Archer pulled over his coat, sighing with an exasperated sort of relief as he was shielded from the cooler weather. This place was hell. Truly hell in every aspect of the word, or rather, fiction. He closed his eyes and leaned back against a tree, not exactly satisfied with the position, but he supposed it would do. He would have to become used to being dissatisfied. His tongue rolled over his lips, and he absentmindedly thumbed the large, claret R paved simply into his coat. Perhaps, if he pretended as if the wind wasnât still fervently slicing at his cheeks, running claws across his scalp, he could pretend he was back in the Johto region of Japan.
    A ghost of a smile caressed over his thin, chapped lips as he pictured it. He would be sitting in the black leather chair that he favored, the one with no wheels attached, keeping him firmly planted where he was, preventing any case of distraction. The hue of the seat would be stark against his office, completely spacious and nearly empty except for his desk. It was passable for a condominium or a large apartment. Everything was white. The floor was a snowy marble, the walls were bone-like and texture-less, the desk was ivory as well. Even the computer was the bleak color. Truly, it didnât look as if it belonged to Team Rocket, a greatly feared and powerful crime syndicate. The room was bland, suiting the exterior of Apollos Lancasterâs alter ego, Archer. Houndoom would also stand out, curled at Archerâs dress shoes, sticking out like a grave in a bed of flowers. Even in sleep, the creature would look intimidating, smoke trailing from its nostrils, horns long and demon like, serving as a wake-up call of how deadly the monotonous man behind the desk really was.
    Oh, how he wished to see a young Grunt (a lower member of the crime syndicate, likely recruited for a year or less) stumble in, momentarily blinded by the pale room, shuddering at the very sight of the man standing directly under Giovanni, the Boss. That Grunt would fear him, would obey his every command. He was once bothered by their presence, but now it was all he craved. Now that he was here, taking the orders, grovelling to stay alive in this deceptive city, he needed the power he had once possessed. As if he needed a reminder that his fantasy of his flavorless office and job wasnât real, his Houndour yipped at his feet, prompting Archerâs ice tinted eyes to flutter open with difficulty thanks to the wind.
    Archer cocked his head so that he could gaze at the demon turned puppy with a twinge of disgust. He had adored the creature as a Houndoom, adored the fact that it was a ravenous, carnivorous dog that obeyed his every command, accepting that he was property of the human. The creature was near useless to him now, not intimidating in the slightest. The only reason he had bothered to keep the damn mutt around was on the premise that he may be able to evolve it again somehow, return it to the weapon of mass destruction it once was. Beside that, along with the uniforms, it was the only thing that proved to him that Team Rocket still existed somewhere, that the entirety of his past life wasnât just a joke played on him.
âWhat?â Archer spat coldly at the dog, nor surprised or fazed in seeing it glance away, kneeling shamefully, before nodding its head to the left. Taking the note, he looked upward to the direction gestured to, only to see someone quickly approaching him. Archerâs lips pressed into a fine line, bright blue eyes seeming to darken in slate. At this point, heâd be willing to accept Petrelâs month overdue paperwork, also known as the former bane of his existence before this place, with an embrace. âDamn,â he cursed under his breath, folding his arms over his chest.
    There was no point in turning and walking away, as he would only be pursued. He had been alerted too late of the person walking his way. His instincts as a field agent, a Rocket member, an Executive, the interim Boss of the entire organizationâs instincts had dulled. His brow twitched at the prospect of this, and his calculating stare flicked back to the Houndour for a moment. Or rather, heâd like to think, it was the fault of the useless mutt that was hurled at him in place of his much stronger, intimidating Houndoom. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the introduction of the stranger. Archer wasnât a man for this. Heâd shoo them off, albeit carefully.
    God only knew who was watching.
  Which really meant no one knew.
    That is, except for those that had imprisoned him here, playing the game of God.
