to the far wall. On either side was a small table, and across from it was the dresser, with a CRT stacked on top of it. There was a closet door and then another door Proton assumed went to Petrel's bathroom. Finally, under the window was a half piano, with a few books lined up along it. The smell of nicotine lingered inside, making his nose twitch, but hardly bothering him otherwise.

Proton didn't waste any time. He went to the dresser and opened the indicated drawer, then slid clothes aside as he felt for a give in the panel. It came out fairly easily, and underneath were a few bulk packages of unopened hyper potions. Frowning, he took one package back to the den and set it on the coffee table.

"Alright," he said, "here ya go. Dunno what good it's gonna do ya."

"Open it."

Another roll of his eyes, and Proton shredded through the shrink-wrapped plastic, then took a hyper potion and set it deliberately in front of Petrel. The other man just stared at him, and so Proton went further, unscrewing the spray nozzle from the top.

"There," he said, "better?"

"Much," Petrel agreed. He looked to the spot next to him, and humoring him, Proton sat. "You ready?"

"Ready for what?" Proton watched, amused, as Petrel leaned in to get a good whiff of the open bottle. He relished the scent, his eyes fluttering shut in delight, relaxation, his shoulders moving with his deep breaths.

"For the best fucking trip of your life," he finally answered. As though sensing Proton's dubious expression, his eyes shot back open, and he leveled him with his usual intense stare. "You're gonna feel fucking wired. It's a better high when you're tired, I find. Mind racing a million miles a fucking minute after being at a complete standstill—it's like you're flying."

Proton pulled the hyper potion back.

"That's your big plan?" he responded dryly. "Huff potions? I'm not enabling you. I've seen what this kind of shit turns people into."

Petrel laughed, turning a little more towards him. He leaned his cheek against the back of the couch as he smiled, and Proton found he couldn't look away.

"You can get off your high milotic," he said, "you really enjoyed yourself with the weed. The way it just loosened you up... I envied you, you know? I had to drag your happy ass to the motel. I didn't even get a taste."

"Fuck off," Proton grumbled, "I said I'm not enabling you."

"You owe me. I'm bored and in pain. Help a buddy out."

It almost bothered him, how comfortable Petrel was playing that card—but he did owe him. He owed him big time. One favor after another, Petrel had put him in the position to survive. Proton was always one to honor his debts, but... His eyes turned down to the potion. He was the weird grunt, when he was recruited. Never wanted to experiment. Never wanted to hang around when the crack pipes or bongs came out. He'd come home to find her passed out in her own nose candy one too many times to ever have been interested. But hot damn, had the edibles made him feel better on the plane. It was tempting. Very tempting. It would be much better than this long game of waiting.

"Just this once," he gave in, "and only because you're fucking useless, otherwise. So, what do we do, just, like... huff it, or...?"

"Bottoms up," Petrel instructed, "go light, since it's your first time."

Proton took a long sip. It burnt going down, smelled and tasted like iodine, and he coughed and choked for a minute to the tune of Petrel's laughter. For a second he wondered if it was going to burn a hole through him, if this was some elaborate murder scheme Petrel had orchestrated, and his vision swam. But the burning passed, leaving him a little bit light-headed, and Petrel scooted closer.

"Now me."

He took it like a champ. Proton held the bottle for him, watching him chug like he was trying to break some kind of record, until the bottle was empty. He wiped the corner of his mouth on his shoulder as Proton set the bottle on the table and settled back into the couch once more, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. Proton followed his lead.

"How long does it take?" he asked, "I don't feel very different."

"Give it a while. Trust me. You'll know when it hits."

It really didn't seem to be working. Minutes passed by, and everything seemed normal, still. The funny aftertaste in his mouth was probably the worst it came to. That would be a godsend. Nothing would come of it, and they would spend the rest of their time locked down in peace until Giovanni came to let them out.

And then all of a sudden everything jumped to light speed.

Ariana had a busy past few weeks, and nothing seemed to be slowing down. Her life was a constant cycle of brothels, checking in, checking around, making sure everything was elegant and up to Giovanni's impossibly high standards on his equally impossibly low budget. When it wasn't brothels, it was game corners, and the smell of smoke and blare of slots and pachinko machines gave her headaches. When it wasn't game corners, it was dealing with grunts and admins and her brother and trying to find some meager existence of order in the undeniable chaos of Team Rocket. It was overwhelming for just about anyone, and unlike Archer, Ariana refused to allow entropy to consume her life. That meant that, once in a while, she needed a goddamn break away from everything.

That was why, only three days into the house arrest of her dear friend Petrel and that idiot boy Proton, she had gathered a care package of snacks and canned drinks and set off to stop by their apartment. There were guards outside, of course, though Ariana knew they were for show—Petrel was a loyal man, at his core, and would never intentionally cross Giovanni's orders unless it sated his own zealotry. Though perhaps they were a good thing, this time, she thought; after all, despite the months Proton had to acclimate as the newest Executive, in her eyes, he was still a wildcard. She had no idea what to expect or where he stood. He always gave her the feeling that the instant a good offer came along, he would sell the entire organization out. That, however, was an issue she was dealing with long-term. In the short-term, she needed both of them to like her. Just for a weekend.

"Pardon me, boys," she told the guards, "I'm going inside." The two looked at each other. One was taller, stronger, with short blond hair and wore a pair of sunglasses despite being inside; this one looked to the smaller one, hair grey and spiked like a zigzagoon, with a shrug. Both wore the grey uniforms Ariana recognized as belonging to one of her brother's elite field divisions. Smart ones, she assumed.

"Master Giovanni told us no one was allowed in," the smaller one said.

"And I'm telling you I'm going in," she repeated. "With Master Giovanni's full permission, of course. Unless you know something I don't?"

"No, ma'am," the taller one quickly said, "of course not. Hun, right...?"

"Attila, he said no one..."

"I know this is hard, boys," Ariana said, "but believe it or not, the Executive speaks with the boss more than the admins do. So unless you'd like to explain to Master Giovanni why you ignored my direct orders...?"

There was no argument, this time. They stepped aside. Very, very smart.

"In fact," she continued as she passed them, "your work is done here, I think. Why don't you two take an early break, then report to Executive Archer?"

She let herself in to their mumbled "yes, ma'ams," and the sounds of their retreating footsteps.

The temperature drop between the hall and Petrel's apartment was astounding. It wasn't the first time he'd been put on lock-down in the winter, and Ariana always wondered how he stood it. She, herself, had prepared for this moment, and slung her coat around her shoulders. Normally she would come in to Petrel filing documents for the infirm on these sorts of days, but she was aware of his unfortunate accident overseas; she was unsurprised to catch the back of his head at the couch, and instead of immediately going to greet him, she shuffled into the kitchenette to set down the care package.

Something was off, though; the whole apartment stank, and not like weed. She knew Giovanni had it all confiscated before the boys' flight even landed. It was heavier smell, almost metallic in a way. Her nose scrunched. Leave it to these idiots not to clean up after themselves.

"Petrel, sweetie," she said, "are you awake?" When she turned, Petrel was already facing her, his eyes wide and his skin just as ashen as when they'd picked him up. His pupils were huge, and it was then Ariana noticed the shallow, abrupt breaths he was taking.

"Ari," he said hurriedly, "Ari, I can't make the room stop spinning. I just—I'm so—I'm so itchy, I—"

She didn't feel sorry for him. Not particularly. Everything Petrel suffered was usually something he did to himself. All that mattered to her was whether or not it would hamper Rocket—and more than that, if it would hamper her own plans.

"Petrel," she scolded, "Archer specifically told requisitions you're not allowed to have potions, anymore. Do you remember what happened, last time?"

"N—no, no, no," Petrel snapped. He shook his head and fussed around for a minute, pushing himself up to his feet with a pained grunt. "I have—I keep having these ideas, but I keep—I need to write them down, but I can't focu—I'm so goddamn itchy, Ari—"

"I brought you food. I need you sober up. I'm going away for the weekend and I need someone to watch Silver."

Petrel took unsteady steps towards Ariana, blinking in confusion as she flicked the kitchenette light on.

"But that's—we're supposed to be—"

"It's alright. I talked him into it. That's what friends are for."

He leaned heavily against the bar counter, blinking and squeezing his eyes shut tight and blinking again. Finally, just as confused, he looked down to the care package. Ariana opened the box and began pulling out the snacks. She could see his mouth start watering and heard his stomach grumbling from there. He tried to reach out, but his arms caught inside his sling, and he whined. Ariana unwrapped a melon bread and stuffed one end into his mouth.

"I need to know you'll be more responsible while Silver's here," she said sweetly, rubbing his shoulder. "You know you're his favorite. I want you to set a good example."

Her mom voice worked wonders on Petrel, even to this day. He settled against the bar, finally taking a seat on one of the stools, and chewed on the melon bread pathetically. He was always vulnerable like this when he was tripping; she knew he put a lot of effort into analyzing her and her brother. It was almost a game: what could you convince Petrel was genuine? He seemed to have a hard enough time winning that game sober, but it was so delightfully easy to twist him like this.

"I know you're hurt, and tired, sweetie," she whispered, "but just promise me, alright? It would mean a lot to me. I'm sure Master Giovanni would appreciate it, too."

That was all it took. Petrel nodded pathetically, and she patted his cheek. "Good. Sit there and rest. I'll come give you some water, later. Did you drink a lot?" He nodded. "Idiot. Well, it's not like you knew you were getting out, today. Where's Proton?" Petrel turned his head towards the guest room, and Ariana followed his gaze; the door was closed, but the bathroom door across from it was open. There was a strange snapping sound coming from inside, and with a sigh, she made her way over. The odd smell grew stronger. She pushed open the door.

The bathroom looked like a murder scene, and might as well have been one, though she supposed it didn't particularly count as murder when another person wasn't involved. Blood had sprayed against the wall and door, pooling and coagulating on the floor. In the middle of the floor knelt Proton, his back to the far wall as he snapped bone and clawed at fur and flesh. Whatever it was, it was hardly recognizable. Furry. A tail, maybe. Ears. Parts of the pokemon were scattered around the bathroom, and when Proton looked up at her, he had the same wide eyes as Petrel, practically vibrating like a patrat.

"The muscles," he said to her, "they're so fucking big. Are all the muscles this big? Are all mankey this big? This ain't the... the first time... mankey ain't this big. Ain't supposed to be this big, and it was so strong, so fast, didn't mean to do thisbutitstruggledandIjustneededtoknowIjustneededtoknow—"

His words began to blur together, but Ariana could hardly pay attention over the smell, holding her nose shut as she eyed the bathroom helplessly. There was no way. No goddamn way. She needed them to get the stains and the smell out before Silver came to stay, and there was barely any time. She would have to get maintenance involved, and they would need a metric fuckton of bleach just to put a dent in this bullshit.

She jumped as hands gripped the front of her uniform, and she focused again on Proton, who by mere proximity was causing her to start vibrating, as well.

"Let go before you get hurt," she told him, but Proton wasn't listening.

"—and it's bigger, so much bigger, need—need ya to look, need ya to get me out, I need a lab, I need more mankey, I need to make sure—"

She slapped him hard across the mouth and he fell back on his ass, shaking his head and looking up at her. She was right about him. Of course she was right. A wildcard. A liability. Giovanni wasn't here right now, and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. As far as he would be concerned, his new little "rising star" overdosed and just... never woke up... asphyxiated on his own vomit, maybe... She began to stalk towards him. Proton slowly looked back up to her.

"It's the brain," he whispered viciously, "the pokeball was only part of it, whatever they did to the thing changed its brain—"

Ariana paused in her step. Her eyes traveled down to the bloody pokemon carcass. Yes. It was a mankey, she realized, wasn't it? Split apart, but definitely a mankey. Which would make that the head, and that exposed, grey goo—

"Tell me again," she said quietly, "why you need a lab?"