The lights of the lab were harsh and unforgiving, and made Proton's eyes sting like hell. He'd been blinking painful tears from their corners all day, since he'd come down from his high to find himself bloodied up to the elbow and knee-deep in mankey parts Ariana was helping him stuff into a big garbage bag. He was still weak and woozy, his hands trembling to the point he could hardly hold much of anything. He had still been in a better state than Petrel, who had been in the middle of an anxious breakdown when they brought the filled garbage bag to the door. Ariana didn't seem particularly concerned about the state of him, and with an order to Proton to clean himself up, she'd left him to deal with the mess and taken the mankey parts with her. Even through his dizziness, Proton was able to guide Petrel back to the couch and got him to lay down before throwing every last sheet they had over him until he stopped moving and stopped talking, simply deflating and staring blankly up at the ceiling. Of course Proton had been worried - he didn't know what he'd been thinking, going along with the fucking potions, because he was pretty sure whatever was in the damn thing was probably toxic to people. His throat still felt raw when he swallowed. Never again.

But he'd done as he was told and washed himself up, then did his best to start cleaning the bathroom before Ariana returned. When she did, he made himself decent and she escorted him out of the dorm and down long stretches of hallways until, finally, they reached a familiar door: Petrel's lab. Proton didn't question how she had a key or even how she convinced Giovanni to let him out, and instead sat where she told him and waited for her next orders. It was strange, what she was doing; after all, only days ago, she'd been petitioning his murder to Giovanni, and now here she was, letting him out early and letting him into a lab, tossing the bag of mankey parts up onto a table. It was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if the horse was wooden... He spent the next few hours sorting the mankey out and putting parts of it on ice in an attempt to preserve whatever was left. It was much later when Ariana reappeared, this time with Petrel in tow, who looked about as good as Proton felt. They could both use a bite and a drink, but Ariana shoved Petrel onto a stool at a stainless steel table and went to lean herself against the door frame.

"Alright, boys," she told them, "now that you're both sober, it's time to get some work done. I need answers."

"Yeah," Proton replied, "yeah, that's great, and uh... all, but... uh, Ariana, can we - can we like - turn the lights off and-"

"No. Make stupid decisions, face the consequences. Now, did I stutter?"

"Ari, I don't even know why I'm here," Petrel croaked. He was only dressed to the waist, and he raised his busted arms in their slings a bit. Instead of his usual intense, piercing gaze, his eyes were bloodshot and still unfocused. He looked about ready to pass out. "I'm fucking useless. I'm going to be useless." But he lowered his head like a scolded child when Ariana stared him down, and he sagged in his seat.

"You're here to supervise," Ariana said, "while Proton does your work. Figure this shit out. I want that mankey's brain cut like sashimi." She hiked her sleeve up and checked her watch, frowning before letting her arm fall back to her side. "Get started. I need to meet with Giovanni, and both of us will be back to check on you." She jabbed a finger at Petrel. "No. Potions."

And just like that, she left. Petrel let out a heavy sigh and swiveled around in his chair to face the table. He was busy considering it in relation to his arms when Proton turned to him.

"Why's she always so grouchy?" he grumbled. Petrel raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly to the cooler that was currently filled with mankey bits.

"You think that has anything to do with it?" he said flatly. Proton brought the cooler to the table and plopped it down, reaching a hand in to grab a handful of mankey. "Ew, shit, don't touch it! Get some gloves, you heathen!"

"What?" He plopped the crushed skull on the table and looked around for tools. Petrel had to have stuff to work with, right? "I mean, besides this though. Why's she such a bitch to me and not to you?" Petrel pointed to a cabinet, and Proton went to search through the drawers, grabbing anything shiny and pointed he could find before dropping them onto the table.

"Listen up, Pro," Petrel said, "because I'm such a nice guy, I'm going to give you the only advice you're ever going to get in Rocket that's worth a damn: make friends with Ariana. I don't care if you have to be her little bitch boy and get on your knees to eat her out, as long as she's on your side, Master Giovanni's on your side, too."

"Why? 'Cause they're fuckin'?"

"Because they're married, idiot. Now, take that scalpel, I'm going to tell you where to cut..."

"You ever had to eat her out?"

"She knows I don't swing that way. Not too sure about you, though."

"I don't care. S'all good to me."

"My last fuckbuddy was like that. Alright, now, carefully, make an incision to youuuurrr... right. Right. Right. Holy shit, I said right. There."

Under Petrel's careful instructions, Proton was able to delicately slice his way through the rest of the flesh and carve open bone, fully revealing the bulbous, greying brain of the mankey. Even more carefully he removed it from the brain socket, placing it onto the table with precision that was given a nearly passing grade. He wasn't a damn surgeon. He didn't deal with brains on a daily basis.

"I took it out of the socket, what more do you want from me?"

"The sock—you idiot, you absolute moron, it's the cranial—"

"I don't care. What's next?"

He segmented, cut, and sliced, focusing hard and only faltering when Petrel insulted him and he needed to put the man back in his place. Their playful banter was a great distraction from how boring the work was, how messy it was, and how poor Proton's surgical skills apparently were. Petrel would name different bits as Proton cut, gave brief explanations as to what supposedly did what.

"What about this one?" Proton asked him, pointing to a sizable bit he felt looked like a large bean, and Petrel leaned over his shoulder to get a good look.

"That's the amygdala," he explained, "it helps drive the fear response, among other things. Let me see?" Proton scooted out of the way as Petrel leaned further in, and then under his instructions, he severed it from the rest of the brain and held it up for him to see.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It's big," Petrel answered, "like, really big. I mean... it's a mankey, not a human, and mankey tend to be pretty pissed. But this one... I dunno. It looks kind of swollen."

Proton hummed as he observed the gland, then looked around the lab for something to do with it. "Can we like... test it? With something?" Petrel nodded.

"Yeah, let's get the analyzer going. C'mon."

The machine Petrel took him to was big and bulky, one that Proton had seem numerous times in the lab before but never understood what, precisely, it did. He walked him through the process easily enough, prepping a sample and properly inserting it into the machine, then operating the old, cracked screen to start the analysis. There were a few pre-programmed tests that Petrel had him run, and with some patience soon enough they began to receive outputs. Proton stood side to let Petrel lean over the screen, watching as he muttered to himself and pondered the results.

"Well, there's your atropine," he finally said, "some other shit in there I can't get a definite reading on. But get this: there's traces of umbral simulacrum." He paused as he caught Proton's blank stare, then elaborated as he plopped back on his stool. "That's a sort of chemical produced by dark-type pokemon."

"Oh," said Proton, "so... it's a dark-type mankey?" Petrel shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. It's consistent with the effects of the move Swagger, I would say. The mankey is just under its influence."

Proton didn't have a ton of experience with dark-type pokemon, but he was familiar with Swagger. Had no idea how it actually worked, of course, but Carillo had a scraggy that knew it. It pissed pokemon off and made them a hell of a lot stronger—but, he knew, it also enraged them to the point they would often lash out at anything around them, even occasionally hitting themselves. So the mankey was under the effects of Swagger. Maybe it had been battling before Proton picked it up?

"Maybe," Petrel said when he voiced that thought, "but here's the kicker. The simulacrum's a lot more concentrated than it should be. I don't know of any pokemon that could produce this much in one attack. Not even Archer's houndoom."

"You said the atropine was there, too?"

"Yeah."

"What... what if they used them together?"

Petrel thought, then looked over his shoulder to the rest of the mankey scattered over his operating table.

"Yeah," he settled on, "yeah, I think they would bond alright...ish? A gas, maybe. Gas the pokemon with it over time and..."

"And you could make it permanently pissed."

"Maybe not permanently. It doesn't last forever. Regular doses. The simulacrum deteriorates quickly. We could test it, but we'd to make a few batches... and that means we need fresh simulacrum."

Fresh... But Twitch didn't know any dark-type attacks. He didn't think any of Petrel's koffing did, either. Did they? The both of them pondered the situation and the solution, staring hard at the chemical analyzer. Then, their eyes met. Proton knew without asking that they were thinking the same thing, just by the look in Petrel's eyes.

"Archer," they said together.

"I really don't see the point of this," Archer said as swabbed the inside of his houndoom's mouth with a cotton ball. A prime bit of mankey had been placed in front of Coyote upon his arrival, and Archer had given the strict order not to eat. It was tough. It was very tough. The three men watched the houndoom drool and slobber as he smelled the mankey, licking his lips and shifting on the pads of his paws with soft whines. Once the dog was sufficiently slobbery, their collection began.

Proton was surprised when Archer quickly showed up after they'd sent a runner to fetch him, toting in hand both Petrel and Proton's pokegears, both of which needed to be recharged. His eyes were circled by bruises, as was the bridge if his nose. Petrel seemed absolutely delighted by the state his face was in, and Proton was pretty sure Archer would have decked him if the two of them had been in the lab alone. Every comment Petrel made was met with sharp, dark sneers that only made his eyes light further with glee. Even still, Archer remained to help.

"C'mon, Archer," Proton replied, "we're right on the edge. Once we figure out how Cipher was makin' their pokemon so big and bitchin', Rocket's gonna be unstoppable. Giovanni might even give you a compliment, for once."

"Har, har," Archer deadpanned back, "you're hilarious. Here. Another one." He passed off the cotton ball to Proton, who bagged and stored it as Petrel instructed.

"A few more of these bad boys and we're home free."

Archer took another cotton ball and began swabbing his poor houndoom again. While he was busy, Proton sat next to Petrel, tipping his stool back to lean on two legs.

"Having fun?" Petrel asked him, and Proton grinned broadly.

"I'm on top of the fuckin' world!" he announced, "all this shit's finally comin' to a head. Feels like I been barkin' up this tree since I was an admin. I'm gonna dig into the pokeball code once we get all these samples taken care of."

"You've got a lot more energy than usual," Petrel agreed, "it suits you." He shifted, leaning close to Proton's ear. "You know? You're pretty hot when you're not sulking around like a grunt." His warm breath tickled at his skin and sent a shiver down his spine. Proton laughed it off and shoved him back playfully.

"Fuck off, idiot," he chuckled. Just like in Orre, it was a game, and Petrel was fucking with him. It felt nice. Felt like it had when he was still in the admin dorm with his squad. "Hey... you want a smoke?"

"Hell yes," Petrel said, "top drawer of my desk. Lighter should be there, too."

Proton hopped up to go look, but as he did so, his pokegear chimed to alert him it was powering on—and then it buzzed. Buzzed non-stop, one after the other, texts that had been waiting to find him and suddenly arrived. Smokes could wait. Proton lunged for his gear and flipped it open, scrolling through to his texts. His mom. Something must have been wrong, something must have been...

She was going to be waiting at home?

Brow furrowed, he clicked back with one of the buttons and scrolled the bezel to the call function, searching until he found the number of the rehab clinic and dialing.

"Hello?" came the usual receptionist's voice, and Proton practically jumped on her with his reply.

"This is Pro—Lance," he quickly corrected himself, "Lance, uh, Lance Di Mercurio, I'm checking on—"

"Oh, Lance," she greeted. "we tried to reach you yesterday, but you were unavailable. Is there anything else you needed from us?"

"What? I didn't—my mother, did she—is she still there?"

"No, she left late last night. Don't worry, everything's been taken care of. We'll miss Mariella, she's such a lovely—"

"Thank you. That's all I needed." Proton snapped the gear shut and whirled around. The other two were staring; Archer seemed concerned.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, but Proton ignored him and instead turned his attention to Petrel.

"I need to borrow your car," he demanded, and Petrel quirked an eyebrow.

"People don't use my car," he countered.

"Alright. Let's try it this way." Proton went to Petrel's desk and pulled drawers, shoving his things aside until he set eyes upon a set of keys he recognized. He held it up to dangle for Petrel to see, who took to his feet and started towards him. "I'm taking your fucking car. It's an emergency. Tell Giovanni I'll be back soon."

Petrel followed him out the door, bitching the entire while.

"Do you even know how to drive?" he snapped as he followed Proton out and towards the garage.

"I'll figure it out."

"You'll figure it—dude, it's a fucking stick, if you don't know how to fucking drive a stick, you're going to stall or roll off the damned mountain and get yourself killed."

"Shut up." Proton whirled on him, seething. "I don't care. I don't fucking care. She wasn't done with the program. She wasn't clean. Five fucking years, in and out, and she's not fucking clean. I'm taking the damn car."

He sat himself in the driver's seat, sliding the key in to turn, and listened to the engine roar to life. He looked up as the passenger door opened and Petrel, with some difficulty, slid into the seat next to him, then turned his eyes back to the dashboard. He stared at the stick until he decided which position would be reverse, then threw the lever—or tried, anyways. He struggled with it, trying to shove it over but feeling it catch, so he jostled it, harder, harder, finally decided he was going to rip the entire goddamn thing out of the fucking car—

Petrel's shoulder brushed his.

"It's alright. Take a breath."

Proton inhaled, sucking the mountain air deep into his lungs, then let it slowly flow back out of him. He felt like his own stomach was going to eat him alive. Felt like something heavy had settled inside of him, was weighing him down. He looked helplessly up at his friend.

"I almost lost her, last time. She's all I have, Pete. She's all I've ever had."

"We'll get there in time. You need to have your foot on the clutch. That pedal on the left."

Proton looked down, staring hard at the pedals, until he put his foot on the one—the clutch—and threw the car into reverse. He swallowed hard. It had always been bumming rides or catching public transport. He never had to actually drive before. But there was no time to waste. He pulled out of the spot, took a few tries, then threw the car into gear and carefully navigated it towards the gate.

He didn't have time to appreciate the drive like normal. If he had to choose, he much preferred when Petrel drove, and his shoulders, knees, and elbows were tense the entire trip. They made their way down winding mountain roads, then onto the freeway, speeding west towards Goldenrod. The entire drive, he tried to remind himself that nothing had really happened, yet. All she'd done was check herself out. Maybe she was feeling better. Maybe everything would be fine.

They pulled into the city in the early, early morning. The sun wouldn't rise for a while, but the sky, Proton thought, wasn't quite as dark. He made a point not to spend time in Goldenrod since Rocket first picked him up. The instant he got out of that fucking city, happier he would always be. The hit on Mouri had been one of few exceptions he ever made for returning. Even now, though, and even from his unfamiliar position in the driver's seat, he remembered every alley, every street, every turn. He pulled Petrel's car into the old, crumbling parking lot their equally trash camper van had sat for years, now, and barely took the time to park before he threw himself out and ran to unlock the door.

It was quiet. Dark. When he flung open the door, his eyes sought her out in the small space. She was there, laying on her futon on the floor. Sleeping? Proton let out an unsteady breath and knelt, fumbling for their little battery-powered lamp.

"Ma," he said, "Ma, wake up. I just—I came to check on—"

Powder.

The light had illuminated the inside of the van as best as it could, and it was enough. Proton saw the line of powder on their small table. She wasn't asleep, was she? She stirred in place, her eyes cracking open blearily as his heart began to pound faster. He couldn't breathe.

"Lance?" she said, "honey, is that you...?"

A staccato of shallow breaths left him, his chest seizing. He knew it. He fucking knew it. She was a fucking junkie. Of course this would happen. He could serve her salvation on a silver platter and she would smack it out of his hands to indulge in the mankey on her back.

"Lance," she tried again, and her eyes slide to the table, then quickly back to him, "I, I know how it seems but—"

"You stupid woman," he whispered, "you stupid, idiot woman." His hands shook. "After everything. After all I had to do."

"Please, don't speak to me like that. Sit down, Lance, let's tal—"

He slapped her.

"You stupid fucking woman!" he snarled, "do you realize what you've done? He nearly KILLED ME!"

She was clutching her cheek, fighting to untangle herself from the thin sheets and scramble around Proton, but he lashed out with his heel, stamping down on a leg with force enough to hear the sickening snap of bone, and she screamed, but he hardly listened, shouting over her as she began to sob and gasp and beg.

"Five fucking years! I sold my goddamn soul for you! I gave up EVERYTHING!"

"Lance, please, Lance, please—"

He stamped down on the other leg until it snapped just like the first one, and she choked on her tears, scraping fingertips along the floor to drag herself to safety, but Proton threw himself to pin her down. She struggled under him and screamed. He whipped out his butterfly knife and slit her throat. She stopped screaming. Choking, gurgling noises were all that came from her, and weakly she shoved at his chest, at his face, tried to scratch at his eyes. He stabbed the knife back into her, between the ribs. Stabbed. Stabbed. Stabbed. Her struggles lessened and stopped altogether.

"Lance."

It was her fault. All her fault.

"Lance."

How could she have done this to him? All of the stress, the struggle, the threat to his life from his own boss, how could she have ever put him in this position?!

"Proton."

His hands slowed, knife point resting just above her carcass. He took his own gasping breaths, struggled to pull himself under control. He looked over his shoulder. Petrel was watching him from the doorway. His hands were still shaking.

"Petrel," he whispered back, "why, why did she...?"

"Put the knife away. We need to call emergency services and scram."

"Wh-what?" he asked dumbly, "what, no, they... she..." He looked down at her. Dead. She was dead. Wasn't she? Oh. He'd killed her. Of course she was dead. They wouldn't be able to fix that. Would they? No. She was dead. He couldn't see her breathing. She looked like the mankey had. Yes. She was certainly dead. His breath caught in his throat.

What had he done?

Petrel made him dial EMS from her phone, but when the operator asked what their emergency was, Proton could only stare blankly at the device. Petrel took over.

"My mother," he said in Proton's voice, shaky, fearful, "my mother, someone's hurt her! I think she's—please, she's bleeding so much, I can't stop it—I think I saw them run north, oh god, please, I need an ambulance—" He gave the operator the street address, and Proton heard them beginning to talk Petrel through first aid when his friend flipped the gear shut.

"But she's dead," Proton whispered.

"Yeah, and now they think her assailant is heading the other way," Petrel assured him. The change was immaculate. No trace of fear or worry. How did he do that? He sounded just as relaxed as usual. Proton swallowed hard. Petrel nudged him until he stood, then guided him back to the car. "Drive east," he instructed, "then south. There's a safe house nearby. I'll tell you where to turn."

The drive was a blur. Proton's hands continued to shake the entire trip, slipping against the wheel and the stick as they stalled and lurched their way through the empty city streets. He thought he heard Petrel snap at him a few times, for speeding, for going too slow, for running every red light they came across... Eventually they lurched into a small parking garage nestled between some larger buildings, and Proton stumbled after Petrel as he led him up a narrow set of stairs and through into a building. A hotel? Petrel barked some orders to the receptionist, and before Proton knew it they were given a key and ushered into a room at the end of a long, dark hall. He was still staring into space as he sat quietly next to the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest. He wanted to tell himself it was a bad dream, but he knew better. Of course he knew better.

"Hey," Petrel said, "I need you to help me. I can't use my arms." Proton looked up. Petrel nodded with his head towards the bathroom. Proton followed him. He caught sight of himself in the mirror as they entered. Red, sticky hand prints covered his face from where she had tried to shove him off. Some of it was in his hair. Petrel coughed pointedly, and Proton turned away to help him with the toilet. Then, as Petrel took his piss, Proton grabbed a hand towel, wet it in the sink, and began the process of scrubbing himself clean.

"I didn't mean to do it," he mumbled, more to himself than to Petrel. Petrel, however, still listened, and he snorted.

"If you didn't mean it, why did you bring the knife with you?" he countered, and Proton shot him a look in the mirror.

"Wh-what?"

"You heard me. Answer the question."

"I..." It was true. He hadn't planned on running afoul of any rival gangs or robbing any pokemarts. All he'd known was he was going to find her. But he always had his knife on him, it was just good to have. Except... He shifted uncomfortably. Except he didn't like to have it on him when he visited her. He swallowed hard. "I always... always have it and..."

"Proton, listen..." Petrel leaned against the counter, leaning to look him in the face. "Be honest with me. We're friends. Right, Pro? Friends. So... why'd you do it?" Proton began to shake again.

"I didn't," he said, "I mean, I did, but I... I wasn't planning on it, I..."

Dead. She was dead. It was his fault. Reality began to catch up with him, nauseating confusion and, starling, relief. Dead. She was dead. And that meant... that meant he was...

"Free," he whispered, "I'm... I'm free. All those years. All those years breakin' my fuckin' back. Putting myself through this hell just so she could fucking relapse. She's not..." Another hard swallow... and before he could stop it, a hysterical laugh. "She's not my fuckin' problem anymore. Aha... ahaha..."

"Hey. Focus." Petrel's shoulder leaned against his. "You're still in shock. You should sit back down." Proton shook his head and turned in on him, resting his brow against him.

"You're warm," he said, "you're so... warm. Don't... don't... leave me. Please, don't leave me by myself..." His eyes traveled up to Petrel's, locking with his intense, practically hypnotic stare. One shaky hand reached up, carefully feeling up his neck and jaw, fingers grazing along his beard.

Petrel kissed him. It was searing. Soul-sucking. Proton's breath left him as Petrel leaned in, forcing him back until he hit the wall behind them. He tasted like tobacco and nicotine, but for Proton it was reassuring. Soothing, even. His arms wrapped loosely around the back of Petrel's neck.

"If it calms you down," Petrel whispered against him, "I'll fuck you any way you want."

"Shit," Proton gasped as he felt teeth graze his earlobe, a warm tongue tickling and tasting his skin. His already weak knees felt like jelly as Petrel pressed closer against him, and electric shocks shot straight to his cock when Petrel nipped at his neck and sucked at his pulse point. "Petrel."

He hardly noticed the sound of police sirens passing by their building that night.