VILE && VITRIOL

At first, she does not react. The spit dripping down one of her cheeks is slowly wiped away, fingers cleaned on his shirt. Only an eyebrow quirked in response to his disgusting act, watching him let out his fury and frustrations. Listening to him promise her a broken nose, yell and scream his head off as he thrashed.

For his trouble, Francis does rear back a hand and offer him a backhand slap, her other hand coming for his throat to squeeze a moment later. Cold indifferent hatred in her eyes as she roughhouses her specimen, staring him down like a butterfree to be pinned on display. A harsh grip on his throat finally released, instead getting up and backing off.

“I’d much rather cheat the system and get your file directly from the source. Much easier that way.”

He sure was a lively one, this Guzmania. From what she’d heard, destruction in human form. Which would suit her needs just fine, if at all. She wasn’t really picking on him for any personal reason, of course, all in the name of science and furthering her own knowledge.

Instead, leaving him to stew in his own feral anger, Francis wanders back over to one of the many tables. Almost remorseful she’d ungagged him already. This had to go perfectly if she wanted viable results, and even having him here was a dangerous game. She’d never handled fallers, but annoying and unplanned things always tended to happen around new variables…

“But– you do remember your Aether incident, do you not? I’m sure it’s hard to forget your first encounter with an Ultra Beast, mm? Do you know much about them or was it simply the wrong place at the wrong time?

Why, if this isn’t the consequences for his actions! His favorite!

Guzma can’t do much, if not gritting his teeth and press his back agains the chair, groaning more out of annoyance than pain as he keeps eye contact like a feral beast, waiting for her to release him. Come on, now. If she wanted him dead, she would’ve done it already.  He could take a blood transfusion or a slap or two with no problem, he just needed enough time for her to get distracted and tear her apart.

And then…  … …and then that’s a problem for future Guzma. He can find a way back home. Somehow. Present Guzma is much more focused on still trying to break free and ignore her babbling about Ultra Beasts. From experience, anyone so fixated on them meant nothing good for him.

“Oh, so sorry, I don’t give out interviews!”

Oh he’s lively alright.

She's almost giddy, staring him in the face. He either knows everything, or nothing. She doesn't truly put it past those involved to keep such a specimen in the dark about his latent abilities, recognizing that if he knew better, knew how valueable he was, he wouldn't have gone out alone. There were programs, she'd heard, protecting fallers, but it was more likely that Interpol would use them for the same reason she was.

Bait.

"No trouble if you don't remember, though. Fallers tend to be characterized by their latent memory loss, of course. Fallers -- being anyone that's been inside of an Ultra Wormhole, that is. Which is you! And your lady friend at Aether, if I'm not mistaken, several others. Not a lot of clarity on the report I read."

Clipboard once again in her hand as she scurried around him, scribbling down notes, Francis ever so gently pulled back the collar on his shirt. A mark there had caught her eye, grabbed for her attention, and after giving it a peek, she let it go.

it would be another five minutes before Francis wandered back into the main laboratory from the side office, carrying with her a clipboard and a pen. Upon seeing her specimen awake, however, she couldn’t help a noise of curiosity as she drew closer, pulled a pen light from her lab coat pocket.

Only to grab him roughly by the hair, tilting his head back to shine the light into one eye, then the next. Watching and measuring his pupil response.

“Well I see you’re no worse for wear! Mmm… Maybe a small concussion but that’s to be expected. I suppose it could be worse. I could’ve killed you. Easily.”

A laugh at that, ruffling his hair before pulling the gag free so he could better breathe. Not that he could be going far, anyway.

“Guzmania Mitchell, is that correct? You’re a hard man to track down. Especially given your… history with Aether. I’ve read the reports, and I’m surprised you survived that – though because you have, it gives more credibility to you surviving a tire iron to the back of the head.”

Muttering as she trailed off, Francis scooted behind him. Turning over one of his wrists still restrained, easily slotting a syringe in his forearm. Silent moments ticking by, not caring if he squirmed or yelled, before it was removed and bandaged. If he wanted to hurt himself fighting back, he certainly could. She was going to run her experiments one way or another.

Once she came back around, the vial attached was visibly full of his blood.

“Do you have a habit of making friends with shady people? I admit, your whole… gang is shady people, but they’re not who I’m speaking of, now are they?”

Getting closer, hands on the arm wrests of the chair. Close enough to look into his eyes.

“Do you remember anything of what happened at the Aether foundation? That night with the wormholes? I’m sure you do, I’ve seen your extensive scars. That must have been quite a ride.”

He stopped rocking his chair only when the door opened… and noticed that his kidnapper was. … …is. Is that, like. A teenager? Seventh grader??? Fuck, man. This is embarassing. He could understand if some big burly Rocket simp decided to mess with him, but this woman for Durants??  Oof, he’ll cringe about it for days.

Maybe it’s the surprise that makes him hesitate from reacting properly – that, and the rough hairpulling, that made him let out yet another muffled yelp that turns into coughs as he’s finally allowed to breathe properly, again giving her enough time to babble.

…and to notice that, yeah. She read some reports alright.  From his full name, to Aether, to whatever she could mean with that comment about surviving something, this lady proved that she knew a little too much for comfort.  A cop? …nah, they’re Tepigs but last time he checked they don’t kidnap people, at least in Alola. He didn’t recognize the clothes, so likely not a Rocket either, nor someone from the Interpol.

 Someone he doesn’t know, who acts like she’s a big deal.

“Who the f-” he started, looking at her as much as he could as she walked behind him and did– whatever. Stole blood, apparently?

A fucking shortie with too much brain who steals blood. That’s cool. That’s fine. This is so fucking fancy.

Again, it took him some time to calm down. Understand in what kind of situation he’s in, get properly angry enough to react to her oh-so-sweet voice… and as she leans closer, Guzma did what he does best. Likely people he shouldn’t mess with as angry as he is, in this case by spitting on her.

For his trouble, Francis does rear back a hand and offer him a backhand slap, her other hand coming for his throat to squeeze a moment later. Cold indifferent hatred in her eyes as she roughhouses her specimen, staring him down like a butterfree to be pinned on display. A harsh grip on his throat finally released, instead getting up and backing off.

“I’d much rather cheat the system and get your file directly from the source. Much easier that way.”

He sure was a lively one, this Guzmania. From what she’d heard, destruction in human form. Which would suit her needs just fine, if at all. She wasn’t really picking on him for any personal reason, of course, all in the name of science and furthering her own knowledge.

Instead, leaving him to stew in his own feral anger, Francis wanders back over to one of the many tables. Almost remorseful she’d ungagged him already. This had to go perfectly if she wanted viable results, and even having him here was a dangerous game. She’d never handled fallers, but annoying and unplanned things always tended to happen around new variables...

To the guy’s credit, he was hard to track down. After having stalked him for nearly a week, watching where he went, who he talked to, how his daily routine went, Francis was delightfully surprised when he decided to mix it up. Leaving Po Town behind, insisting he went alone. Denying all worried grunts, simply sitting. Existing. With his back to the world, attention focused on the ocean in front of him.

It’s almost as if he knew what was coming next.

Having swung so hard, she half expected him to have died right then and there. But he was breathing, out cold facedown on the sand. Cigarette dropped to the wayside, smoldering slightly. Forgotten by both parties as she approached, measured the pulse at his neck. Strong. Unresponsive physically, but the pulse was still there. And as she rolled him over, brushing sand from his nose, the steady rise and fall of his chest corroborated the fact.

Either he was resilient as hell, or she had weak arms.

Not that she cared if it was her strength that had kept him alive. Though it did come into focus how little physical work she did as she dragged him, with struggle, back to her sedan. Handcuffing his hands behind him, his ankles together as well. Shoving a rag in his mouth just in case, tying it behind his head. Speeding off to their destination, thoughts already running a mile a minute.

She really should have brought Pilot Two for this, obedient as he was with the perfected control collar. Damn. Better think ahead next time, maybe a dart gun would do better too.

“You better not be a waste of my time…”

How embarassing, really.

Being taken down in one hit, being dragged away by someone, like, half his size… that wasn’t cool. That wasn’t cool at all. With his grunts being told he was out for a stroll they might’ve gone to look for him in a few hours, but by then Guzma would’ve been already gone, far, far away…

                    …or, at least, we’re going to assume so.

The travel towards his new destination is spent in dreamland. Completely blacked out, Guzma barely moved during all that time, unreactive even when he was taken off of the van and dragged around, likely bumping into a few corners here and there. Or, at least, considering the terrible headache he finally woke up with, accompanied with a tired, long groan, that’s what he immediately thought, even before he opened his eyes – even before he realized in what kind of situation he was brought into.

“…ghnh.”

To be fair, he would’ve made that sound with or without a rag in his mouth.  He takes his sweet time to wake up, blink, look around. Connect the dots.

…

…and then finally open his eyes wide open, letting out another choked groan as he looks at himself - at the chair he was plopped on, at the room he couldn’t recognize. Is– is this a joke? Did someone pull a prank on him? Oh, haha, real funny!

Only to grab him roughly by the hair, tilting his head back to shine the light into one eye, then the next. Watching and measuring his pupil response.

“Well I see you’re no worse for wear! Mmm... Maybe a small concussion but that’s to be expected. I suppose it could be worse. I could’ve killed you. Easily.”

A laugh at that, ruffling his hair before pulling the gag free so he could better breathe. Not that he could be going far, anyway.

“Guzmania Mitchell, is that correct? You’re a hard man to track down. Especially given your... history with Aether. I’ve read the reports, and I’m surprised you survived that -- though because you have, it gives more credibility to you surviving a tire iron to the back of the head.”

Muttering as she trailed off, Francis scooted behind him. Turning over one of his wrists still restrained, easily slotting a syringe in his forearm. Silent moments ticking by, not caring if he squirmed or yelled, before it was removed and bandaged. If he wanted to hurt himself fighting back, he certainly could. She was going to run her experiments one way or another.

Once she came back around, the vial attached was visibly full of his blood.

“Do you have a habit of making friends with shady people? I admit, your whole... gang is shady people, but they’re not who I’m speaking of, now are they?”

Getting closer, hands on the arm wrests of the chair. Close enough to look into his eyes.

🔧 10- a tire iron bc thats what she could get her hands on. into the trunk with you :)

What a wonderful day. He managed to chill out a bit. To relax. To go clowning a little in town and take some time for himself. Sitting on the beach with a cigarette in his hands, Guzma took a deep breath, appreciating the salty air and the cool temperature of that starry night.

It’s rare for him to be so chill, and for once he could finally appreciate a barely deserved “me” day. Surely, nobody could go wro–

*BONK*

——LOL JK something fucked up is always going on here, and today is no different… but our boy won’t realize for a while. As chill as he was, he didn’t even notice someone approaching, let alone said someone swinging a tire iron at him, hitting him with worrisome precision right on the back of his skull. A perfect hit, one that makes him black out after a second of confusion, leaving him slumped on the sand before being dragged away.

It’s almost as if he knew what was coming next.

Having swung so hard, she half expected him to have died right then and there. But he was breathing, out cold facedown on the sand. Cigarette dropped to the wayside, smoldering slightly. Forgotten by both parties as she approached, measured the pulse at his neck. Strong. Unresponsive physically, but the pulse was still there. And as she rolled him over, brushing sand from his nose, the steady rise and fall of his chest corroborated the fact.

Either he was resilient as hell, or she had weak arms.

Not that she cared if it was her strength that had kept him alive. Though it did come into focus how little physical work she did as she dragged him, with struggle, back to her sedan. Handcuffing his hands behind him, his ankles together as well. Shoving a rag in his mouth just in case, tying it behind his head. Speeding off to their destination, thoughts already running a mile a minute.

She really should have brought Pilot Two for this, obedient as he was with the perfected control collar. Damn. Better think ahead next time, maybe a dart gun would do better too.

The War General moved more into the light, though he still kept his distance from her. He could practically sense her hair standing on end, hackles raised like a prey pokemon might at the whiff of a predator. He would simply let his aura intimidate, letting that distance between them be enough to give her the illusion of escape. All part of the game, it would seem.

His hands rested into the pockets of his coat, hanging leisurely as he focused on her. When he spoke, however, his tone seemed far less playful.

“No. We are going to speak now and you are going to listen.”

It wasn’t a request. It was the sort of command one who always wore power would utter. Eventually, though, the smile was split on his lips to show very sharp teeth, but his tone was dupliciously kind.

God, she wished he’d stayed buried under that building.

“. . . Very well.”

Though what kind of deal he’d be making she knew she’d have to accept. Most likely, the only other option was death, and she was not ready for that. Not in the slightest. So much left to do, so much left to see, and for him to waltz in like he owned the place and demand something of her, to demand a deal -- oh it made her blood boil.

But she knew his game, has played it for quite a while. Maybe something beneficial could come from this?