Petrel considered himself to be something of an expert when it came to koffing. He had well over thirty, after all, and each and every one he treated with a reverence that heâd rarely shown another human being. He spent years devising diets, individualizing them for each of his babiesâ differing needs ans tastes, observing and recording their smog output and toxicity levels, and the curious thing he found about any subspecies of koffing he could get his hands on was they all tended to enjoy the heat more than the cold.
Petrel considered himself to be something of an expert when it came to koffing. He had well over thirty, after all, and each and every one he treated with a reverence that heâd rarely shown another human being. He spent years devising diets, individualizing them for each of his babiesâ differing needs ans tastes, observing and recording their smog output and toxicity levels, and the curious thing he found about any subspecies of koffing he could get his hands on was they all tended to enjoy the heat more than the cold.
Summer was premium koffing training time because of that, and forming their separate teams was quite simple; the jungle koffing, they preferred the more humid days in the more green sorts of areas, the volcano koffing leaning towards more dry atmospheres, and his city koffing, well, they really just liked to find wherever the grossest smelling pits of shame happened to be. Today was one of those days; as close to the dump as Petrel could get without the smell along singing his eyebrows off, he slowly began letting them out one at a time; there were a handful of them, but nothing near the amount of jungle koffing he had, and less likely to choke him out.
He was pretty used to the black, tar-looking smog that billowed out of them as they happily announced themselves, after all, and he inhaled the smell of it deeplyârot. He didnât know quite what kind, but definitely the funky kind. It was invigorating. âAlright, kiddos,â he told his small army of smokebombs, âweâre going to get you warmed up before we hit any real training. Letâs see.....â
Pausing, he looked slowly around, passing over something so peculiar he had to do a double-take. A person? What were they doing so close to this shithole? âHey,â he greeted awkwardly, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he looked them over, âdonât suppose youâre doing anything important right now?â
   Ocean water laps with impatience and disruption as the man pulls himself from its depth; hauls himself up out of a pool surrounded by the crumbling and sunken frame of Sea Mauville. Exploration of the other wing keeps him from being found easily for time slips away like the very water slipping down his frame in rivulets to stain slanted and broken tiles. Those tiles creek under an ever-shifting weight as the heir of Devon maintains balance and carefully procures his PokÊNav from the confines of the diving suit he wears.
   Time flashes in digital scrawl along a holographic surface and he instantly knows heâs keeping someone waiting⌠him. An accident, yet breath leaves him all the same as he removes the Devon scuba gear secured around his face and begins his search. He holds reasons of his own to speak to Doc today, to hear him out; perhaps to even get down to the bottom of certain matters.
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It paid to have contacts. After the time Petrel had spent in Hoenn talking, gathering intel, making connections with local, er, ârecoveringâ villains, heâd come across the information of a lifetime: Infinity Energy. A plantâa town?âsunken into the sea, so clichĂŠ but a veritable treasure trove of power that Petrel could sink his talons into, could use to haul Rocket up from the depths of their destruction.
He had to borrow equipment, because it seemed the only way in was through watery passageways; it had been a long time since heâd gone scuba-diving, but he had some fun with it, enjoying the scenery on the way down and the ease it put on his joints. Considering half the place had been underwater for some time now, there shouldnât have been anyone hereâso why was someone hauling themselves up out of the ocean right now?
He had barely gotten his flippers off when he noticed them coming up through the passage, and quick as he could, he threw himself through the first door he saw, hunkering down behind a wall and mentally swearing. What the hell was this guy doing here? Who was he, a trainer, a treasure hunter? Ugh. For once, Petrel just wanted something in his life to be easy.
But it was too late. Heâd been seen, and the person calls out to him. Petrel sighs. If he doesnât take care of this now, itâs going to come back to bite him in the ass later, and he doesnât have time in his schedule to deal with that kind of headache. He slowly steps out from his hiding spot and pulls the equipment from his face to get a better look. Thereâs something... familiar about this guy, but he canât quite put his finger on it.
âGood thing Iâm prepared, then,â he replies after a moment. He didnât think Rocket was too well-known all the way out here, and while he was prepared to fight if he had to, there was always the chance that he could sucker this sap into giving him a hand. âI wasnât expecting to see anyone out here. Hard to keep out of a ruins, eh?â
The look Mathew gives him doesnât go unnoticed. Petrel doesnât really understand it, but he know itâs not a good sign. More and more heâs becoming aware that maybe this wasnât the best of ideas, that maybeâjust maybeâMathew wasnât really happy to see him. But that couldnât be. Right? Because he missed Mathew, so Mathew must have missed him.
Except things seem to be okay. When he pulls the chair out, Mathew hesitates, but he sits, and Petrelâs worried smile softens a bit. Not for long, though; as soon as the waitress is gone and Mathew looks at the menu, he comments on how expensive it is, that he doesnât want Petrel paying for him. Petrel can feel his ears begin to burn, and the smile drops from his face entirely. Heâs unpleasantly reminded of the last time.
âI can pay,â he says, âIâve been saving up. I can pay.â He pauses, looks down at his hands, and then turns open his own menu. He should have enough. Heâd stolen a credit card on the way in, and he was sure it would help. âPlease. Iâve... Iâve been planning this for a while. Iâve been saving. I can pay this time.â
This mountain was the home of many memories for Courtney. These orbs a constant reminder of what they used to have here in Hoenn. She picked the red orb up in her hands, holding it up to the sun. A dark, blood red light shone through it into her lilac eyes. She did not blink.
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The charming smile spreads into a toothy, lopsided grin. Well, that was far easier than heâd expected it to be. He still had it, even after all of this time. He could tell from the way she was scrutinizing him, sizing him up; he knows the game. He knows the rules. Privacy, safety, it was all king in the world after yours was shattered into bits on the ground. And that was why he was here.
âCourtney,â he repeats as she confirms her identity for him, âwhat a lovely name. Itâs a pleasure to meet you; after all, I like to think your dingy little Magma had the potential to be what my organization had been. Itâs a shame what happened.â
He struts forward, confident now that he knows business is on, and closes the gap so he can lower his voice. Even way out here, heâd prefer not to be heard. Heâd never been to prison in Hoenn before, and whether or not anything illegal were actually happening today, heâd like to keep it that way while his resources were short in supply.
âMy name is Petrel,â he continues, âand even if you donât know me, maybe youâll know what I represent. Iâm here on behalf of Team Rocketââ And as far as he knew, the only Rocket still waving the colors, even after all this time, but no one had to know that. ââand Iâd like to offer you a proposition. A camaraderie of sorts. Please, let me know if Iâm just wasting my breath, here. I donât want to bother you with silly business propositions if you donât give a damn.â
Little Miss!! was what they called her â the image of a young, pigtailed Cohen etched deep in their minds despite of the years in between. She was their bossâ little girl â though little was hardly a word youâd use to describe her now. (Tall, slim, with a pretty face that could and would do you in if you werenât careful â was what the word on the streets said.) Though itâs been a long time since Lily had seen her fatherâs friends (lackeys, but reformed if you will), she was pleasantly surprised at the warm greeting and grinned when they did, throwing her hands around them as though they were long-lost uncles reuniting with a niece who had been gone for years.Â
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Heâs about to move out of the way for her to play when she actually addresses him, and he pauses long enough to feel mildly offended. Excuse her? Waiting for his kid? Regardless of whether or not Petrel actually wanted a kid or not, the implication that he was old enough to have a brat that could reach the fight sticks irritated him. He opened his mouth to heckle this girl when she challenged him to 1v1, and instead his mouth snapped shut as he considered it.
On his good days, Petrel doesnât mind kids much, even the older, brattier ones like this chickâkids are fun. Theyâre simple, easy to entertain, and play without holding back because they have no concept of holding back. This girl seems maybe a bit too old for that to apply toâfrankly, for all Petrel knew, she actually was an adult, albeit towards the younger endâbut that doesnât matter. Heâs bored. He wants something to do. This is something to do.
â...Tch. Alright. Pick your poison, sweetheart. If it kills some time, Iâm in. And you know what? Iâm feeling generous today. If you beat me, Iâll buy you a slice from the counter. Deal?â
So he does live here. It seems like an interesting enough area. It's probably a nice place to live when you're not burying someone. Petrel opens his mouth to say as much, but before he can, Fontaine returns the question, and in reply, Petrel merely shakes his head.
"I'm visiting," he replies, "just visiting. I am meeting someone later for business, but I don't think I'll be in the region much longer than that. It's much less expensive to just move on." Their food finds its way to them as he speaks, and once it's in front of him, petrel begins picking idly at his snack. It's a good enough reason to shut his mouth as any; he's not looking for trouble today, because dealing with law enforcement was always a hassle, and the last thing he needed was for some weird frenchie to call the cops down on him.
But it doesn't end there. For some reason, Fontaine is judging his snack. Petrel doesn't see why. He's survived expending far more energy on far less fuel. Maybe it's not the healthiest, most nutritious, well-rounded meal, but it's enough to get him where he's going until dinner. Still, Fontaine offers him some change, encourages him to have more, and for some reason Petrel finds himself sheepishly obeying if only to keep Fontaine happy.
He leaves and comes back to wait on a sandwich of his own, and he supposes then it's only polite to offer his snack in return. He presses it towards the middle of the table and motions vaguely to it. "Please share," he says, "I won't be able to finish it if there's more on the way. I'd expect this isn't every day for you, is it? What do you do for a living that you wouldn't mind paying for a strangers meal, hmm?"
Arcades were interesting. All lights and noise and the smell of greasy fast food that brats all brought in to snack on; they were dark and seedy, too, and Petrel had always been intrigued by the concept of them. Why go somewhere to play games? Couldnât these people just play at home? Petrel, himself had a purpose to be hereâwork, sales, not exactly of the legal kind, but easy to get done in the dark back corners of these run down little joints. A lot of potheads came to arcades, it seemed like. Petrel didnât care; heâd go wherever the money was.
But still, it didnât seem like he was going to be making any good sales, today. Heâd been idling by some shooter games in the back, every now and then tossing some coins in to play a round or two, but business was slow. So much for today. Heâd better to back to the motel and rethink his strategy. He fired a few final times at the ninjas on the screen before sighing heavily and putting the light gun back in its cradle, then slowly began to turn as he tried to think of what else could make his day productive, but he started as he did so, as he hadnât been expecting to see someone behind him.
â....Oh. Sorry. Did you want to play, or something?â
Bitches get stitches. Or something like that. That was something the kids were saying nowadays, wasnât it? Or maybe it was snitches get stitches. Someone gets stitches, and Petrel is going to give it to them. In fact, he will both be the cause of the need for and the provider of the stitches. He was medical professional and his stitches were top quality. But that wasnât the point; the point was that there was someone in particular Petrel was after. Their plans had to have been leaked somehowâhow else would Team Rocket have been dismantled so swiftly?âand there were a handfuls of runaways and traitors that Petrel had his concerns about. In his professional opinion, they ought to have been slaughtered before they made it out of the base, or maybe even hunted down. And now everything was goneâup in flames, distant memories, pain. And someone was going to pay. So traitors get shanked, and Petrelâs not budging on that one.
Heâs got a knife in his pocket and a spring in his step as he strolls through town; for once, heâs dressed again in his old uniform, because heâs not about to drain a body and get blood all over his nice casual suit jacket. Besides, itâs been a long while since heâs gotten to wear his uniform. It makes him feel good abut himself and good about his plans. Petrel isnât necessarily religious by any means, but thereâs something about the Rocket uniform that gives him faith. Itâs one of the few things in his life that does. Itâs fulfilling, gives him energy and makes him eager to flaunt a part of himself heâd been hiding since he was forced into the world of normies.
The garage is open by the time he gets there. While he would have loved to break in, he has to admit this makes it easier on him, and one hand slips casually in his pocket to rest on the knifeâs handle as he struts inside, head up and chest out. Petrel spies his target quickly and continues on, pace slowing as he draws near. This should be good.
âHeeeeeeeeeeeey, Dax. You busy? Got time for an old friend?â
Ever since Rocket had most recently disbanded, Petrel had been in a bit of a pickle. Things seemed a little more permanent this timeâwhereas years before, the first time he suffered through the agony of losing all he knew, there were still grunts, there was still the other Executives, and to some extent, there was even still Team Rocket. Funds had been hard to come by, and theyâd lost a lot of grunts, but there had been some with nowhere else to go and enough money to keep them around.
Now.... Now, it was different. There was no money. There were no grunts. There was no Team Rocket. And Petrel was left to learn how to navigate the world by himself. It wasnât easy. Nothing made sense out here, and it was difficult to navigate. It was far easier to just do what he knew how to do already, and that meant, of course, crime. But he alone wasnât enough; the black market was a cutthroat world, and it required his presence to be maintained at all times in every city he attempted to push his wares, otherwise he could be kicked out of the economy altogether.
That was why he was here, today. Even if Rocket was gone, he was still an Executive, wasnât he? It wasnât a title. It was a lifestyle. And a Rocket was a Rocket for life. Heâd gotten wind of another grunt in the regionâgrunts had to listen to him. He was still an Executive. Right? There were other grunts in other towns and other regions heâd already convinced to work for him again, and frankly, business had been going well with them, so this should be no different. After all, if he was remembering correctly, Autumn had always been one of the higher-achieving grunts. Those were hard to come across.
âAutumn? You in, kid?â He knocked loudly on the door, then cast a cautious eye towards his surroundings. Everything seemed alright. No one seemed to be watching. âHey. Open up. I wanna chat. Itâs me.â
Fontaine repeats the name Petrel has given him, and goes off on some little tangent about the nature of life and death. Petrel canât quite be bothered to tell him that yes, he knows, that heâs had a hand in the instruments of many peopleâs demise, because that would be in bad taste. Or something. Right? He still looks like heâs going to cry. If itâs such an essential part of life, then why is he hurting? Tears mean pain, donât they?
But even so, he answers Petrelâs questions regarding their intended trajectory, tells him he must be hungry, takes his fingers and leads him on as Petrel hopelessly eyes their surroundings for an escape route. And then his traitor stomach grumbles in protest; yeah, he is kind of hungry, to be honest, and a sandwich would actually hit the spot, right about now. âThat sounds nice,â he grudgingly agrees, and he doesnât try to put up a fight as he allows Fontaine to continue leading him along.
They didnât have to go too far, all things considered, and as they entered, Fontaine was kind enough to offer Petrel a free lunch. Petrel isnât one to turn down free food, and he does his best to behave himself, politely thanking him before ordering something small to keep himself going.Â
He supposes that since Fontaine was willing to provide him with food, he may as well stick around to hang out until heâs sent away, and briefly he eyes Fontaine with a mute curiosity before deciding to try and make smalltalk. âSo, Fontaine,â he says, languid voice slowing to a crawl as he drew out the syllables of his name, âDo you live around here? Or are you just in town for your.... event?â
Bloodshot eyes dart down from cloud-gazing (there had been one shaped like a koffing that had been particularly enamoring) and land on Mathew for a moment, Petrel idling processing the question as he continued to snack.
âHeeeyyyyyyyyyy, Mat,â he eventually replies, somehow even more languid than usual. He grabs one of the trays of brownies and holds it up. âHey, have a brownie. Theyâre really good. Have ten.â A pause. âBut not that one. I want that one.â He takes another for himself and eyes Mathew expectantly.
âWho wants brownies?? Free while supplies last, bitches, place your orders while theyâre hot!â Itâs Petrelâs favorite holiday, and he smells.... earthy. He probably shouldnât be operating heavy machinery, but heâs parked his car next to a community park and set up a stand to share the merriment. The brownies look unassuming, with pecans and still-gooey white chocolate chips, but every now and then Petrel sneaks a few to munch on, and he looks pretty up there. His ditto, too, is on the table digesting a few itself in a gooey puddle, looking much the same as Petrel.
All things considered, it may be better to just pass the brownies by, no matter how enticing they smell.
He wants to see Mathew smile. He wants so desperately to see Mathew smileâitâs been too long since the last time he has, and though Petrel has a growing feeling of something, something being out of place, he just wants to see Mathew smile and laugh. Was that too much to ask?
Heâs expecting Mathewâs smile to be there when they pull away from the hug, but itâs not; he even expects Mathew to smile his approval when Petrel snubs out his cigarette, but even then nothing changes. Mathewâs still not smiling. Somethingâs wrong. Petrel fidgets.
âUm... yeah!â he replies when Mathe questions the reservations, unable to discern his tone or the hidden meaning behind the words, and instead tries to draw himself up proudly. âYeah, I made reservations. Itâs... itâs been a while, yeah? So... so I thought it should be a little extra special.â That... doesnât seem to help much. Mathe comments on the need for a suit, and Petrel wonders if maybe he went too big, this time. But either way, Mathew heads for the doors, and after a moment of hesitation, Petrel follows sheepishly behind him.
Whatever was up with Mathew, it must have been his fault, came the sudden epiphany as the doors nearly smacked him in the noseâmaybe he shouldnât have necessarily expected Mathew to hold the door for him to catch up, but either way, the fact that he didnât seem to bother with whether or not Petrel could keep up with him (spoiler warning: he couldnât) was a little disheartening. And then, oh, and then. Petrel got the door open just in time to hear it.
âReservations for Mathew and Petrel, please.â
His heart nearly leaps out of his chest; no, he thinks, Mathew, NO. He didnât know what sort of weight that name held around here, anymore, but he would be damned if he had to spend the start of the new year in an orange jumpsuit. Trying not to panic, he sidles up next to Mathew, slaps on his most charming smile, and cuts into the conversation.Â
âReservations for Mathew and Terenti,â he corrects quickly, âsorry, he gets... overexcited.â And while the hostess is busy looking through the names and times, he turns a pleading look onto his friendâplease please please donât use his Rocket name Mathew, pleaseâand reaches to gently squeeze his shoulder. He wants to do something more, to whisper his pleas into Mathewâs ear, but before he can, the hostess announces theyâre right on time and to please follow her to their table.
Petrel moves as swiftly as he can after her, races even, and as they approach the table, he pushes forward to pull one of the chairs out for Mathew, offering him a hopeful smile. âMonsieur,â he offers with a stupid little mock-bow. Not smooth, he internally berates himself, not smooth.
Iâm going to try and get to the stuff from the last meme day I reblogged+maybe replies tonight, but the boys are all open for questions if you want to heckle them.
