W A N T E D

"oh, so you've made it this far, then?" {archer roleplay blog affiliated with wild encounters}

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Performance Review ll Autumn and Archer

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

It was a bit odd to her that Archer seemed out of place. It was of course uncommon that admins went on field, but if Autumn was good at anything it was blending in. As the pinkette strolled with Archer, she pad no attention to the girls oogling at Archer, or the guys that were giving her sideways glances. She was too preoccupied with the thought of a Castellia Cone and spending time with him. She found herself oddly excited about it all, really.

"Oh! I bet you’d like—"

Autumn was cut off when she found Archer’s arm around her shoulders. She tried to focus on something besides hoping that the burning of her cheeks wasn’t incredibly obvious.

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[hierarcher]

She gives off a laugh that sounds very real. Which is only on the plus side, of course. The grunt is probably the opposite of Archer in terms of acting; lying. While the superior is good at it, he doesn't find it particularly easy to do. With practice comes perfection. It's ironic how he's roped in an industry of deceit yet he dislikes exactly that. He fakes a fit of chuckles and looks at the pink-haired girl. Believable, she is, impressing the executive.

"Team Flare?" she asks, furrowing her brow. He nods once, twice, thrice. It's almost odd, he thinks. But he shuts that thought off like a light switch because he's seen weirder teams than just the fashion sense-lacking Team Flare. That one gang wreaking havoc in Sinnoh, dressed in space suits in one event Archer can't find himself to forget. No matter how many times he tells himself to. It's a thought like permanent marker on a dry-erase board.

"Well, boss? Are we following them? They might be up to something, or at the very least they might be headed back to their hideout. No one seems to notice their hideout. No one seems to notice their presence, so it wouldn't seem odd. Besides, Castelia Cones can wait."

"We're going to tail 'em," he whispers with a smile, lacing his fingers with hers in attempt to look more natural.

[hierarcher]

[ #threadtracker2k14 ]

i owe (SORRY OTL):

elise (marzio)

reiko (marzio—starter)

u owe me (TAKE UR TIME! tass is beezee w/ school):

elesa (archer)

hazel (archer)

steven (venice)

cress (mei)

faust (archer)

skippy (venice)

brendan (venice)

morty (archer)

seymour (venice)

lulu (marzio)

fire (mei)

[ tell me if i forgot (sORRY) some1 tho i'm a poop bc school also my parents are going off to SF on my birthday this year (again) so i'm just going to be lying in bed doing nothing probably watch antm again and again — i miss my siblings i wanna celebrate my bday with them but i can't so i'm just gonna celebrate w/ my other family (u guys) ]

tl;dr: i owe people; people owe me; bday on 14th

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Performance Review ll Autumn and Archer

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

"We’re doing some…research. About the Autumn Festival."

The pinkette blinked, “Oh. Is that what this is? That explains the crowds.” She said, trying to sound casual.

Did Archer…was this what she thought it was? Or was it another test? Something to see if the female grunts could control themselves when around the admins? No, she’d never heard of anything like that. Admins never took single grunts on missions. It was always a group. Plus, if this was a mission why take her to the Autumn Festival? She giggled. AUTUMN Festival? How cute. Then again, that basically confirmed it.

This was a date. And by the looks of it, a darn good one.

Not that she’d let on that she knew. Not yet at least. “Well.” She began, a smile on her face that was both excited and clever, “If we’re doing research then we have to blend in don’t we?” She hooked her arm around his, “No ones gonna buy that you’re my brother, so we’ll have to act as if we like each other I suppose. Oo! Ice cream! C’mon let’s go!” She said, excitedly pulling him over to a stand.

When was the last time she could relax like this? Autumn couldn’t remember. So she planned to milk it for all it’s worth. Besides, Archer had gotten himself into this, not that she was complaining… “And of course we’ll have to ride the Ferris wheel. And watch the sunset and fireworks from the top of Lumiose Tower…”

[hierarcher]

Archer's reply is answered with a smile and a short pause before she goes on about blending in. Which isn't something Archer does very easily, of course, whether it be an undercover mission or fitting in with his colleagues. He's tall—gigantic, almost—and he doesn't like saying it but he thinks he's somewhat attractive. The executive (surprisingly) isn't full of himself—unlike Petrel or Proton, of course—but he can see girls looking his way.

Of which he feels uncomfortable about so he looks down and back up with a sharp glare to those around him. Even his aura darkens which only makes him stand out more. Though he'd rather the imbecile schoolgirls not ogle at him while he's trying to enjoy a "date". "No one's gonna buy that you're my brother, so we'll have to act as if we like each other I suppose." she suggests before breaking out into squeals over ice cream.

Archer finds himself flushed over the fact that she says that they have to act as if they like each other and thinks that 'acting doesn't even need to be involved' because he finds himself getting more and more interested in the grunt by the second. Before running over to a stand selling the popular Unovan casteliacone, the pink-headed girl grabs her superior by the arm towards the scent of flavouring and shaved ice.

He doesn't pay attention to her rambling of places to visit while in Kalos because something pokes at the corner of his eye. His blue hues search the feeling that tugs his undivided attention towards. There are men and women dressed in a vibrantly blinding shade of crimson—similar to the "R" in "Rocket"—with sunglasses and hair in matching colours. They look familiar to Archer. As if he's been told to watch out for them.

Could that be...Team Flare?

With a desperate attempt to not get spotted by the red thugs, he heaves his arm around the grunt's shoulder and whispers something in her ear before he gives a slight laugh.

"Team Flare spotted at 6 o'clock—act natural: pretend I said something hilarious and laugh along with me—"

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Performance Review ll Autumn and Archer

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Kalos. They were in Kalos. Autumn wasn’t sure WHY they were in Kalos. Archer hadn’t so much as let her glance at the oh-so-important mission. All she knew was that they were in Lumiose, and some sort of festival was going on.

The big city was all abuzz with activity. People crowded the streets looking at exhibits and vendors that lined the streets with jewelry, art, clothing, food, training supplies…It seemed like the good place to pull off a big mission, but there were so many witnesses…she didn’t quite understand what Archer had in mind.

At least it was Archer though. If she had to be stuck on a mission that she knew nothing about in an unfamiliar city she might as well have some eye candy and intelligence around. There was a reason Archer was her favorite admin.

"So what exactly are we doing here?" She asked. "There’s too many people around to steal anything major. Are we here for recon? Or are we going to  take advantage of the business to do something else? I have to admit I’m a bit confused…"

[hierarcher]

It turns out that their trip to Kalos is all for a mission made up of mere bullshit that Archer toppled over whilst trying to avoid asking his subordinate out on a...get-together? Outing? Or is it a date? Suddenly he's having thoughts of a schoolgirl's and he finds himself flustered just like one. This situation can't get any more awkward for the Rocket(s) as they make their ways through the crowd.

He's in Kalos for one reason, and one reason only, that being the decennial autumn festival to commemorate the closing of summer and the blooming of autumn where the leaves fall and the air tastes of candy in the breeze. Archer thinks that it couldn't be more appropriate, bringing Autumn to an Autumn Festival. He snickers at his thoughts and how suave he thinks himself to be.

For a moment he appears extremely out of character—those are her effects, after all. "So what exactly are we doing here?" asks the grunt. "There’s too many people around to steal anything major. Are we here for recon? Or are we going to  take advantage of the business to do something else? I have to admit I’m a bit confused…" she adds. A sharp one, she is.

"We're doing some...research. About the Autumn Festival."

[hierarcher]

this is how you use a thermometer, right? || morty & archer [sherlock!au]

[ecruteakmystic]

In retrospect, perhaps jumping to conclusions in his poor state of health hadn’t been his finest moment. But then again, when it came to one Archer Holmes, Morty instinctively worried at the first signs of perceived distress. The natural drive to care and nurture the wounded had always been a part of him for as long as he could remember, hence his career choice of becoming an army doctor. In that line of work, compassion had to be integrated with professionalism and there were moments where the man regretted following that conduct. True, it was common sense to tend to the severely injured first as to minimize the amount of causalities.

But that didn’t mean he liked seeing others in pain. The agony filled gaze that the soldiers he had been treating gave him once the doctor had to leave them in someone else’s care while he went to handle an emergency felt akin to betrayal. Why. Those stares seemed to be saying. Why are you leaving me? Why are you leaving me in pain? It might simply be the images his mind created in the wake of his guilt - surely, those men could understand that one of their own could die without his help - but then again, Morty could never know. 

For that reason, the night terrors that struck from time to time sometimes consisted of those haunting looks with the face that housed it drenched with dark crimson red.

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[hierarcher]

The process of having to drag the sick doctor back under his covers is a lengthy one considering the detective was never—and will never be—one of great physique and athletic skill. Despite having a somewhat tall frame he struggles to push him into the comforts of his bed. The dragging is easy, but rather the heaving-unto-the-bed is painfully difficult. Mrs Hudson is in the kitchen preparing the ingredients—only the ingredients—for Archer.

He strictly asks her not to actually make the porridge, for that is his job. Stubborn, he is. Even after the kind landlady's multiple offers (of which he would shoot down every single time) he refuses. Holmes is careful not to drag Watson through splinters on the wooden floor though Archer's eyes are focused on the spray-painted yellow smiley face on the wall, accessorised by a few bullet holes on the wallpaper. Those were all things he had done for his entertainment.

With some effort Mortimer is back into bed, snoring away his irritatingly-stuffed nose that even sniffles ghostly when unconscious. There is saliva slowly dribbling down his chin in result of his nose being so annoyingly congested. A sigh of relief and concern decreased in the detective, he returns to the kitchen to begin the preparation. Hopefully he doesn't poison the poor fellow. Surely he can't be that bad.

The man with vast knowledge of wielding a weapon and reciting the periodic table of the elements by heart in under sixty seconds fails to comprehend the scene before him. A bag of rice (the kind that doesn't look edible just yet) is sitting near what looks like a root of ginger and some leek. "It's not hard," says Mrs Hudson. Obviously to Archer it's the contrary. 

— — —

By the time the master of deduction is done with the cooking, he's positive that there are enough grains of rice he had wasted to feed all the hungry children in Africa. They are all either too soggy or too lumpy. Through many failed attempts, Holmes is finally satisfied with this bowl of what looks like liquefied cement with a few lumps of sand. He gulps. The air; not the porridge, of course.

One hand is beneath the tray, carrying a mug of hot tea and a bowl of supposed porridge and the other is hovering inches away from a door. The knuckle comes into contact with the wood, knocking on it.

Knock—              knock—                          knock.

[hierarcher]

this is how you use a thermometer, right? || morty & archer [sherlock!au]

[ecruteakmystic]

Mortimer Hamish Wattson was no stranger to a lot of things these days as he began (forced) to adapt and adjust since he moved in with Archer. He was rather familiar with the abnormal, bordering-on-psychopathic-weirdness that came with the package apparently and to be honest, he sometimes wondered about the state of his sanity. Once, the blonde had woken up at nine am (overslept actually. Crime doesn’t rest you know) on a rather drizzly day. Entering their shared bathroom, he was confronted by a dead tarantula. In the bathtub. With a smiley face spray-painted on its carcass, leering at him.

Morty simply blinked, before turning to brush his teeth at the sink.

The ex army doctor was no stranger to being bossed around in imperious and (Arceus forbid him from saying this out loud) childish tones. Not since getting to know Archer, anyway. So when the blue haired detective requested - no, demanded - that he cut his date with Liliath (a gorgeous lady that he met through his blog) short and come home: "If you’re quite done with that witless bovine of a girlfriend, Morty, get me my laptop, will you? It’s on the other end of the table."

Morty simply sighed, excused himself and left for Baker Street with a jumper drenched in wine.

The tall (and yet still slighty shorter against Archer’s tall height) blonde was no stranger to being regarded as someone with the intellectual capacity of an asteroidea species something - no jibes about his physical qualities from that analogy so meh. Not since Archer and his wonderfully beautiful mind came into his life anyway. So when he posed a (reasonable and rational) question which had earned him a look of incredulity at his pitifully lacking intelligence: “Of course it was the lawyer Morty. Why, it’s alarmingly transparent - Arceus, how you cope with such minuscule thought processes simply baffles me.” 

Morty simply nodded, watching with rapt attention as the sleuth made amazing deduction after amazing deduction, with the occasional insult (to Scotland Yard, Lestrade, Anderson, the victim’s wife, the universe, Anderson, the manager, Anderson, Anderson, Anderson) thrown in. Needless to say, his intellectually gifted mind had once again solved the case which earned him the awe of first timers and the very begrudging respect of the law enforcers.

(Except for Anderson. The poor bloke was spitting fire by the end of the proceedings.)

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[hierarcher]

Archer's yell for Mrs Hudson is answered not by an old lady stomping in with her floral loafers but rather a ridden-to-the-deathbed blond who is sniffling crazily. The way the sniffs can carry on for so long is almost inhumanly impossible. Detective Holmes finds it bothersome for such a paradox—a doctor who is sick. And to top that off, the doctor's name himself is Mortimer. The very same French-based "Mortimer" that ironically defines "Dead Sea".

That's the only thing he finds about his sickness to be bothersome. Well, he'd like to admit that perhaps he can't get as much "work" (by work he means criticising clients as they care to even step into their poor excuse of a flat) done. It might seem that Archer is completely capable of doing work without the assistance of his veteran friend, and while it is true, he'd rather not. Just who else is supposed to key in all this information into the poorly-coded blog, anyway, right? Certainly not Holmes.

Anyway, he jolts back to reality after being pushed out of his mind castle. The doctor looks a sickly green shade (of which can't be a good sign...) as he emerges from the doorframe, hands tightly grasping onto the wood. He is panting helplessly, enveloped in multiple cardigans in the rather cold summer in London. Apparently last year's summer wasn't friendly. Heatwaves and storms, it was. Though Archer wouldn't know; he had been at the Soviet Union. Pretending to be dead.

"Archer!" coughs Watson. His presence shocks Holmes a little, because he really should be in bed, resting up. "Archer, are you alright? Did something happened?" he panics.

Morty?

Before his mouth even begins to blabber on, lecturing him on his actions—the blond slowly slouches and limps and falls into unconscious state. Holmes makes it just in time for Watson to land on the prior instead of the slanted wooden floor. A huffing Mrs Hudson runs through the doorway (of which the door is wide open, as usual) with a look of concern stretched upon her wrinkles that par her features.

"Finally, Mrs Hudson. You were taking ages. Do you happen to know how to make porridge?" he nonchalantly says, dragging Morty back to his bedroom.

[deadphools]

Visit Original Link

[hierarcher]

try hard // 5 seconds of summer

She's 17 I've told her I'm 20, I couldn't take her out 'cause Mum's got no money, It's stuff like this that makes me wish that I could change somehow

[kid-criminal]

Put On Your War Paint // Archer & Faust

[kid-criminal]

As he stomped down the Lumiose pavement, the argument with his father continued to replay in his head. He heard the syllables echo clearly, the vexation prominent. And the creases in his father’s aging skin were even more proof of his agitation with his son. But the two wouldn’t be feuding again if Slater would just listen to Faust and maybe have a little faith in his own flesh and blood. The boy was sneering, shoving through the crowd with fists balled and eyes remaining on his shoes. Reliable grunts? The more Faust thought about it, the closer he was to breaking out in hysterics. On the edge of near insanity. What a joke. Sure, there were a few exceptions, but Faust found no threat—no goddamn reason why Slater couldn’t see the potential in the chip off his own block. Why he chose to be so blind. So ignorant that it boiled Faust’s blood and thrust a finger in Slater’s face. Look at me, Dad! 

                                         Listen to me… 

Faust didn’t have to stomp his feet that far from the cafe when he heard faint whispers. Saw the devious leers and snickers that were definitely up to no good. Two Members that would surely fuck things up. They huddled by a dumpster, hands hidden in their suit jackets and their faces masked by the shadows. Although it was their attempt to seem covert, it only added to the evidence that they were the city’s antagonists. 

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[hierarcher]

The conversation below him oozes with things Archer didn't need (or want, in that matter) to know—at least not at first. They appear to be members of a lowlife gang that resided in Lumiose, calling themselves the Lumiose Gang. The originality was evident, no? He had figured that perhaps it was time he returned to the painful pile of paperwork that sat atop his desk, because the conversation of snickering and complaints about the boss was beginning to annoy him out of his wits.

There was something poking at the corner of his eye. It was a teenage boy with three stripes running horizontally on the jet-black hair on his head. His most prominent feature would be his golden eyes that reminded Archer too unpleasantly of a boy he had encountered in Johto. He was a force to be reckoned with, and the kid in the alleyway didn't exactly look tough but the executive knew to expect a lot from him. He learned it the hard way, of course, when the whole of Rocket was taken down by a ten year-old and his posse.

The teenager's face remained stolid until the name "Faust" was brought upon conversation, who was apparently the "boss' son". "Did it ever occur to you that someone could just look out their window and see you two fools—hear your cackles and put the damn pieces together?" barked "Faust". Or at least who Archer believed was the boss' son. He was sharp in terms of fitting in the puzzle pieces. But Faust was also a sharp knife out of the drawer.

"You make me violently ill. Go back to headquarters." "Now."

The two tattooed thugs scrambled out of the alleyway, almost running away from him. That was the conformation Archer needed. Though he didn't intend to meddle in any business (and he meant to keep it that way), he knew that the boss' son was someone who could hold his head high with his feet still stuck on the ground—something people found extremely hard to do.

Archer decided once and for all that it was time for him to get back to signing documents and leaves the balcony with a new memory of Kalos made. He slid the door closed and sat himself on the chair once more.

"Back to work I go."

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Performance Review ll Autumn and Archer

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Nervousness swam through the gruntette as the superior smirked. She didn’t know if she quite trusted the look in his eye. She’d said anything, but she hoped what he was thinking wasn’t something she’d regret. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t fancy the thought of selling anyone out.

But, what he had up his sleeve she couldn’t tell. He was too hard to read…

"Consider yourself lucky, Miss Sinclaire, for you are about to accompany me on the most important mission of Rocket history.”

Autumn blinked. She wasn’t expecting that. Accompanying him on an important mission? She was expecting him to ask for information of some sort. Was this a trick? What exactly did he expect her to do?

"What mission would that be, sir?"

[hierarcher]

The grunt remained sunken in the chair opposite him. She was probably debating on whether or not Archer was kidding with her; like some foolish trick. Quite the contrary in actuality. Someone like Sinclaire could prove useful in this mission, especially one of so much praise. It would be no surprise at all if she had declined his offer, but he was hoping that the gods (if there were any) would side with him, even just for today.

"What mission would that be, sir?" 

A hint of curiosity—nothing less expected from the girl with all the gifts. Just like Pandora, Autumn was: with gifts of talent, beauty and knowledge all in one but the one curse of curiosity. And in other stories, curiosity killed the Delcatty.

"We're going to Kalos," he spoke, sliding a typical mission folder with the words " C O N F I D E N T I A L " strewn over the top in red block letters.

[hierarcher]

this is how you use a thermometer, right? || morty & archer [sherlock!au]

[text: sent] Gavin, what does one feed someone who is ill, just hypothetically. [text: from LeStrade] holmes, for the 5th time it's greg not gavin gdi [text: from LeStrade] also who's sick?? [text: sent] I said hypothetically, besides, answer the question, will you? [text: from LeStrade] is morty sick? [text: from LeStrade] and oh don't feed him solids. stick to liquidy goo stfuf [text: from LeStrade] stuff*

"This is really bothering me. You're a doctor for Arceus' sake! It's ironic that you're ill."

Business is slow lately for the detective. Not because New Scotland Yard hasn't been pestering Holmes for help on their current case but rather because his prime assistant is inconveniently under the weather. Had it been a run-of-the-mill person who was ill, Archer wouldn't even bat an eyelash; except that this is his—hardly admitted-to-be—best friend, Dr Mortimer H Watson. Their flat is not ridden by the sounds of a whistling kettle or the detective practicing on his fiddle but rather the distinctive sneeze and sniffle that escaped the doctor every once in a while.

He contemplates on whether or not he should ring Molly up, or to yell for Mrs Hudson. Either choice seems doable and easy, except that even Archer wants to take matters into his own hands. With his pride on the line and a lot of nursing to be learned, he encounters his hardest mission yet. Tending to a sick person. He hates the idea of germs and microbes at all cost, but the least he can do for Morty's tolerance against the cockiest prick out there—is to care after him.

With a heavy heart and the heave of a sigh, Holmes enters the kitchen once more with a ladle in his right hand and a pink apron tied cozily around his torso. And he just stands there for about four minutes without a single twitch. It's clear what he's doing by now. He doesn't know what—or how in that matter—to cook. His fridges and freezers are all filled with jars of human brains and eyeballs. One would freak out at the sight, but Archer was merely fascinated by such.

His hand rises from his side and scratches the back of his light-blue head. He doesn't know what to do right now, other than to stand helplessly in the middle of the kitchen. Who cares about dignity, right?

"Mrs Hudson!"

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

Performance Review ll Autumn and Archer

[meowth-and-slowpoke]

"Don’t go assuming how I feel about things, Sinclaire. While I did think of it as a partial advantage, I do question your loyalty to Rocket too."

Autumn frowned, feeling almost insulted. After all she’d done. After how much she’d risked. How much she’d been through. He was doubting her…Now what was she supposed to do?

Her fists clenched as her eyebrows furrowed. This was unfair. She’d owned up to things. She’d confessed. She’d explained why things were an advantage. She supposed she couldn’t blame them, but still…

"Is there some way of you to prove to me that your blood is purely Team Rocket? And if you swear on your life that you’re loyal, and if you’re not, then I will not hesitate to take your life.”

The grunt leaned forward, keeping eye contact with Archer the entire time. She no longer cared that he was a superior. She wouldn’t sit here and let him question her loyalty.

Her voice was serious, coated in ice. “I swear on my life, I’d die for my team. And I’d happily prove that to you in any way Archer.”

[hierarcher]

The grunt sloped forwards and towards the desk with a piercingly sharp glare right at Archer. He would be lying if he had said that her stare hadn't sent shivers crawling up and down his spine. That much was true. He could feel the seriousness and temper erupting from her expression—almost making the superior want to implode from the inside. Not because of fear, but rather because of the unexpected surprise sprouting within him that was realising her passionate persistence.

“I swear on my life, I’d die for my team. And I’d happily prove that to you in any way Archer.” snarled the pink-headed female. The words were so cold that they were seeping with ice and creeping into the intensity between the two. Anything, eh? With a smirk tugging at his grin and two of his fingers going tip-tap against the leather armrest, he did something one could consider ruthless.

"Consider yourself lucky, Miss Sinclaire, for you are about to accompany me on the most important mission of Rocket history."

Just what have you done, Archer?

[toxicins-deactivated20140916]

Беда́ не прихо́дит одна́ (trouble never comes alone) | archer

Mahogany ends with a clusterfuck.

It begins with increasing exposure to high frequencies, done on individual and small groups of common pidgey and rattata. Petrel whistles while he stabilizes the variables, adjusts the frequencies, and sits back to watch the results, which are equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

They’ve only been transmitting the frequency long range for a short amount of time before the kid shows, the one who’d dismantled Proton’s operation in Azalea. Petrel’s been told to expect a troublemaker, and so he pulls on Giovanni’s face as a potential deterrent - and as a morale-raiser for the grunts under his wing - but still, surprise flares in him when the kid actually shows. 

They battle. And Petrel loses, of course.

Afterward, he flees to lick his stung pride; he can count on one hand the number of people who’ve seen through him, and now he reluctantly adds another finger, all the while wracking his brain over where the holes had been in his disguise. But in the hard edge of his smile, there’s a grudging level of respect for the kid - idly, he wonders after the future of the team, already in jeopardy since its official disbandment - mixed with irritation over the disruption and loss of his research. 

A little belatedly, he recognizes the problems in relaying the forced forfeit of their Mahogany town headquarters to his superiors - chiefly the problem of his skin remaining, if not intact, then at least alive.

But there is not even a modicum of anxiety in him when he settles down into the chair before Archer’s desk. Death is the only way one leaves this organization - there are those who would say there are things worse than death, but he disagrees - and Petrel is quite practiced at making himself invaluable to others.

He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair.

"—’Specting you want all the, er, gritty details, amiright? "

[hierarcher]

It's been more than an hour since a call has been sent his way and it's beginning to annoy him out of his wits. He needs to know every single detail of every single project. It's the way he is—but that doesn't mean that others like him for that. Anxiety begins to crawl on him as time goes on without the distinctive ring of his PokéGear. The index and middle finger on his right hand take turns fiddling with air. It's his slight therapeutic getaway from reality.

Rocket really needs to step up their game. Azalea was a bust and Goldenrod didn't go as planned, either.         —thanks to a ten year-old.

Archer feels conflicted about letting a kid take down the organisation, especially after countless defeats—not only by the grunts, too. The underneath of his tongue swipes against the crevices of his bottom lip that remains chapped and peeling. His bad habit is brought back alive when he continues biting off the skin that keeps popping back up on the pink. The clock ticks with every second seemingly close to an hour and it drives him  i n s a n e .

                  Bzzzt.

The intercom buzzes, and the secretary's voice comes on the line, a "Executive Petrel is here to see you, Sir" sounding through the speakers. He's unsure of whether he is brimming with relief, or with a sense of dread. His longingly reluctant anticipation can only hope for the prior, but for some reason he knows it's the latter. Despite favouring it otherwise, he knows it's the latter. And it's upsetting in every way, because ever since he went awol, all Team Rocket ever does anymore is crumble.

The espresso tastes sweet on his lips—a little too sweet for his liking. It doesn't matter the amount of times he has to remind the ditzy assistant that espressos are meant to be café solo; meant to be sugarless and plain, yet she manages to fuck up the order each and every time to the point that he questions whether she just does it on purpose.

The man steps into Archer's office and plops himself onto a leather armchair across Archer himself.

"—Specting you want all the, er, gritty details, amiright?" scoffs the older man.

"Let me guess—ten year-old kid beats you (and your Pokémon) to a pulp and saves the day, huh?"

[incompleteromance]

Ishimurashipping - Archer/Morty

[hierarcher]

boss' orders || archer & serena

[honeydewserene]

She noticed the male’s expression turn grim, if not then a distaste. It was like he had tasted something that left a disgusting taste in the mouth; like water and oil as a drink. 

Slowly rubbing her wrist with her free hand her blue orbs nervously watched him. Serena rarely got nervous with people, she was usually really happy go lucky - unless you were Team Flare then that’s a different story. Other then that she was carefree, but to be suddenly met at the airport by first and last name was something that was nerve wrecking.

Mom would have told me if she asked someone to greet me. Her mind began to go through the events before she left. Maybe her mother did say something about someone meeting her? The more she went through her memories the more that she didn’t recall her mother doing so.

Pursuing her lips together the female nodded her head. “That is my name.” A friend of your mother’s. His words rang in her head as she rested her chin on the back of her hand as her arm was propped up thanks to her free arm. Well, maybe her mother did a call here when she left? That was always another possibility.

"Oh, I didn’t know that mom had friends here." Beaming happily at the male her demeanor somewhat changed. "She never spoke about friend’s here in Kanto before." Walking closer to the male blue orbs looked up at him. "Please take care of me!" 

[hierarcher]

The blonde began to rethink Archer's words—this time with an actual look of belief. The executive was pretty sure that his boss actually was acquainted with the internationally-renowned sportswoman who was supposedly Serena Lang's mother. He saw the resemblance between the two, and quite easily, too. Their eyes had shone the same grey-blue—one that Archer would associate with the bruises Proton would always wear to meetings.

It was a peaceful shade of blue, but unfortunately he wasn't exactly one to enjoy peace. 

"That is my name," she chimed.

He shuddered. She was much too enthused for his liking, but this was what the boss had wanted, and what the boss wanted—the boss got. Her chin was cradled on her right hand, of which was supported by her left. In attempt to describe her beauty without crossing the pedophilia line he would have to say that she was a masterpiece—that of expertise laid out on a canvas. Different shades of the same colours mixing out so well that she was an array of flavours.

With long, golden locks that reminded him too much of Rapunzel, and a naïve smile on her crookedly pleasant lips. She was the embodiment of art, aptly accessorised with a smart choice of clothing. "Oh, I didn’t know that mom had friends here." she continued. He was right, after all. The naïve smile she wore was not one of deceit or manipulation (as of now, at least) and she was just genuinely clueless. Though Archer did (kinda) hope that this job would last a while.

Signing documents from the "IN" pile and stacking them in the "OUT" was boring.

"She never spoke about friend’s here in Kanto before." she added before taking a few steps in Archer's direction. He resisted the urge to step away but his feet are bolted to the ground with the sense of politeness and don't-screw-up-this-mission. His throat was dry and rough, but the ball of saliva that gushed down it was beginning to re-moisturise it. "Please take care of me!" she exclaimed.

"O-Of course! It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Lang. You may call me Archer, and I'll be your personal escort, chauffeur and caretaker. Think of me as a butler—" 

[kid-criminal]

Put On Your War Paint // Archer & Faust

Nice of you to finally call me back, Faust. 

[kid-criminal]

Hands folded on a table in the corner of a Lumiose cafe, the boy smirked at the hologram before him. His father emerged from his Holo-Caster, impatience drawn into his chiseled features. "I had some business to attend to." There was some venom in Faust’s words, attitude reflected in his actions as he hid a spiteful leer behind the rim of his coffee mug. Faust was proud of himself for the day’s accomplishments. His now empty to-do list. 

Listen up, Faust. A new gang is lurking around Kalos and frankly, it’s making me uneasy. They call themselves Team Rocket.

Electronic files appeared, profiles of the grunts. Of the admins. Faust rubbed his chin, studying the names and faces. Lucky for him, he had a shape memory. But he didn’t really need it when the grunts were clad in dark uniforms, accessorized with a screaming red R that was sure to blow their cover. Or perhaps, they were all about the publicity. He harbored a chuckle at the foolishness. 

I am currently unaware as to what they’re planning to do, but I clearly do not and will not tolerate them. They are a threat to the Lumiose Gang and should be terminated.  

Read More

[hierarcher]

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't Archer's idea to initiate further investigation of a certain type of evolution that seemed bizarre to him. One of the grunts had insisted that he did this, and with a good three days of persistence (via stalking and interrogation methods) the executive had surrendered defeat. It was normal to give in, considering the subordinate even dared to follow him back to his penthouse. He wasn't exactly the friendliest, especially when it came to stalkers.

So with the heave of a sigh and a roll of the eyes—he reluctantly accepted.

That was a week ago. Right now he was sitting before a desk with a sheet of paper with words sprawled in the familiar Times New Roman font he didn't exactly favour. He preferred Helvetica. Preferences of fonts aside—his right hand was atop the flat surface with his favourite fountain pen weaved underneath the index's tip and supported by the side of his middle finger. His almost-lifeless eyes were lazily scanning the words that laid on the leaf, the sharp edges of the alphabets poking at his eyes as the time did his patience.

It was always him who had to do paperwork. Fairly enough, however, he was the only one who could tolerate it. Though at this moment he did anything but. This was probably the hundredth document he had to read through and sign. Everyone else was out and about, actually doing something "fun". Archer doubted they were barely even doing their jobs and were on-task, but instead at some strip club or casino.

They were, after all, in the wondrous Lumiose City of Kalos. Where the supposed nightlife resided at any time of day. They couldn't get enough of it in Goldenrod, could they? The sound of metal against paper filled the hotel room, driving him nuts. Another set of curves and sharp points above the line situated at the bottom-right corner of the page. The sight of his own signature was already becoming painful.

Placing the pen back down inches away from the paper, he stretched his arms over his head and kicked himself off the rolling chair. Click. Sliding the now-unlocked glass door, he stepped out to the balcony that remained painted by the city sunset of orange and pink. With his face reflecting the pastel shades, he closed his eyes and took a whiff of the fresh air. Despite being a densely-populated city with a developed infrastructure, the air wasn't polluted like that of Goldenrod's.

Finger sliding into the neck of his turtleneck, the cashmere almost suffocating him. His (now-)more-alive cyan hues stared down at the hustle and bustle of busy Lumiose. But the whispering of two shady-looking men that stood by the dumpster in the alley right below him was what piqued his interest.

          ...?

[psycosis91]

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[luisitoloves]

[hierarcher]

                                                     do you т н ι η к  of me?                                                     do you ∂ я є α м of me?                                          i α ℓ ω α у ѕ dream about you.