AN- Well, you know the drill in terms of long times between updates by now, but the good news is I am genuinely feeling much, much better now. I stayed up all night writing which I never would have had the energy or motivation to do a month back, so that's stellar.
As far as this chapter is concerned, I want to put a bit of a warning just to say it's probably the darkest so far. I swear I'm not trying to be edgy, my muse has just been violent since I was a babby and it's what I think I write best. Anyway, thank you for reading, and I hope it was worth the wait!
James watched headquarters rise into view as their balloon sank. Bit by bit, he could make out details- the hair colour poking out under a grunt's hat, the plates of parked vehicles, the texture of the gravel-
The basket met the ground with enough force to throw him forwards, nearly over the edge. Jessie swayed as she caught her balance next to him.
"Arceus, Meowth- watch it!"
His head still reeling from the collision, James adjusted the satchel strap over his shoulder.
"Well, I suppose that counts as a landing," he said, shooting a small smirk at Meowth, who was currently picking himself up from a crumpled heap in the corner.
"Hey, da balloon's in one piece, an' dere are no fatalities- I call dat a resoundin' success."
Even with their well-rehearsed routine, packing up the balloon took a good half hour, towards the end of which Jessie was muttering about getting something to eat. It all felt so normal- James almost forgot that he was hovering around the birth of an assassination plot.
With the cash they'd made from selling the stolen jewellery bouncing in the bag at James' hip, they walked towards the building. What had once been a rare journey across the expanse of asphalt, mingled with ambition and the excitement of seeing the ever-elusive Giovanni, now felt both routine and grim.
"Hold up," Meowth said, bringing the trio to a stop. He cocked his head at a slick-looking black car with tinted windows that was pulling up some forty metres away from them, round the side of headquarters. "Is dat da boss' ride?"
A couple of rockets stepped out of the vehicle; one stood like a soldier at attention, arms folded behind his back, whilst the other opened the back door of the car. True to Meowth's suspicions, Carter emerged, glancing around as he straightened his grey suit jacket.
"The Carter Posse assembles," Jessie muttered, half-smirking, half-scowling. She turned her head sharply as the men started to walk parallel to them. "Don't stare, you two. Guy's got a short fuse."
So they kept going, acting as casual as was possible when the man who'd had them beaten to a pulp not long before was in the vicinity. James had resolved to heed Jessie's advice- he was really trying not to look, to keep his gaze ahead, but curiosity tugged at his strings until he allowed his eyes to veer sideways.
"Wait- is that-"
He looked properly this time, and confirmed his doubt just as Jessie hit him gently on the shoulder.
"James, stop gawking!"
"Is that Butch?"
"What?"
Now all three of them were staring, and James was sure of it- there was his sworn rival, donning dark clothing not too different from his usual garb, but missing the signature 'R'. It was the hair that gave him away, the most distinguishable feature at the distance from which James was. He judged that the other agent accompanying Carter was not Cassidy, using his skills of deduction and the fact that the other Rocket was a black male.
"Yeah, that's him," Jessie agreed. Soon after she'd finished her sentence, they reached the front doors, and Carter and the others disappeared off around the back of the building.
"Since when is he a bodyguard?" Meowth asked, still staring at the spot where Butch had been.
"Who knows?" Jessie said. "It's impossible to keep up with all the change around here. Carter must get off on juggling everyone around."
James was pretty sure she was going to drop the matter then and there, but they'd barely shut the door of their room when she said:
"Do either of you know when the guards' shift finishes?"
There had been a box of cigarettes sitting in the bottom of Jessie's pack since her training days. She'd smoked the first with Cassidy, back when they were on friendlier terms. The taste wasn't awful, but it didn't do all that much for her. She later tried a second before deciding to quit before she really did get addicted.
The third now sat between her fingers.
Rain drizzled down ahead, sparkling like static against the ground, but the ledge that jutted out above her kept Jessie dry as she flipped her lighter open and closed.
This was Butch's spot, far enough away from the building's entrance so as to avoid those passing by. She'd seen him here often enough, back when her team had frequented HQ, and could only hope that he'd kept up the habit.
Doubt crept in after about twenty minutes of standing there, fiddling with the lighter, half-crushing the cigarette in her other hand. Maybe he'd stopped coming here, since everything had been turned on its head.
But another five minutes, and there he was, eyes down as he walked. He didn't appear to notice her until he got close, and stopped like a clockwork toy that needed winding up again.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked. His voice wasn't exactly warm.
Jessie held up her right hand.
"Same thing you are," she replied. He scoffed.
"Yeah. Okay."
Nonetheless, he settled his back against the wall next to her, lighting up his cigarette with the efficiency of a veteran. He offered Jessie his still-lit flame before she had a chance to spark one herself. She accepted it and took a short drag.
"What's so great about these things?" she asked him as the smoke plumed out of her mouth.
"Keep it up for a few weeks and you'll have the answer," Butch said. He tilted his head to face her properly. "What's this about?"
"I saw you earlier, with Carter."
"Yeah, you lot weren't exactly subtle."
"I wanna know what you're doing at his hip all of a sudden."
Butch exhaled, his breath clouded and grey.
"Cassidy got sent off on a mission- undercover work, I think. Then I got called up to the boss' office, and he asked me if I'd take bodyguard work. Said he was looking for people he could trust, and that I had a good record."
Jessie thought for a few moments, then pointed her cigarette ahead of them, towards the woods.
"There's a better smoking spot up there," she said. "Nights like this, you can see tons of stars."
Butch frowned at her, and Jessie didn't blame him. If their positions had been swapped, she'd be wondering if he'd suffered some traumatic head injury.
When he still looked unconvinced, Jessie added: "Come on. It's only a five minute walk."
She started to walk, skin and hair soon slick with rain, and it wasn't too long before his footsteps echoed behind her.
It was pretty rare for Jessie to get tongue-tied, but here, facing Butch in the foggy glow of moonlight, she didn't know where to start.
"Okay, you gotta stop staring at me like that. I feel like you're about to murder me or something."
She ignored him, coming steadily to the conclusion that there was no neat way to lay things out. She might as well just say it.
"I want to take out Carter," she told him. There was none of the shock or horror James had displayed in response: Butch just smirked.
"Is that gonna be your new thing, now you're not chasing that electric rat anymore?" he quipped. "'Cause, uh, hate to tell you, but this isn't something you get to screw up as many times as you want and then try again ten minutes later."
"You see why, though, don't you?" Jessie went on. "The way he kills people off for nothing... It's not right."
Butch shrugged, but he looked uncomfortable.
"We're not working for a pizza chain," he countered. "You mess up, you get hurt. That's part of the deal. It's not like I've got a clean slate, either."
"Sure, but Carter's got something wrong with him. We watched an agent get murdered by our own people just because it provided a good cover." She felt the tendrils of guilt ease their way into her gut as she readied her next sentence. "What if one day he decides you're worth more dead? Or Cassidy?"
He didn't flinch. No stunned eyes looked back at her as she'd expected them to. Instead, Butch sighed, like he'd visited the thought countless times before, and was tired of the worry it stirred up.
"So what?" he asked. "You want me to help you? 'Cause that would put us in far more danger than the boss' mean streak ever would. I'd rather take my chances and the pay rise."
"B-" Jessie actually had to think for a moment. "Butch, I know you and Cassidy play the cold-front game, but this has got to be bothering you. I don't like you, but I don't think you're heartless." He didn't say anything, so she continued. "Trust me- you're playing with fire, being his bodyguard. It's just a matter of time before he decides you're not trustworthy."
"Yeah, well, I won't have to wait long if he knows anything about this little meeting," Butch grumbled, but his expression wasn't one of real annoyance. He turned back to face the path they'd come down. "I'm not committing to anything, but I hear what you're saying. And if I get a chance... Maybe."
He started to walk off, and Jessie decided not to take off after him. She figured that was as good a response as she was going to get.
James turned the mobile phone over in his hand. He'd been repeating the action for almost ten minutes, trying and failing to quell his nerves.
It was the morning after their return to headquarters- he'd figured he needed to wait at least that long before he made the call, since his vague plan was still barely conceived.
When he'd posed the argument that his parents might be able to help to Jessie and Meowth, they'd written it off as a selfish option that wasn't likely to work anyway- but if he got a solid response from his family to back up his claims, perhaps his partners would rethink their line of view. Maybe seeing that safety was a real possibility would sway them.
In the near-barren parking lot, he'd stopped behind the relative camouflage of a grimy van and tapped the number into the phone with no pause, but it was proving that actually making the call wasn't going to come so easily. He wasn't sure if he hated his parents, certainly not the way Jessie said she did whenever she caught sight of the faded scars on his back, but he did know that he would never rid himself of the deep-seated discomfort that manifested with the thought of them. As a child, not having a comparison to draw from, he hadn't thought of their behaviour as anything abnormal. Now it was clear to him that something was deeply wrong with both of them.
For the most part, they'd left him alone when he still lived in the estate. They would exchange conversation at meals, though these discussions were almost always a formal analysis of James' successes and shortcomings- if they involved him at all. He remembered playing a duet on the piano once with his mother, and she'd seemed so genuinely pleased to watch him. His father had often boasted (quite falsely) of his son's athletic potential, how he was sure he'd bloom and grow into a fine heir.
Memories like these were swarmed by conflicting recollections that overshadowed and confused any warmth he might have otherwise felt. His mother telling him, like it was any other fact, that he was stupid. His father's tight grip on his wrist when he lost his temper, the strike to the face that sometimes followed. Both of them just watching as Jessiebelle used him as a living punching bag.
They didn't love him, he knew that. He didn't love them, either. But he would be civil with them, hold his tongue and make false promises if he had to, if it would get rid of the peril leering over his team mates.
That was what he told himself as he finally hit the call button.
His heart squirmed in his chest as he waited for a response. James thought he'd have a short while to re-compose himself, but someone picked up after just two rings.
"Hello?"
Relief hit him hard. It wasn't either of them, but one of the members of staff.
"Hello," he said. He was a little surprised he managed to get the word out without stuttering.
"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"
"I'm a relative." There was no way he was giving his name, not yet. All that would do was unleash a flurry of "Young master James!" and spur a fresh manhunt.
"May I ask for your name?"
James hesitated. "I- I'd just like to speak to one of the homeowners, please," he said.
"I'm afraid I cannot pass you on to the master or mistress without their prior agreement and knowledge of your-"
"It's urgent," James insisted. It felt unnatural, but he tried to mimic the entitled impatience he'd grown up hearing all around him: "I'm busy, and I certainly don't expect to be interrogated like this by a butler."
Now it was the man's turn to pause.
"My apologies sir. I will see what I can do."
Another wait, longer this time. Then he heard footsteps on the other end, muffled clicks against oak or marble or whatever lined the floor-
"Hello? May I ask who's speakin'?"
His mother.
James opened his mouth, and stood there, mute. He licked his lips and tried again only to be met with the same block in his throat. Some part of him refused to speak.
"Hello?"
He hung up, struggling to breathe, and tried to snap the phone in half, desperate, as if it was a threat to his life. It was a cheap burner, and he thought that the plastic would break easily, but it held strong under his fingers, even when his knuckles were white with the pressure. With a cry of frustration, James dropped the phone to the ground, and stamped on it repeatedly, grinding it under his heel. His body was moving on such intense impulse that it felt more like a long series of spasms- something utterly out of his control. The sole of his boot proved an effective weapon, and now the plastic did shatter, the screen crumbling into a spider web of cracks before the device split in half completely.
James backed up, panting. He scooped up the shards as well as he could, and dumped them in the closest bin.
It was only when he'd retreated to the deflated sanctuary of their balloon, far from anyone else, that he allowed himself to cry.
Over the following week, Butch rallied with Jessie's request. As soon as he'd convinced himself that it was an awful, rash idea coming from an idiot with no plan, he'd start to consider everything on the other side of the argument. What would he do if he woke up one day to find out Cassidy had been killed for some minor mistake- for nothing, even?
Sure, he could easily die if he went along with what she'd suggested. But if he ended up getting killed anyway, he'd kick himself in his last moments for not at least trying.
And then he'd counter that thought in turn.
At the current moment, it was the pro-assassination argument that had majority in his mind.
Butch was walking alongside Carter as he had been for most of the day- the bodyguards worked on rotation, a small handful of agents that were deemed trustworthy. They were all men- Butch didn't know if this was coincidence or because Carter took some issue with the idea of a woman protecting him. He'd learned quickly that their job was remarkably different to that of the other Rockets; they were on a different plain from the others, generally met with unease and silence. As such, the bodyguards had an odd rapport amongst themselves.
They weren't exactly friends, but they'd chat in their breaks, exchange small jokes and nod when passing by. It was a fickle but close-knit alliance, shadowed by their shared knowledge that they would kill each other on demand.
Since his encounter with Jessie, Butch had made a point of noting Carter's routine, the consistencies and less predictable factors. There were a few constants so far: he had at least two guards with him at all times; two in his office and another two outside the door; two in his car plus the driver; two, sometimes three, when he was walking from place to place.
Another thing Butch was fairly confident of was that he didn't seem to own any pokemon. He'd seen Carter in a couple of dangerous situations so far in his career as his lapdog, and not once had the man called out a pokemon, or even threatened to. He got the impression that Carter just didn't like them- but that was speculation.
He kept wrestling with the thoughts as the days went by. Kill him, don't. Risk it, risk it anyway.
At some point, the fear began to sputter out like a flame with no fuel left to feed on- he knew that what Jessie had told him was right, and he was in a rare position of opportunity.
At some point, he decided to do it.
He figured one of his evening shifts would be the best time, when there was only one other agent in the room, and Carter was usually busy with phone calls or paperwork. Rather than picking a specific day, he thought it would be better to do it by ear- wait for a chance and jump on it before he changed his mind. No pressure of one lone window of time.
One thing that did still bother him was that Cassidy wasn't around. He had no chance to see her, for what he was well aware could be the last time, though her absence also meant that he couldn't tangle her up in this mess. It was better for her that she was far away right now, even if he would have been glad of her help.
So he tried not to think about her and went with his plan: he waited for an opportunity to present itself. A couple of days later, it did.
He was stationed on the far right corner of Carter's office, another bodyguard called Reuben directly across the room. He hadn't know Reuben for long, but he was about Butch's age, and not nearly as burly as some of the others. Butch reckoned he had a chance with the guy in a fight.
The sweeping sound of paper against paper was the only noise filling the room as Carter shuffled documents on his desk. Butch watched the back of his head, the light brown hair just starting to thin in the centre. He watched it, thinking how at ease his employer was right now, so unaware of the intent his subordinate held. The realisation that he was about to take a human life reared up, but it didn't change his mind. He'd done it before for far worse reasons than this.
Reuben looked to the floor, and Butch breathed in, savouring the last of the peace. With his next breath, he drew his gun.
He had it lined up with the middle of Carter's head within the space of a second, almost without making a sound. It was in the next second that he realised that something was very wrong.
His forefinger, resting on the curve of the trigger, refused to pull it back. It wouldn't even twitch- Butch thought to move his other hand up, but his arm remained at his side, stiff. He couldn't move. Even his eyes wouldn't swivel in their sockets.
Of course, by that point Reuben had reacted, and had his own gun trained on Butch.
"Leave him," Carter said. He was turning to face Butch now, frowning. After a couple of seconds he stood. "Well, I have to admit, I wasn't expecting that."
And then Butch saw it. It had been surfacing, and was now bold enough for him to notice it against the dark wallpaper: an unown. It moved before him, from the second dimension to the third, and hovered in the air, bobbing slightly.
Butch understood. It was not that Carter trusted his bodyguards, but that he knew that his pokemon would stop them if they tried anything. The thing probably tailed him wherever he went.
Carter walked up to Butch, and regarded him for a moment before reaching up for the gun. He clicked on the safety first before taking hold of its end with both hands, and then gave a sharp yank. He had to do so several times before he was able to pry the gun out of his employee's hands. Butch, unable to loosen his grip, felt an immense surge of pain as several of his fingers snapped in front of him. Still under the psychic pokemon's hold, he stared ahead, his deformed fingers frozen in place, now holding an imaginary gun.
"I'm short on time," Carter said as he put the weapon down on his desk. "Usually I'd just kill you, but that would send the wrong message to the rest of this organisation. I can't have people under the impression that traitors are rewarded with a quick death." He looked to Reuben tiredly. "You- make him suffer."
Butch's limbs loosened up in that instant, his arms dropping back to his sides and his muscles relaxing again. The pain in his hands was crazy, but there was nothing else holding him back, and he darted for the door, figuring he might as well try. He'd sprinted a few steps when his right ankle exploded in agony.
Screaming out, Butch fell to the ground and rolled onto his side- he looked at his foot and felt a little sick when he saw that it was almost pointing backwards. He moaned, the unown gazing at him with its lone eye. He wondered why Carter didn't just get the pokemon to do his dirty work- it was obviously capable of it- before realising that he had an agenda other than mere efficiency. This was a power move. Make your other employee fuck you up to really drive the message home.
As Reuben quickly closed in on him, Butch forced himself up once more, unable to put any weight on his bad leg so forced to hop towards the door instead. It wasn't that he thought he was going to make it, more that he reasoned there was no point giving up sooner than he had to. Even if there was a one in a million chance, that was better than nothing.
His colleague stepped in front of him and threw a heavy punch that hit Butch on the cheek and slid into the side of his nose. He would have toppled at a mere shove, but this sent his head slamming against the floor.
Reuben looked back at Carter as Butch raised his hands to his face on the ground.
"Keep going."
Butch didn't get up this time, just braced himself. He did what he could, bringing his knees close to his stomach and crossing his arms over his face, but it was a meagre defence against the onslaught of kicks that the other bodyguard sent his way. The man's boot connected mainly with his ribs, though his back and legs didn't go totally unscathed- it occurred to Butch, in the small functioning part of his mind, that Reuben was avoiding his bad ankle and hands. He wasn't exactly grateful, but it made him hate the guy a little less.
After some time- Butch had no idea how long, only that it was too long- Reuben stopped again, and this time Carter didn't tell him to resume. Butch spat out blood, his chest heaving with painful breaths. Almost every inch of him hurt, and he couldn't control the gasps and groans that sporadically left his mouth. It was with great effort that he managed to raise himself to his knees. He had one last card to play, even if its value was next to zero.
"Please," he rasped. "I wasn't thinking straight. I should never have questioned you- your position." Carter didn't reply, so he kept going. "I'll do anything you ask, and I'll never pull anything again- I could be a double agent, get intel for you, I'll work for free, I-"
"That's enough," Carter cut in. "I'm sorry this had to happen. You had potential." Butch let his mind stop running in circles. He hung his head, and focused on breathing. "Kill him somewhere else."
He felt hands slide under his arms, and yelped as he was dragged backwards. His right foot was grating against the floor, sending shockwaves through the shattered bone; he tried to lift it off the ground, with not much success. He was pulled through the door, and then Carter was out of sight.
The bodyguards at the office's entrance looked confused at the commotion, having maintained their positions without the order to intervene. Reuben tugged Butch's arms upwards.
"Come on," he prompted. Butch was puzzled for a moment before he realised that the man was trying to help him to stand. He managed to do so with the fellow Rocket's help, wavering on his left leg. Reuben positioned Butch's right arm over his shoulders. "Come on, hold onto me."
They walked and hopped respectively down the hall, passing a couple of agents who Butch was too tired to gauge the reactions of. It wasn't long before Reuben led him through a door to the side, into a tiled room with a few boxes stacked up in the corner. He held most of Butch's weight as he lowered the man down so he was sitting against the wall. Butch cried out softly at the change in position, but the pain soon settled down to a more tolerable level.
He met Reuben's gaze, and saw that he looked uncomfortable- not wavering or sympathetic, just like he'd much rather be somewhere else.
There were, as weird as it might have sounded, quite a few positives Butch could draw from his fate here in the storage room with a man about to murder him. He would never have to grow old, see his body and mind deteriorate; he would never have to worry about getting some illness that would linger for years and kill him slowly; the authorities wouldn't have the chance to lock him up for the rest of his life.
Besides that, a bullet in the head wasn't a bad way to go, even if the lead-up to it had been torturous. He'd seen people get shot in the head before, and it always looked instant. He'd heard of rare cases where people didn't die after one shot, and it took two, or even three to finish them off, but he wasn't too worried about that. The guns the guards used were fairly high calibre.
He was aware that this wave of calm didn't have any foundations, but he didn't care. He'd ride it.
Reuben crouched in front of him. He didn't need to worry. It would be instant.
And it was. Butch didn't feel anything more than the press of the gun's cold metal on his forehead.
