Scream: My character has caused yours to scream out for some reason
Every grunt was assigned a mission and it was up to them to read up on the details & conditions in order to follow it through. Some missions involved retrieving a person or Pokemon, some involved performing some sort of field work, some were as adventurous as flying off to a faraway region. But some missions… were a bit less exciting.
"Clean up duty!?" She spat out. "Are you kidding me?!?" Having just received word of her mission for the week, Sapphire could only fold her arms and storm off, not at all pleased with her task. Everyone around her seemed to be assigned to some badass, top secret assignment and here she was having to clear all the lockers from the Grunt lounge.
There had been a notice warning all grunts of the impending Summer Clean-Up duty and had they not removed all belongings from their locker by such date, their lockers would be pried open and cleaned out. With those set instructions in mind, Sapphire showed up to the grunt locker room with what appeared to be a giant vicegrip and viciously began to crush open the nearest lock.
Snap.
The lock broke in half and almost instantly swung open, revealing a box loaded with chocolate candies of all kinds: Snickers, Butterfingers, M&M’s, chocolates of all kind. “Holy-!! Is this what people keep stashed in these lockers?” Cautiously looking around her, she made sure no one was watching and quickly began to stuff some of the candies in one of her empty garbage bags, her mouth watering at the thought of getting to keep all of these chocolates to herself. And without giving it much thought, she shoved a Kit Kat Bar in her mouth, rewarding herself.
With her newfound craving satisfied, she proceeded to go for the next lock, a bright red round one that stood out from all the rest. And without a moment of hesitation, she drew up her vicegrip, crushed the lock open, and stared at what was inside the lock.
"A blazer?” Kit Kat held in between her teeth, Sapphire reached forward and held up the flaring red blazer, examining it. It was definitely hand-tailored, custom fit to someone of a thinner frame. It was a little long, but it might just fit. And so, without a care in the world, she draped the blazer over her and checked herself out in the mirror. “Heh, not bad.”
And at that moment, Roger walked in.
"TAKE THAT SUIT OFF. RIGHT. NOW.” His voice came out of nowhere, booming through the tile walls as he angrily walked in, expecting to still be able to claim his locker’s belongings. With a menacing snarl to his word, he glared at the mysterious cleaning lady, his demeanor demanding her to take it off.
A little startled by this person’s voice, Sapphire whirled around to face Roger, an innocent look on her face as she held the Kit Kat Bar clasped in between her teeth.
"AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!! CHOCOLATE. YOU HAVE CHOCOLATE." He shrieked, his eyes now filled with terror, desperation in his voice as he could already imagine all the brown stains her chocolate bar would leave on his fabulous suit. “TAKEITOFF, TAKEITOFF, TAKEITOFF, TAKEITOFFTAKEITOFFTAKEITOFF. TAKE. IT. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.”
Now reaching the point of hysteria, Roger shot forward and ripped the jacket off her, not even allowing the poor girl a chance to register what the hell was going on. And with the blazer once again safe in his care, he quickly turned on his heels and raced out the door, leaving Sapphire staring at him in a numb confusion.
There was a time when things got personal, and there was a time when he needed to buckle down and view things from a business perspective.
This was both and neither of the two.
Honestly, this whole thing could have gone so much smoother if she had decided to cooperate with him in the first place. After all, the Executive had only shown up initially wanting to talk. In her room. In the middle of the night. With a rather threatening and bloodthirsty Pokemon by his side. Around half of that was just a simple intimidation tactic, however; he was rather accustomed to fucking with people, after all. As an expert in all things torture, knowing how to mess with the heads of others practically came in the job description. He didn't have any qualms about hurting her, of course, but there was a chance they could have gone about things in a manner that was one hundred percent violence-free. Keyword being a chance; he might have held a slight grudge from the previous incident involving the coffee machine.
While Proton had more or less gone there expecting things to get at least slightly scrappy, the results of his little "visit" were completely unexpected. Most prominently the fact that Sapphire had started fucking glowing and speaking like she was a completely different person. No one should have been able to move like that while under the effects of bloodloss; willpower could only do so much. And if the girl had been able to exploit it for the sake of nearly killing him, maybe the Executive could exploit it for the sake of Team Rocket.
That was his reasoning on paper, anyways. Really, he just wanted to know what the fuck was going on. And could have very well been just a little bit irritated that he almost got strangled to death. What a boring way to go.
Really, abusing his power was nothing new to the Executive. Simply gathering up a group of Grunts and flashing the picture on her file was all that it took, with the additional command to bring her to the fungeon once they managed to locate the girl. All that was left for Proton to do was wait until they managed to do so. He spent his time preparing the room he planned on using in an uncharacteristically meticulous manner. Old bloodstains were cleaned, that one flickering lightbulb changed, bonds on the chair checked, checked and rechecked. His usual tray of requested tools was present, with two syringes laying on it's metal surface. One was the usual needle filled with what essentially amounted to adrenaline- pretty standard fungeon equipment, meant to keep individuals from passing out in the middle of a torture session- though the other was a different substance entirely.
It was that particular item he had picked up for a last minute inspection when the door creaked open ominously. Had they done it, then? The Executive set the syringe down on the tray, turning towards the source of the noise and unable to keep from smiling slightly.
It had started out more as curiosity than anything else. A chance encounter here and there with someone he just so happened to have gotten into a scuffle with over the coffee machine that had ended in her getting stabbed. Really, the Executive had been more than willing to let the matter drop after everything had been said and done. At least, if it wasn't for the fact that she had seemed vaguely familiar to him.
To be completely fair, Proton really wasn't the type to keep up with current events. Nor was he the type to remember important figures unless they directly pertained to him, Team Rocket, or a combination of the two. At the very least, it made for ample justification when it came to the Executive not recognizing who she was right off the bat. Still, he had a feeling the girl was important in some way, and the curiosity wouldn't stop nagging at him until he actually did something about it. Thankfully, his position in the group came with more than it's fair share of perks. Being able to pick and choose which files he wanted to look at without having to deal with mandatory paperwork bullshit- for once- was one that Proton abused more often than not.
He hadn't discovered anything right off the bat, of course. The process was slow; it was more of a side project for the Executive to work on in his spare time- which he had quite a bit of, due to his tendency to procrastinate on all things paperwork- than anything else.
What Proton had discovered wasn't anywhere near what he had been expecting, though in the end that made things all the more interesting. Really, the smart thing to have done was to probably go straight to Archer with that sort of information, but all in good time; that wasn't how the Executive liked to work. Among the disheveled files and papers he had discovered a room number. His first instinct, of course, was to wander to that exact location just to fuck with her- no, not her, Sapphire. He had a name to put to the face now. Perhaps it was some sort of attempt at a show of superiority, or a chance to get revenge, but Proton wanted to hunt her down and cause more than his fair share of chaos before he really did much on the matter.
Being an insomniac came with it's perks. The most reliable time to find someone in their room was at night after all. Picking the lock was child's play to the Executive, and he quietly slipped inside, switchblade at the ready.
“You said he wouldn’t hurt me.” His voice was rougher than usual, presumably due to the harsh treatment his throat had received moments prior. It’s a statement, but it lacks the accusatory tone his words imply. He was simply making an observation; it left little room for arguing. Camille, much to her credit, didn’t attempt to dispute the issue. She simply elected to keep her head down and dabbed gently at the blood on Lance’s chin with a damp facecloth. “You lied to me.”
"I know." She said after a moment, her tone more tired and broken than anything else. "I know I did. I was wrong." A pause, followed by a soft sigh as she ran a hand through her hair. "I’m sorry, Lance. I really am."
"What do you have to be sorry for?" He replied, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended. "Ain’t like you’re the one who did this." There was a subtle hint of something there that implied he found his Mother more at fault for the entire thing than he was willing to admit. Which was, in retrospect, more painful for Camille to hear than a flat out accusation. Perhaps Lance was completely aware of such a thing and did it intentionally; for an eleven year old, he was surprisingly difficult to read unless he wanted to be. It could border on a bit unnerving at times, really. "You don’t have to be sorry about anything.”
A brief silence. Camille busied herself with rummaging around in the medicine cabinet. Lance in turn glanced at his hands and absentmindedly licked at a bloody cut on his palm; the taste didn’t really bother him. If anything it was a bit fascinating. Metallic. “Lance.” He glanced up at the sound of his name, raising an eyebrow in response as he did so. “Don’t do that.”
"Why not?" The blonde shot back, a semi-rebellious tone coloring his voice. "It’s my blood. Pretty sure I know where it’s been and all. Not like I’m licking this shit off of the floor, either.” Because he was pretty sure he did get some on there, too. Whoops.
Camille opened her mouth, presumably to make some sort of retort- though she wasn’t really sure whether she wanted to tackle the blood or language issue- but instead let out a defeated sigh. “I’m your Mother.” Was all she managed to come up with.
Of course, with Lance, it wasn’t nearly enough. “Really? You’re my Mother?” He narrowed his eyes, shooting Camille a dangerous glare that actually caused her to jump back ever so slightly. “Funny. What kinda Mother just stands back there and doesn’t do shit when this,” and with that, he jerked a thumb in the direction of his bruised and battered face, “happens to her fuckin’ kid? Real great parenting skills you got there, Ma. Nice to know you’ve always got my back.”
"… What did you expect me to do?" She asked after a long pause, voice trembling slightly. Lance didn’t reply, instead directing his gaze to the ground instead. It half looked like he was trying to light something on fire with the intensity of which he was glaring. "I’m sorry.” There was nothing she could do, a fact that they were presumably both aware of.
"Stop saying that." An automatic response, issued without much thought put behind it. The blonde got to his feet, rubbing at his bruised throat and wincing slightly as he did so. "I want to leave. I’m sick of dealing with this shit, I hate this fucking city and all the people in it and not being allowed to go anywhere on my own and having everyone bitch about how I’m defective. There is nothing wrong with me, save for maybe having to deal with assholes like him.” A long pause, one that he sorely needed in order to catch his breath. After a moment, Lance allowed his arm to fall limply to his side and turned around, heading for the door. “I want to kill him." Was all he had left to say before leaving. The words didn’t exactly surprise Camille, it was more the tone of which they were spoken in; any kid could claim that they wanted to kill someone in a fit of juvenile rage.
Lance spoke like an adult with genuine murderous intent.
She sat there for a good while, the bloodstained facecloth still clutched in her hand. After a while, she directed her gaze towards the ground, letting out a quiet sigh. “… I’m sorry.” It seemed as if apologizing was the only thing she was good for. Predictably, Camille received no response; instead she was left alone to deal with her regrets.
A storm was brewing. He didn't need to see the clouds looming over the base -- he could smell it in the air, the tang of ozone and the heavy damp of coming rain. It was not, perhaps, the best weather for anyone to be out in.
But when had that ever stopped him? He'd endured blizzards atop Mt. Silver -- a lowland thunderstorm hardly seemed worth mentioning. And Venusaur wasn't bothered, so he was confident nothing was immediately wrong.
It had been too long since he'd slept well, and with nothing going on in his schedule, the former champion had taken the time to get some much-needed sleep. He'd left mid-morning, releasing Venusaur in a clear, sunny patch near the base, on the off-chance someone might need him...
...and he had slept, soothed by the Pokemon's sweet aroma, until the light and warmth left the day and storm clouds rose overhead. The sound of rain was always nice, when it came to sleep -- the crash of thunder and lightning, on the other hand, was not. ...except for Pikachu. But Pikachu was a different story.
As he closed his eyes again and leaned against Venusaur's side under the cover of his leaves, another sound caught his attention over the rising wind: footsteps, moving through the brush. Maybe someone needed him, after all -- or else they were trying to get him out of danger. Something.
Still, he opened one eye and glanced toward the noise.
Proton kills people. That’s what he does. That’s all he can do, really. I could never see him holding down an ordinary job, working nine to five behind the register of some grocery store. Or typing away idly at a simple desk job. He would go mental.
He needs constant entertainment to properly function. Adrenaline. Stimulation. Shiny things. Something to pass the time.
There is nothing worse than a bored Proton. He may be a bit rowdy and cause his fair share of trouble on occasion, but he can be controlled if you know the right strings to pull. Bribe him. Send him off on a mission that involves one of his interests- hurting people, or blowing shit up.
Boredom seems to only amplify his negative traits. Saying that it makes him irritable would be a bit of an understatement- regardless of whether you are friend or foe, Proton becomes a danger to be around. Think of violence as an addiction for him. He needs it. He needs to cause it. If he doesn’t, it almost makes him to go through withdraws. If you piss him off when he’s in one of his moods, there is a pretty good chance he will kill you. And get away with it, too- Executive Privilege.
On the bright side, he’s usually pretty busy screwing around with the torture and interrogation unit- the fungeon- and disciplining rebellious Grunts. When he’s not “wrecking shit” out on missions, anyways. So it’s usually somewhat rare for his boredom to get severe enough to push him into that sort of state.
Though that doesn’t automatically mean he’s the safest person to hang around; don’t piss him off. It never ends well.
