The snapping of the proximal phalanx of his left index finger woke the Silph Co. scientist, Parker, with an explosive howl, his shrieks partially contained within the thick black fabric of the bag fastened over his head. Hot, sharp eruptions of pain shot through his hand and his arm, a burning so intense that he felt it in his wisdom teeth.

"That's one," came a low, gravelly voice from outside the bag. "Don't make me count to three."

"I don't know who the fuck you are! I don't know why you are doing this!" Parker cried out, feeling tears gushing down his cheeks.

Looker squeezed Parker's right hand and playfully lingered over his other index finger. "What is it you lot are always on about? To protect the world from-" SNAP

"STOP!" the scientist begged through screams, "PLEASE! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"

"Partner, you think he could take a Mega Punch to the gut?"

The muscular Machoke in the shadows lightly smashed his right fist against the palm of his left hand, the sound of the fleshy smack reverberating in Scientist Parker's ears. He walked toward the bound man with purpose, making sure his footfalls were audible.

"That'll kill me," the scientist sputtered. "What kind of hostage taker kills his hostage before he gets wha-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Looker glanced down at the now-three fingers on Parker's hand bent completely in half.

"I told you not to make me count to three. One more time. And the next one's coming clean off."

Looker ripped the bag off Parker's head and looked him in the eyes. He was a bedraggled man with short, unkempt salt and pepper hair, perhaps a few years too young. Behind wide-rimmed bottle glasses sat eyes steeped in apathy, the sort Looker most commonly noted in long-time alcoholics. It was a look Looker knew all too well.

"I admit anything you want me to say, man, just please don't touch MY HANDS AGAIN-"

Parker's red blindness faded ever so slightly, enough to see his captor for the first time. The trenchcoated man proved a commanding and formidable presence that demanded attention.

His deliberate dress was accentuated by a weathered countenance, etched with lines of experience and hardships endured. A strong jawline, shaven clean, added to his air of rugged masculinity. His piercing eyes, often veiled with a hint of steely determination, held a glimmer of intensity suggesting a troubled past.

But more than anything else, Parker noted a palpable sense of danger emanating from Looker.

The trenchcoated man, without breaking eye contact, reached into his coat and produced a tape recorder. Old school, Parker noted. A little strange. He set the recorder down on a beat-up iron table sitting nearby, and then reached into his other pocket and pulled out an identical one.

"I need you to tell me who the voices are on these tapes," Looker ordered. "Which one of 'em you want me to play first?"

Wincing, Parker indicated his selection, the recorder on the right. Looker obliged, tapping the Play button.

Clear as day came Parker's voice, and when the context clicked in his head, his bleeding, bruised face turned white as a sheet.

"I have the, uh, 600,000,"

A second voice - low, effeminate, mature - replied.

"Good, good, welcome, welcome," she crooned, inviting. "Titania is waiting for you just down the hall. I do hope that our *creature comforts* are to your liking."

Looker tapped the Stop button as Parker whimpered.

"Maybe it's just me but I don't like the way she said that, Mr. Parker. Who's Titania? Prostitute? 12 year old lady boy? 'Creature comforts.' Is she a Jynx?"

"Who the fuck are you, man?!" Parker managed incredulously, the pain in his fingers now a pulsating ache.

"Trick question - I already know who Titania is."

Looker rotated the second tape recorder toward Parker and pushed Play.

The first voice was completely without identity, a distorted, robotic voice.

"Bring the scopes to the casino. The boss will be there to direct the pickup personally."

"And my membership?" a second voice replied, clearly Parker's sniveling, nervous voice.

"I can personally guarantee it."

Looker tapped Stop and allowed the scientist to bask in the revelation that he'd been under intense surveillance for at least a year, judging by the two recordings.

"Look, mate," the detective leveled with his captive, "I'm a busy girl, and you're a busy guy and I really don't want to have to rip off your favorite jerking finger, so I'm going to ask nicely and you're going to tell me what's happening on this tape. Otherwise, you're going to meet my buddy Bad Cop here."

Parker laughed unexpectedly. As he opened his mouth, strings of saliva stretched between his teeth, merged with mucus dripping from his nose. He collected some of the saliva with his tongue and spit it onto the floor. "You named your Machoke 'Bad Cop'?"

"Cute, innit?" Looker chuckled. "What was it that you brought to the Celadon Game Corner? And who were you bringing it to?"

As if to punctuate his threats, Looker took Parker's pinky finger in his muscular hand and squeezed tight onto it. The scientist was under no delusion that his finger would rip clean off with little to no effort on the detective's part.

"T-Team Rocket..."

Looker smiled. Bingo.