Jessie bites back any retort toward the defamation of her beloved Team Rocket, and instead sizes the woman opposite of her up, down, up again. What with the prospect of work — much needed, much appreciated work — falling directly into the lap of the crooked vagabond, who is she to refuse?
Plus, her pockets aren’t exactly heavy enough to decline such an offer. “Deal. You got an hour to work on that pitch. Don’t be late, and definitely don’t think of wasting my time.”
She taps the capsules at her belt-loop for a sprinkle of intimidation (blindly so, considering how little she knows of the other), and takes to power-walking toward Hulbury’s marketplace — Arceus knows it’s about that time to steal snag something to replenish herself, after being holed up among luggage in the hull of a ship for days.
“There you are...”
The tone of the caustic voice--still sharp as ever--was unmistakable. Violet looked up from her purple flip phone expectantly, a bemused laugh escaping her lips as she locked eyes with the familiar redhead once again.
“All business, huh?” she retorted casually, shrugging off the Rocket’s accusatory tone with a playful smirk. “...I was sort of planning to treat you to a nice lunch inside, but it looks like you’ve eaten already. I have money, you know.”
Violet let out a disappointed sigh (played up for dramatic effect), turning her phone towards Jessie after pulling up some grainy pictures on the small screen. “Speaking of money...that’s why I called you here. Check these out.”
“I landed this job from Macro Cosmos, the big energy company here. Seems like a pissed-off ex-scientist of theirs ran off with some company secrets, and Cosmos is desperate to get them back--by any means necessary,” Violet explained, tabbing through photos of the scientist in question: a petrified-looking younger man white-knuckling a black briefcase. In the last of the Nighthawk’s photos, the target is looking furtively over his shoulder, glasses askew, the famous Hulbury lighthouse in the background.
“So, simple mission: get the scientist and the stupid secrets back. I’ve tracked him here, and now there’s no way he can leave the city undetected.” Violet paused, looking skyward with a smile as her Honchkrow circled ominously above. “He has to come out of hiding eventually, but I’m tired of waiting. I’ve already done the hard work, but now I could use your help in the search--you look like you could find your way around here.”
Violet locked her grey gaze with Jessie’s eyes, lowering her voice slightly. “Cosmos is setting the reward at a million, though I have my ways of bumping that up for us in the end. We split whatever we get down the middle, and we’ll be loaded.”
“Oh...” the Nighthawk concluded, smirking again as she folded her arms, “...as for this being a setup, I can tell you that it isn’t. But you and I both know that complete trust is bullshit, right? That’s just part of the game...so do you want to play or not?” Her coy smile widens slightly.
“Just know that, if I was a true blue-blooded cop, I’d have your pretty face smiling for the mug shot already.”
With the whip of her hair and a halt in her step, Jessie sears her eyes into the stranger, boring fiery holes beneath the wrinkle of her brow. “Little squad?” She’s come a long way through managing her anger, not immediately flying off the handle as was once habit. Still, it takes very little to rile her up, forever and always too hot-headed to be handled.
“I regret to inform you that Team Rocket is as prominent as ever,” the lie escapes her lips easily, a trick of her trade. After all, it’d been at least a year since her communication with the higher-ups had been cut. An entire year of aimless wandering, wandering for something that’d put her in their good graces once again. Although, there are times she ponders if whether or not their approval holds any water in her already half-empty glass.
Easier sticking with a prior purpose than mustering the courage to find one’s own, a conclusion she falls back on far too often. Maniacal, her lips curl up in the most mischievous of manners. “We’ve just gotten a lot better at hiding our tracks is all.”
Hidden, in this instance, they were not: spectators began crowding around the two, almost as if watching a reenactment of some sort. “But, believe it or not, I’ve only just arrived.” She shrugs, her confident smirk hanging like a crescent moon. “So any wrong-doing you’re trying to snuff out has nothing to do with me… officer.”
“So any wrong-doing you’re trying to snuff out has nothing to do with me… officer.”
Amused, Violet quirked an eyebrow as Jessie snapped back with the expected venom, her caustic tone complimented nicely with a dangerous smirk. Even so, the Nighthawk would still take the Rocket’s vitriol over Hulbury’s fake niceties any day--finally, here was someone traveling along a similar wavelength.
“Not an officer, unfortunately,” Violet replied in a casual tone, the faint smile remaining on her lips. “Actually, now that I think about it...I guess that I’m looking for trouble-- for someone like you.”
The opportunity was materializing before her eyes, and the adaptable gang member turned PI was never one to miss a chance over something fruitful. Perhaps Jessie could help her--at the very least, the fiery Rocket was, as of right now, the most interesting person in Hulbury.
“Instead of clinging on to the back of some faded organization, why don’t you work with me?” Violet asked with a coy shrug, hoping to catch Jessie off guard with her request. “I’m on...assignment, and I could use some help. I’d make it worth your while, too.” For emphasis, the investigator winked and rubbed some imaginary bills together between her fingers. She started to make her exit, walking right by Jessie as the nervous spectators parted a path for her into town. Once within earshot, Violet concluded her spontaneous pitch in a low whisper: If you’re in, find me in the back of the Seafood Restaurant in an hour.
It was a wild pitch, but what the hell. What did she have to lose?
Stepping from the vessel onto the docks at the edge of the waters of Hulbury, Jessie’s met with quizzical stares almost immediately; typically, this type of attention is aroused by the insignia on her chest, one she still wears brazenly (despite her current standing with the big TR). No, these glances were of a different variety. Of a “who is this foreigner?” variety.
One would expect the people of Galar, world-famous for their legendary trainers, to be a bit more receptive to foreigners. But, as is typical, the fiery Rocket is simply expecting an outcome unlike the one she receives elsewhere.
Regardless, she begins her waltz into the bustling seaport, one teeming with other equally-as-foreign visitors, each wide-eyed and wondrous of their first little taste of Galar and all it’s glory. “What’s the big deeeeeal,” she muses, shielding her eyes from the blazing suns. “Looks like any typical seaport to me…”
Even still, the towers of Hammerlocke loom against the blue skies, a welcoming but daunting realization of just how far she is away from home. Her reservations aside, she continues her walk through the city, mindful but receptive to what may lie ahead in this uncharted territory…
Hulbury–a tranquil seaport city perched on pristine shores, with sparkling waves gently lapping at the banks–was a dream vacation destination for many globetrotting trainers. With its famed Seafood Restaurant, energetic Stadium, and quaint street market stalls, the sunny locale had something for everyone.
And despite this–maybe because of her gritty Kalosian background–Violet hated Hulbury. In such a smiling place, the dark-haired, dark-clothed bounty hunter-turned PI stuck out like a sore thumb. Given her present situation, she was thankful for her dangerous aura–even the welcoming citizens of the city knew to give her a wide berth. And this unspoken suited the Nighthawk just fine–after all, she was here for business, not for pleasure.
Honestly, this particular assignment wasn’t difficult–someone with connections at the Macro Cosmos Bank had been caught embezzling funds from the chain’s secured stores. Violet had effectively traced the thief to Hulbury, and now her mission was simple enough: bide her time, catch the crook, and reclaim the stolen money. It was all a waiting game now.
The hiss of a docking passenger vessel mercifully broke the monotonous spell, and from the shadows, Violet watched the sea-legged tourists disembark, her grey eyes falling upon a confident-looking redhead, the Nighthawk’s attention piqued by the loud, familiar R emblazoned across the stranger’s top. Interesting.
“Looking for trouble?” Violet quipped casually, turning heads as her slight smirk betrayed her teasing intent. “I thought your little squad folded ages ago.”
It wasn’t an outright challenge, but the PI’s drawling callout had the desired effect. Suddenly, Hulbury wasn’t so boring–slight tension colored the air, and the redhead’s fellow tourists either quickened their paces or watched on in bemusement.
Knots twist and turn as Shauntal drags along the path behind the bathhouse, steam escaping with a hiss from the interior chambers. Her company seems a bit quicker on their feet, the writer taking more leisurely strides alongside—when not behind—the other. “My pace is fine; perhaps you’d do better to not sprint…,” she can only mutter, beneath her breath, tone unable to hide her irritancy. They take the steps, up beyond the marketplace, with the entertainment districts lingering streets below and behind them now.
She’s still not certain about entertaining this venture, but finds it fair to at least discuss a few of the details over another drink. And oh, how she needed it, what with her nerves the way they’ve become.
Violet finally gives her caustic mouth some time to reload as Shauntal sweeps confidently into a shoddy, half-obscured tavern. Despite the Pad’s worn-out aesthetic, the former Gang Member breathes a sigh of relief, unabashedly wringing Virbank rain from her black locks onto the creaky floor. The bouncers glare--one even takes a threatening step forward--but one of Violet’s steely glances roots them all hesitantly in place. The Nighthawk’s bespectacled partner--focused on disappearing into a seat upstairs--doesn’t seem to notice the frosty encounter.
Violet stays silent as the pair enters into the “VIP section”--a secluded loft filled with surprisingly cozy booths. Of course, Violet’s been to top-end Kalosian restaurants and hotels before, but the Pad’s hidden surprise factor earns a low whistle of approval nevertheless. She slides smoothly into the seat across from Shauntal, just as the nervous waiter totters off to pour drinks. Removing her purple jacket and resting her toned arms on the polished table, Violet can’t help but grin at her new partner’s unnecessary introduction.
“Violet--bounty hunter, gang member, free agent,” she shoots back, leaning slightly forward, that omnipresent smirk playing on her lips again, “...and yeah, I know way more about Plasmat than you. I did a couple jobs for them, after all.”
The pale-faced waiter returns hurriedly with a pair of crystalline glasses, allowing time for the Nighthawk’s bombshell to sink in, and leaves just as quickly. “I didn’t do the explosions or anything big like that,” Violet explains once the man is out of earshot, her smile widening as she picks up the fancy drink. “I just knocked a few heads together until someone came along with a better offer. Now, they want to kill me.”
Violet pauses to roll her eyes, raising her glass in a half-hearted toast to Shauntal. “Can’t a girl stab someone in the back anymore? Oh, shi...!”
The dark-haired gang member suddenly descends into a coughing fit, clearly not ready for the Unovan magnitude of the Elite’s “usual drink.” “You ass...” Violet half-laughs, half-wheezes, giving Shauntal a playful kick under the table, “...what’s in here, Tomato Berries? Are you trying to kill me?”
“...Never a quitter,” she mumbles after a brief pause, psyching herself up to take another sip. “Unh. Anyways...I want the Plasmat leader’s head--anything to shut my client up. Complain, complain, complain...”
Violet sighs, the drink perking up her vocal cords. Suddenly, her grey eyes light up, and she leans conspiratorially towards Shauntal once again. “Speaking of complaining, I’ve always wanted to ask this to someone famous: what’s the shittiest thing about your region? Not counting Plasmat...I want something juicy.” The Nighthawk leans back in the booth, lacing her fingers casually behind her head as she takes in the Elite with renewed interest. “Answer that, and then you can ask me anything. I’m mean, we’re getting acquainted, right?”
lt isn’t having been spoken to like a child, or even the brawl that broke out only moments prior, that has Shauntal considering a hasty getaway, as the two approach Virbank’s Center. Once she’s fully equipped, even someone as gnarly as this mystery woman wouldn’t stand a chance in battle. And any other unfortunates? Well, consider the Elite’s nerves rattled enough to withhold any mercy.
All she wanted was to escape the incessant ring of the League’s telephones, to escape the disastrous images that still dominate news feeds. To disengage enough to focus on her next work. Dissociate long enough to convince herself that everything’s fine enough for her to do so…
But even through the strained apology, the general sense of irritation towards someone of Shauntal’s status, making that call is excruciating. She sees an urgency now, a role that she too can assist with, even despite never receiving the proper orders.
Had she always been the type to wait for a call to action? Perhaps.
Is that something she’d like to change about herself? That was to be foreseen. But, with the way the night is setting itself up to be, Shauntal’s certain she’ll reach an epiphany on the matter, one way or another.
Leaning up against the damp brick of the Pokemon Center, Violet waits--her grey eyes casually surveying the frenetic Virbank nightlife. In the back of her mind, she knows that Shauntal could ghost her without much effort, but she doesn’t fret over the possibility--the Nighthawk has never been one to worry much. In her new “position” as the most unofficial of investigators, it’s necessary to be adaptable, receptive to changing circumstances and environments.
That being said, this environment sucks. Humidity clings to Violet’s olive skin, and she mean-mugs a Trubbish poking its head out of a nearby alley. Two minutes, then I’m gone, she thinks impatiently, her fingers twirling an imaginary cigarette. Rule number one for places like this: never stay in one place for too long. Luckily, Shauntal emerges from the Center’s sliding doors seconds later, saving the pair’s tenuous collaboration.
“I knew you’d come back,” Violet says after the Elite supplies directions, the smirk on her face conveying nothing but smugness. “Still, I’d expect someone from the Elite Four to have better manners...it’s rude to keep a girl waiting, right?”
Pausing to give Shauntal’s shoulder a cheeky squeeze, Violet starts off towards the pub with a laugh. “Come on, you said quick, so let’s pick up the pace,” she commands, shooting a derisive look behind her. Arceus, she would kill for a drink right now, and the mere thought of Purrloin’s Pad lengthens her strides. “No wonder nothing is being done, everyone moves so sl-”
The Unovan rain--as if waiting--finally starts to fall, mercifully pausing Violet’s latest round of insults. The former Gang Member cusses colorfully towards the heavens and shuts her eyes, letting the drops roll down her face for just a moment before pressing on--with some choice words for her surroundings.
“Damn, this place really is Unova’s asshole,” Violet calls out over the sudden downpour, pausing to rest her hand on Shauntal’s back as Purrloin’s Pad finally comes into view in the distance--a rustic tavern veiled by the late-night rain. “Maybe after all of this Plasmat shit, you can take me someplace nicer.”
Even in the midst of terrible weather, trudging through some rancid city, Violet can’t help herself.
having lived under the scrutiny of a sharp-eyed father for the better half of her seventeen years, sabrina knows exactly how to avoid unnecessary attention. the girl who saunters into the classroom – twenty minutes after the late bell – seems keen on doing the exact opposite. sabrina focuses one half lidded eye in the newcomer’s direction for a split second before returning her gaze to her classmate seated in front of her. she’s the only person in the room not openly gawking at the recent arrival, although she tunes into the not-so-subtle whispers of her classmates, the gossiping filling in the blanks. sabrina knows that there likely isn’t much truth to the rumors that her peers seem so intent on sharing, and she doesn’t care, not really. violet, as the teacher called her, is just another nameless classmate that she’ll probably forget within the week.
“or what? are you gonna start a pissing contest to stake your claim?”
Leaning back in her seat, as if blown back by the transfer’s biting retort, Violet’s bemused expression turns gleeful. With a cocky fold of her arms, the bully holds Sabrina’s glare without batting an eye, her own gleaming eyes curiously taking in the new student. There’s another thunk of boots against the poor, abused basket as she retakes her claim.
“Hey, you can speak after all...they said you were mute,” she observes lightly, her tone equal parts accusatory and disappointed. With a shrug, Violet tilts her head thoughtfully before continuing, the entire class leaning in to hear her words. “Makes me wonder if the other stuff that I was told is all bullshit, too. Whatever.”
With a languid stretch in her seat, Violet gives Sabrina’s desk one more jolt before swinging her legs into the aisle and rising to her feet again. “This might come as a shock, but I only came to school to see the new kid,” she declares, making her objective a little clearer to the stunned teacher, who’s perched on her stool like a gargoyle. “My friends down by the North Boulevard alleys want me to give you this message, transfer: the Lumiose Gang wants a little cash dropped off--or they’ll expose your little secret. Fuckin’ mysterious, right class? Not even I know what the secret is--not like I give a shit, though. Discuss.”
As the class falls into hushed murmurs and whispers, Violet takes action. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she extracts a comically simple flip phone and snaps a blurry selfie of Sabrina and herself with the device’s outdated camera. “Gotta have proof that we chatted, or I won’t get paid!” she explains to the new student, quickly dropping the ancient technology back into her pocket and making her way towards the door. “Bye, Sabrina. Tell your dad to pay up, okay? And Teach...you gotta get your shit together.”
Violet’s jab seems to resurrect the poor homeroom guide, who almost falls off her stool making sure that Sabrina is okay--do you need to go to the office? I’ll report this immediately!--but of course, she’s too late. The classroom seems to devolve into a scene of hushed chaos, the seeds of rumor beginning to spread. The timid classmate next to Sabrina hurriedly moves over a desk. Meanwhile, Violet takes purposeful strides down the school’s deserted main hallway on her way to complete the Lumiose Gang’s task. She can already feel the crisp Pokedollars in her pocket...
Message delivered, and mission accomplished. This was almost too easy.
As desperately as she’d like to feign naiveté in all matters involving Plasmat, a disgruntled sigh escapes her lips against her wishes. It’s uncharacteristic, sure, for her to be this blunt, this slovenly, in front of someone who clearly knows their way around a brawl. However, Shauntal can’t settle for anyone bad-mouthing the League… regardless of how spot-on they may be about the negligence surrounding all matters Plasmat.
“Y’know what,” she can’t help but to lay into the other woman, who’s tone never quite becomes daggering, and yet yields the same results. After all, it is Shauntal’s chosen family this vigilante is slandering. “Joining the Elite Four is one thing, but taking care of street gangs? Are we supposed to be the police?” Shauntal stares deep into the movements of the other woman, as they both refuse to bend to any will beyond their own. Bass from within several clubs pulsate into a hodgepodge of noise, puddles of city sludge mirroring the skies while bathed in neon glow.
“D-Do you realize how often we’d be out here, weeding these streets, were we to answer to every beck and call,” she bemuses, eyes weary, sobriety settling in. Shauntal stifles a hiccup, her arms folding sternly against her bosom. Chandelure wanders further into the receding shadows beyond the mouth of the alley where the women situate themselves.
Violet merely rolls her eyes as Shauntal launches into a predictable defense of the Elite Four and its policies...too busy, too many responsibilities, blah blah blah. She’s heard this all before, of course--many of her anonymous tips regarding gang activity within Lumiose City were previously dismissed or outright ignored by the Kalosian Pokemon League back home. The Nighthawk tamps down the anger simmering in her chest, fighting back the familiar urge to knock someone powerful off of their high horse. As Shauntal finishes laying out her case, however, an exasperated sigh still escapes Violet’s lips.
“Look, sweetheart...” she finally declares as if speaking to a child, with a pity-filled expression to match, “...I’m not saying that you need to catch every dumbass who steals a handbag or whatever. But when I was watching the news a couple days ago, I saw a Plasmat goon squad freely hunt down a couple of kids. I saw Plasmat blow the fucking roof off of your biggest stadium.”
Despite her needling, the sting of Violet’s accusations is blunted somewhat by the playful smirk on her face as she continues to pick at Shauntal’s institution. “Does that not register just a bit on your, uh, importance scale? I mean, I heard you--you don’t do police stuff--but come on.”
People are definitely staring now, so Violet takes a moment to compose herself, wincing as Shauntal lands a decisive kick back in the alleyway--an unexpected act from the normally-composed Elite. When the ghost-type guru emerges from the darkness again, she presents a new plan of action--one that the Kalosian can’t refuse. “Count me in--it’s a date, then,” Violet confirms with a coy wink, effectively sealing their tentative pact while warily trailing Shauntal towards the flickering lights of the Pokemon Center. Their short stroll is predictably awkward, but Violet’s sharp tongue has always been good for two things: breaking the ice...and potentially making everything worse.
“I didn’t mean to go so hard on you earlier,” she cedes in a muttered half-apology. “It’s just...I’m used to dealing with all sorts of bullshit back home in Kalos, and I can never get any of the Pokemon League pricks to pay attention to, you know, the messed-up stuff happening on the ground level. That sort of crap gets me heated.”
The warm glow behind the Center’s sliding doors suddenly greets them, and Violet steps aside, all too aware that Shauntal could just abandon her at the entrance, or even--she almost laughs at the irony--call the cops once safely inside. Still, the Nighthawk decides to put her faith in the tipsy Elite...it’s not like she has a lot to lose, anyways.
“I’ll wait out here--hurry up, will you?” Violet defers, leaning casually against the Center’s No Loitering sign while twirling another cigarette between her fingers. Her glinting grey eyes survey the Elite with interest, recalling Shauntal’s quick planning and kick to the dome from earlier.
Serena was currently getting Charle’s favourite tea considering she had a feeling that his nerves would be shot with the interview with Violet. It was then that she heard a sound that indicated that she was being called for. He actually lasted longer then she was expecting. Gathering the tea and kettle on the tray as well with three bottles of water she picked it up and headed for Charles office.
Knocking on the door she opened it up and was greeted upon Charles in her face before she could even enter the place. He started spewing sentences towards the female as she stared at him unsure of what to say.
I will personally be paying you...
Violet’s grin widens as Serena takes a seat across from her, next to the beleaguered model manager. Unlike Charles, it seems like the world-famous model truly understands the situation. The Nighthawk unscrews the cap on the provided drink--fancy water--and takes a greedy swig, purposefully spilling some on the manager’s precious desk. In Serena’s presence, Charles can only bite his tongue, turning redder than a Cheri Berry.
Serena’s next request to go dry, however, dampens the unofficial PI’s mood considerably. Letting out a childish groan, Violet somehow leans further back in her seat before fixing her employer with an impossibly sly expression, her grey eyes gleaming. “I’d consider cutting back on the job for you, but only because you’re a sweetheart and you totally take my breath away,” she teases, a smirk playing on her lips as she turns towards poor Charles. “Can’t say the same about Bibarel Face over here though, he’s been very rude to me ever since I walked in.”
“Can we not. Serena, I really, really think that this is a bad idea,” the manager half-pleads, pressing dents into his temples and prompting a laugh from his new adversary. Violet sits up a little straighter, focusing her renewed attention on the blonde across from her.
“I want you to double the pay that you promised over the phone, and then we have a deal. I’d be all yours,” she declares with a wink before shaking her head. “Honestly though, I’m charging you because I’m expecting to be bored, which is the worst. Don’t you already have a standard security team, anyways? I mean, what’s my first assignment--walking you to your Saturday manicure? Can’t wait.”
Despite her confidence, Violet’s tone--somehow both smug and sarcastic--confirms Charles’s worst fear: the Nighthawk isn’t quite taking this seriously. He hopes that Serena sees through the PI as well, sweating into the leather on his chair while waiting for her final decision.
“C-can a girl not enjoy the nightlife every once in a while…?” Apparently not. Shauntal’s slurring formats itself more intelligibly, her buzz fading rather rapidly following the scuffle. It all happened so quick, she’s still gathering in the scene before her, the thugs lifeless against the cold, wet concrete. Only one of them squirms, still unable to recover from the mystery woman’s fist to the head. Shauntal thanks her lucky stars and yet, still, she hangs onto her ‘thank you’s’: she’s cautious at best, skeptical at worst.
Whoever this woman is, she’s an absolute force of nature.
Ravishing, sure, but trustworthy…?
Now, if you’ll excuse me…I-I’d like to go get myself another drink. After all of this commotion, I’m afraid my buzz has left the building… So, if you don’t mind…?
Violet merely laughs at Shauntal’s earnest request, plucking the cigarette from her mouth with a bemused expression on her face. Despite the Elite Four member’s clouded state, the Nighthawk sees small signs of why the Ghost trainer is regarded so highly around Unova: her eloquence, resilience, and--of course--the Chandelure bobbing eerily behind her shadowy figure.
Yep, the former Gang Member confirms to herself. This is too good to pass up.
“These guys are part of a notorious new street gang known as the Plasmat Unit,” she declares with a sidelong glance at the crumpled thugs, breaking the silence and mercifully dropping her leg to the ground. “From what I’ve heard, they’re out of control. People around here have told me that they’ve been pinging the League office for weeks, but...nothing. They had to hire me to find the gang leader--and honestly? I don’t know shit about this place. I’m out here grinding while you get smashed at some random dive bar...seems about right.”
Despite her harsh message, there’s no trace of anger in Violet’s voice--in fact, the bemused smile hasn’t left her face since their initial encounter. She rounds on Shauntal, casually grinding the ashy cigarette under her boot.
“The Plasmats know that I’m out here now, and they definitely know about you too. They’re gonna be tracking us,” she continued, her tone almost gleeful, as if she’s excited for another rumble. “I want information on this place--where the sketchiest spots are, what to look out for, any tips. I mean, I’m busy cleaning up your League’s mess and I just helped you out, so it’s only fair, right?”
Violet’s gaze softens just a little bit, but there’s an almost hungry gleam in her eyes now--she won’t be letting go of this opportunity so easily, but there’s a little leeway to give to the distressed trainer.
“Of course, we can always talk business tomorrow...” she offers with a coy grin, taking her first steps from the alleyway into the Virbank moonlight, “...if you don’t mind buying me a drink now. What do you say?”
“You do realize that she could have been endangered! I’m not going to be hearing anymore, you are relieved of your duties.” A sigh escaped the male’s lips as he leaned back into his chair as she rubbed his temples in frustration. The honey blonde female kept quiet for a bit letting the silence linger as the door shut with a click.
Serena Lang was a famous model and currently, her manager had fired another bodyguard due to their failing duties. Gathering her thoughts the 20-year-old opened her mouth after the silence settled. “Do I say I’m not attending the show?” The question hung in the air before once again her manager let out a sigh.
Shaking his head side to side he spoke. “No, you are the important guest after all. Besides everyone from all over the world will be there.” So, in the end, she was to be expected on being there.
Keep reading
Violet sits across from Charles, her dirty boots braced against the expensive mahogany desk. Serena’s red-faced manager is trying to sputter through the rest of the interview questions, and she’s trying not to laugh at his indignation. “Will you please...” Charles pauses to press two fingers to his temples, “...get your feet off my desk? For Arceus’s sake, how unprofessional can you be?”
“Very. Also, no,” Violet shoots back, a smirk finally emerging on her lips as Charles’s face purples with anger. She leans back in the polished wooden chair and yawns. “Why are we even doing this? I’ve got the job already--quit wasting my time.”
“You had the job, until...this,” Charles retorts, grasping onto the last straws of his authority. “Showing up in those clothes. Stinking of alcohol. Lack of respect--you’ve insulted me at least thirty times since your arrival. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not even the slightest bit qualified to protect Ms. Lang!”
Charles takes a moment to plant his head in his hands, pressing a button on the intercom...a signal for Serena to come upstairs immediately. Violet merely shrugs. “Well, you apparently haven’t done a very good job protecting her either,” she declares with another challenging grin. “Plus, you look like a Swalot. That’s thirty-four times, if you’re still counting.”
There’s a knock at the burnished door, and a relieved Charles leaps from his seat as if desperate for escape, words spilling from his mouth before he even lets Serena into the office. “Serena...are you trying to punish me with this candidate? She stinks of alcohol, she’s treated me with nothing but contempt since her interview, and she has no regard for my space or our agency! I must tell you...there’s no way we can hire her!”
A low whistle cuts Charles’s rant off, and the manager turns to see the Nighthawk staring at Serena with that same damned smirk on her face. “Finally--gods, you look gorgeous,” Violet grins, speaking directly past Charles and at the model in the doorway. “Princess, can you tell your Electrode-headed idiot that I want double the pay he’s offering? I’ve already spent a lot of energy insulting him--even though he’s kind of an easy target. That’s thirty-five and thirty-six.”
sabrina reminds herself that as a junior, this is her second-to-last year of doing this — “this” referring to the thirty minutes of hell known as homeroom. the reminder does little as consolation; maybe she wouldn’t dislike homeroom so much if she was on good terms with some of her classmates, but as far as she’s concerned, that possibility will remain a hypothetical one, thank you very much. even months after her transfer from saffron tech to lumiose academy, she still carries the moniker of the “mysterious transfer student” and well, once she realized that it has kept some of the more curious students from approaching her, sabrina hasn’t done much to dispel the gossip, turning down well-intentioned invitations to hang out afterschool, swiftly declining club recruiters, and retreating to the school library or leaving campus during her lunch periods.
after all, despite the distance between kanto and kalos, sabrina can’t rid herself of the unshakable feeling that her past will not remained buried – what took place back in saffron city, why she was absent for nearly half of her sophomore year, why her father subsequently picked up and moved his business to kalos – she knows that secrets like this never end quietly, so the least she can do is keep her head down and mouth shut.
once the homeroom teacher takes attendance, the PA system crackles to life as a cheery voice runs through the morning announcements. somewhere between the pronouncement that “student council wants YOU to run in next week’s elections” and a painful rendition of “tomorrow” to advertise the theater department’s upcoming performance of annie, sabrina’s head drops to her desk, cushioned by her crossed arms.
now, if only the next year and a half could travel by quicker.
Violet can’t help but smile to herself as she sidles into homeroom twenty minutes late, like she’s just a normal student today--not Lumiose Academy’s longest-tenured junior and soon-to-be dropout. Despite her tardiness, the fact that Violet is actually present for class at all--her first attendance months deep into the semester--is a feat in itself. The Kalosian weather outside has turned frosty, mirroring the cautious morning, Violet that falls from the bewildered teacher’s lips. Students brace themselves for impact, but the delinquent doesn’t even hear the instructor, her gleaming grey eyes locked on to a brand-new sight. The smile widens on her lips.
There’s someone sitting in her seat. Well, one of her seats.
The teacher--bless her heart--tries to get everyone’s attention back to the student book for the semester, but all eyes are fixated on Violet as she unceremoniously takes a seat behind the mysterious transfer from Kanto. The entire class is on edge, and hushed whispers erupt as the poor teacher determinedly turns to page 43 by herself. Why is she here--she didn’t even bring a bookbag! I heard she got arrested. Ew, check out that tattoo on her arm! Violet tunes them all out, her focus now devoted to the new arrival slumped in front of her. Without hesitation, she braces her boots against the basket hanging under Sabrina’s desk and leans forward casually, as if sharing some juicy gossip. The entire class tenses.
“You’re in my seat.”
Her tone isn’t threatening at all, in fact, there’s more of a curious edge to Violet’s voice--what will you do? She can already tell that Sabrina might need some coaxing to emerge from her shell, and she’s more than willing to provide--Violet shoves the new student’s desk forward without warning, causing Sabrina’s bag to slide onto the floor. Books and folders spill everywhere, but no one moves to help, too entranced by the show. The teacher finally looks up from page 44.
“If you want to take a nap, move over a desk. My feet are tired, and I need the extra space,” Violet speaks up again, her playful smirk betraying the severity of her command. It’s a game to her, really, an experiment of sorts. Scientific question: what happens if you thrust attention onto someone who is so clearly trying to avoid it? Soon, everyone will know Sabrina’s answer.
Violet shakes her head, pulsing her boots impatiently against the metal undercarriage in front of her. All eyes are on them, and the whispers start again, focusing on the contents of Sabrina’s bag this time. Look at those weird books! Are those GOLD fountain pens? Even the teacher seems shocked into suspense, raised halfway from her stool in a freeze-frame.
Ten minutes into her entrance, and Violet has already thrown down a gauntlet of sorts in front of the new girl. There’s a lot--socially, at least--at stake here.
“‘Ey, yer that famous writer lady, huh… whatcha got in the bag?”
Had she anticipated being followed tonight, Shauntal would’ve indulged in a few less drinks at the bar prior. And yet, here she is, stumbling about the alleyways of Virbank, and immediately landing herself in the sour company of several street rats. Oh, how quickly a relaxing night out can spiral toward such undesirable depths…
“I-I don’t have to answer to any of you, you know that, right?” Ballsy, her voice is, each word slurring the further she speaks. It’s true that, as a member of the Elite Four, she could easily wipe through the three men cornering her now… when fully prepared, that is. However, seeing as she’s accompanied tonight solely by her Chandelure, Isobel, the chances of her being outnumbered are as apparent as the men’s growing hostility. The bespectacled author holds her ground as they zero in on her, their tones becoming all the more malicious behind their snarling catcalls.
Keep reading
Yeah, nothing good is gonna come of that.
Violet sits near the back of the Virbank bar, glancing over at Shauntal’s slightly-flushed figure with disinterested grey eyes. Despite the Elite Four member’s fame, everyone minds their business for the most part, too busy battling their own vices and personal demons to care about a celebrity in their midst. In seedier cities like this one, people know that it’s best to keep your head down. For Violet, a Kalosian transplant on a secret, personal mission, the anonymity is a blessing.
Shauntal rises from her seat with a slight wobble, quietly paying her tab before exiting uneventfully into the night. The back of the former bounty hunter’s neck tingles--a subtle, ominous sign--prompting a long sigh from the raven-haired woman. Violet unceremoniously tosses back the rest of her gin and tonic and decides to follow her new target, alcohol burning slightly in her throat as she also sweeps out of the bar. Something is about to go down--and the Lumiose City native is sure that it’s nothing good.
“I-I’m warning all of you to b-back off!”
Shauntal’s shouts echo from behind a nearby building, and Violet grins to herself despite the situation. Called it.
The Nighthawk’s introduction to the back-alley predicament is both swift and brutal. The practiced fighter whips around the corner and prepares to tear the frightening scene asunder. Violet takes out the first thug with a sucker punch to the back of his head, and when his friend tries to fend her off with a Pokeball, she submits him with an excruciating wrist lock until he drops the capsule harmlessly and runs, yowling, for his life. With the two “henchmen” effectively neutralized, Violet advances on the lead street rat, who can only cower as the former gang member knocks him out with a sickeningly-loud strike to the jaw. The entire encounter is breathtakingly fast--it’s all over in a matter of seconds.
“Fuck,” Violet exclaims, shaking out her hand with a grimace and unceremoniously breaking the shocked silence of the aftermath. Fishing around in the pockets of her faded purple jacket, the Nighthawk extracts a rumpled cigarette and leans casually against the alleyway brick. It’s almost as if Shauntal and the two unconscious bodies aren’t there--until Violet finally acknowledges the Elite Four member’s presence, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.
“For being one of the best trainers around, you’re not that bright, huh?” she observes bluntly, a smirk on her lips. “I gotta wonder...what’s a person like you doing out here, drunkenly screwing around in the back alleys?”
Taking a puff of cigarette, Violet extends her leg to block the alleyway’s exit, the smile never leaving her lips. As the henchmen snooze beneath them, the Nighthawk hungrily awaits Shauntal’s explanation, silently daring the Ghost-type master to lie.
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