Everything before him was a clear sign that he had won— even letting her run away as she pleased was evidence; rather, that in of itself was the core to his proof: the great Kris-freakin’-Clarity running away with her tail (read: gravity-defying pigtails) between her legs.
Proton-vision: ”I’ve scarred the runt for life and now I get to reap the rewards.”
Like a baby Caterpie skittering away from its predators, Kris was on her hands and knees, just as desperate as many of the women that arrived at Proton’s doorstep with a mischievous glint in their eyes; however, under these circumstances, any glint in this young girl’s eyes meant something else entirely.
He had always had a keen eye for split-second, last moment reactions— it had been a thankful trait he had acquired watching over the masters with their own analytic gazes during his years with Team Rocket; it was a skill mastered over many years with a curious gaze that searched for the unique, identifiable twitches and jerks among crowds of distinct features that lit up the world— and distracted anyone that wasn’t careful.
It was for this reason that he knew when a grunt had been lying, his shoulders stiff and his movements fidgety.
It was for this reason that he could tell when a man was hurt, despite his best efforts to hide the injury that was slowly seeping through dark cloth.
It was for this reason that that small, unforgivable twitch of her chin as her eyes redirected from the rocky concrete to the unappealing bag that could only belong to someone as gaudy as her, was recognised instantaneously.
And there it was: that glint. A little twinkle in her eyes, a beacon of hope just metres away from her reach— whatever was in that bag, whether it be a Pokémon that only someone as desperate as she could imagine was capable to defeat him, or a food that only she could possibly believe would boost her back to her 100%.
Whatever was in that bag gave Kris-freakin’-Clarity a new-found hope, and Proton knew exactly what he planned on doing with it.
His lips twitched as he barred his teeth in a crooked grin, agile and smooth steps drawing him closer to his prey and its one source of false salvation. A bellowing, echoing chuckle was drawn from his lungs, only growing louder the closer he got. Proton couldn’t wrap his head around it; she was a Champion, the one who defeated him and embarrassed him to the degree of shame. It was a lone scar that glowed among subtle and damaging ones, leaving him unclean.
His chuckle turned into a hysterical laugh, green eyes widening and creases deepening into his skin; she was his, she would be put to shame even worse than he had, and she could do absolutely nothing about it.
He stepped right between her and her reprieve.
"Y’okay there? I thought we decided on you runnin’ off? Yer goin’ the wrong way Kris. Here, lemme help you." The toe of his boot dug into her collarbone, twisting as his laugh twiddled down to a soft murmur among her reactions. Suddenly, he pressed down with little care for grace, hearing cracking from the pressure. Jerking his foot beneath the folds of cloth, he twisted his foot even deeper against the sensitive skin, imagining the bruising that would form against her skin. The image of her naked frame, darkened purple from his attacks, bent and twisted from the damaged bones; it was something he could only have imagined.
So with one swift movement, he lifted her by her white jacket and swiftly lurched her forward, away from the convenient little pathway to freedom. The impact— repetitive, her body rolling until she halted to a stop— was enough to cause him to flinch, imagining the pain the coursed through each fragile bone in her body.
"Ya poor thing." He wavered, debating between the bag and the girl. Lips still upturned, his sentences ended with a heightened pitch by the end; he was undoubtedly satisfied with the circumstances. ”Ya hurt? Anythin’ I can do to help ya? Man, life’s rough sometimes. It must really hurt.”
He picked up the bag, curious of what could possibly erupt such a violent sense of hope inside someone so downtrodden. Shaking it, he peered inside with interest, a faint twinkle sounding with an echo he had never quite heard before. It reverberated in succession to the movement, his body freezing in place in hopes of the reverberations to mimic him.
His eyes caught sight of the musical object; a bell, simplistic in nature but beautiful before his eyes. He had heard of many bells, all either mundane or stricken with one honourable task that could potentially change the way the world functioned.
A keen eye, a keen memory. Skills he often took for granted, skills he often would never attribute to himself; he wasn’t powerful like Giovanni, nor was he strategic like Archer— he was Proton: prosaic, inadequate. And yet, his keen eye was able to catch the glittering bronze, its sash covered by the light that hit his eyes.
What was it that the Clear Bell had done?
Chucking the bag away from him— a far enough distance to ensure some sort of safety— Proton gave one last frightened glance to the damaged girl only feet away from his reach. Without issue, he could grab her and run a safe distance away from the beast that would lead to his impending doom; rather, this was preferable to leaving the girl all alone with the aid of a creature such as Suicune on his tail.
So without any hesitation, he reached out towards his new-found hostage and grabbed her by the collar, throwing her over his shoulder and running faster than you can say "This boy is about to get his ass whooped."
