what a waste

Whatever, a young Proton would tell himself, her pussy’s probably a fucking desert, anyway. 

Now, Proton was older, wiser. His thoughts skipped all that objectification and went right to What the fuck does the bitch want?

Ariana and her partner Literally The Worst Thing On Earth™ Archer served as the brains of the Rockets after Giovanni jumped ship, and god was it obvious why Ariana was certainly perfect for the job: a single glance into those crimson hell-pits of hers told you that the only weapon she needed were her wits—not to say that she didn’t carry the more tangible sort of weapon.

Though Proton would never admit it, his first few glances at those eyes as a grunt shook him up. Lots of people could intimidate with a look for various reasons: Proton himself gave off an aura of cruelty, others radiate lechery, mystique, apathy, even a bit of omniscience—very rare did intellect cut like knives, but for her, it did, and that scared wee babby Proton. 

Of course, once he was regularly exposed to her after taking the reigns as an executive, that initial unease wore off.

For the most part. 

Now, he drew himself up to full height—taking advantage of the full eight inches—and looked down to meet her eyes, and for the tiniest split second his resolve faltered. 

But he pushed on. 

"Yer not really one for compassion, Ariana," he mused. "Unless ya changed yer mind about suckin’ my cock, I’m guessin’ you want someone dead." He flashed a grin. "Trouble’s the only thing I’m good for, yeah?"

He hated exchanging favors for favors. Favors didn’t do him shit, especially when he didn’t need them in the first place. But he figured two things: one, that she was just as niggardly as Archer and she must’ve had to pay off the cops with a couple of pretty pennies; and two, that deep, deep within him was still a tiny grain of that grunt-ly fear and that he didn’t want to deal with her right now, he’d had a shitty enough night as it was. 

"Yer not really one for compassion, Ariana."

True, she wasn't, and if she hadn't thought to make use of him Ariana wouldn't have interfered at all. Proton getting arrested and the thought of whatever wildly violent scheme he'd concoct to get himself out of that situation would've been good for a few laughs even long after the incident occurred—good for those times when she felt like shit and not even stealing herself something nice could lift her spirits.

"Unless ya changed yer mind about suckin’ my cock, I’m guessin’ you want someone dead. Trouble’s the only thing I’m good for, yeah?"

Ariana huffed a laugh at his irreverence, rolling her eyes skyward. There was no shock value to his vulgarities; it was just Proton. Sex and violence—he really hadn't changed a bit. It made Ariana wonder, not for the first time, what the other executives had gotten up to in their time apart. She'd never called any of them 'friends,' so her interest in their whereabouts and wellbeing wasn't too vested—but then again, she didn't think of anyone as a friend anymore. If Ariana ever wondered about the safety of her former coworkers it was only because she had no one else to spare such thoughts on.

Which brought her back around to a very pressing question: how had temperamental, uncontrollable Proton managed to say out of jail for so long? "Don't sell yourself short," she said, "you're passable at getting yourself out of it, too," which was, of course, the answer to her question. She let that statement sit for a moment before clicking her tongue as though a contradictory thought had just occurred to her. "Tonight being the exception, of course," she amended, lips turning up into a snide smile.

Maybe it would be wiser to not insult the man she was about to ask for help from, but Proton could have left the moment he'd laid eyes on her and he hadn't. Ariana wasn't fooling herself into thinking she'd rescued him from anything he couldn't get himself out of; she just couldn't help but tease him for it.

If, hypothetically, there existed a fairly recognizable ex-syndicate-executive-now-turned-hitman—hypothetically—one would think that said ex-executive might have a lofty price tacked onto his head. So, one might hypothetically assume that this hypothetical person would be careful in their public appearances and might refrain from drawing too much hypothetical attention to themself. One might assume that they would avoid getting into petty drunken hypothetical barfights.

Alas, here was Proton, at some shady dive bar at 3 in the morning, being held back by strangers as he screamed at some other stranger whose face he didn’t like. Of course, he didn’t appreciate being held back, so every third insult was directed at his restraints. 

Then, he remembered that he was god-fuckin-ass-damned Proton of Team-fuckin-shit-fuck-Rocket and he wasn’t a fuckin’ pussy and he always had anywhere between one and seventeen knives on him at any given moment.

Tonight, the magic number was five.

And he was gonna get this foot-faced fucker, he’d fix that right up for him.

Proton slammed one of his restrainers into the nearby wall, freeing one arm, then punched the other in the gut. Before foot-face had a chance to react, Proton whipped out a switchblade and carved out a gash across the poor man’s face. As the man yelled, others from the bar pushed Proton back, towards the bar. The corner of the countertop slammed between his shoulder blades and knocked the wind out of him.

He felt hands holding his body down and instinct told him to fight, so he did. He pulled out knife number two and jabbed it into the nearest limb. The victim gave out a yell as the blade pierced his calf, and he retaliated by giving the green-haired fuck a swift kick to the head.

When Proton came to, he felt the familiar tug of bindings at his wrists and a throbbing in his head. The fuzziness in his head from the impact left him wondering if he hadn’t ended up somewhere pleasant after all, but then he realized that the binds were handcuffs and the throbbing was in his skull.

Also that he was sitting in the back of a cop car. That woke him up.

Lifting his head off of the back of the seat made him wince. He instinctively tried to press two fingers to the source of the throbbing but then he remembered—handcuffs. So he wiggled his wrists to see how much room he had to work with.

Fuckers tied me up real tight, didn’t they? Whatever. This would be what, the fourth time he broke his thumbs? He told himself he mostly wasn’t looking forward to all the chafing. His wrists would be raw for weeks.

He spent about five minutes steeling himself—even for a guy who took pleasure from being cut, breaking bones wasn’t easy—before he took a deep breath and—

The door opened.

Proton must’ve looked like a deer in headlights, only bruised, drunk off his ass, and much more disheveled.

"You’re free to go," the officer grunted, being none too gentle when pulling the ex-Rocket out of the car and opening his cuffs. 

"The fuck?" Proton replied, rubbing his wrists. After a moment he turned and saw someone—

        a familiar someone—

                   an all-too-familiar someone, a curve of red hair that sparked a loathing that he hadn’t felt in quite some time.

"Don’t fucking tell me," he grumbled.

For a man across the bar from her, that was currently 'scream and swear at strangers.' Such vulgarities, Ariana couldn't help but roll her eyes. It wasn't as though she was a model citizen when drunk, but at least she didn't make such a horrendous spectacle of herself. Doing her best to try and block out the yelling going on, Ariana wondered if it wouldn't be better to just go home and lie awake in bed rather than spend another hour glaring at anyone who tried to approach her.

The screams of anger then turned into those of pain and fear, and Ariana's attention returned to the group once more. The silver flash of a blade and a shock of green hair caught her interest even more, and as he was shoved against the bar counter Ariana recognized Proton of all people as the one responsible for the commotion. What were the odds of that? Well... the odds of Proton being the source of a disturbance were not low, but being in the same bar as him felt significantly less likely.

A moment later Proton was slumped unconscious on the ground, a sight that could have been funny were it not for the amount of damage that he had done to the people who'd pissed him off. Likely the police would arrive shortly, and Proton would be arrested. Poor idiot, she thought. Had they still been part of Team Rocket, Ariana would have had to make sure that didn't happen, but since they'd all gone their separate ways she was under no such obligation.

Sure enough, an ambulance and two policemen showed up on the scene, helping the people Proton had hurt and slapping a pair of handcuffs on Proton's wrists before dragging him outside. Ariana watched it all happen somewhat vacantly. Proton would be fine; he could more than take care of himself, and if she was being honest she had no desire to speak with him. Proton was one of the more volatile people she'd met, and a drunken Proton was even more of a wildcard. No, right now she was still focused on the job she had to do, and how daunting the task had become after staying up all night worrying about it.

Ariana was no master thief, not by any means, but she did know how to get a job done. Sometimes it was just more difficult than anticipated, and required more thought than others. And sometimes Ariana found herself unable to stop thinking about it and ended up sitting in shitty bars drinking shitty cocktails at three in the morning. It was embarrassing enough that she was doing it, let alone actually taking time to think about how pathetic this outing was.

Her entire hangup was centered around the security at her mark's place. She didn't want to break in all on her own. With a team it would be an entirely different story, but Ariana didn't have that luxury anymore. Ariana never missed Team Rocket more than when she had to work a hard job entirely by herself.

But... she had just seen Proton for the first time in years, and in a tight spot no less. Maybe if she could help him out, getting his assistance might be a possibility. After all, killing was nearly second nature to the man at this point; who better to dispose of her target than the cruelest executive in Team Rocket? The cops around town were the good kind; easily paid off and willing to look the other way, for a price. Proton hadn't even killed anyone; the cost of bribing a crooked cop to let him go would be much less than legitimately hiring him to do her dirty work.

It was the best idea she'd come up with all night, and with that settled Ariana stood and slung her purse over her shoulder before exiting the bar. From what she could see, Proton had already been loaded into the officers' car and one of the police duo was headed back inside, most likely to speak with the witnesses. The other cop, however, was staying put, and Ariana approached him in the way that she found worked best on policemen—respect and seriousness while showing just a touch of intimidation.

Negotiations lasted longer than Ariana would have liked, which was to say that there were negotiations when she all she wanted was to hand him the cash and be done with it. She'd even had to pull out Arbok's Poké Ball and wave it around, hinting at the harm she could do him with the poisonous cobra Pokémon. They managed to come to an accord eventually, and Ariana paid up. The cop yanked Proton out onto the street and unlocked his handcuffs before heading inside to find his partner. 

Proton's expression when he finally noticed and recognized her was worth every penny she'd paid to secure his release. Ariana couldn't help but grin: at the situation and at bruised, bedraggled Proton, glaring with all his might.

Petrel was intoxicated- and to be fair that wasn’t  uncommon. Yet today  was a very special day in the mauve haired male’s life, his birthday- or at least the one he had chosen for himself upon applying for Team Rocket- which coincidentally was the very date he sent in the application twelve years ago. He had landed in a small city, one bereft of any club that could sate his thirst on this dreary night. The place rarely saw outsiders let alone such a heavy drinker and the bartender had cautiously cut the man off only half an hour ago while the night was still relatively young.

So with both his birthday and anniversary in mind he set out, determined to find something to fill the void that was slowly overtaking the alcohol.

"I can’t stop this feelin’ Deep inside a’ me Girl, you just don’t re-ah-lize What you done ta me”

He was no great singer but in his drunken bravado he was at least entertaining. His voice rang out in the largely unoccupied streets- he had no idea of just how late it was or that a pretty serious storm was just begining to roll in.- Petrel swung himself around a lamp post, continuing on his jaunty little single party parade.

“When ya hold me In yah arms so tight You let me kno-oww Everythins-allllll rightt”

He was undeniably lost and masking a bit of woe with the veritable ocean of liquor he had consumed. The man had the appearance of a veteran trainer with his belt of Pokeballs, black trench coat and formfitting pants, cranberry turtleneck, and a pair of well worn combat boots that had seen many years of travel. Making him stand out- besides his wailing- was his crop of purple hair that had long been flattened by the rain.

Many assumptions could be made about him, he could be a washed up trainer lamenting his glory days, he could be a scorned lover, he could be a predator using the guise of drunkenness to lure people in, but tonight Petrel played no such role. Tonight Petrel just aimed to forget. He picked up the pace, boots sloshing against the ground as he takes on another lamp post swinging his lanky body around it but faltering upon release, spilling to the ground. He laughed a booming, inviting laugh now completely soaked.

His voice rings out again unflinchingly, with no shame.

"I-yieyieeaaaa- I’m hooked on a feelin’! I’m high on believin’ That you’re in loooove with meee—”

Petrel stands woozily dragging his feat along the pavement, with no particular destination in mind. He’d seem an easy target for theft or worse and depending on the type of individual he might come across that could be a very good or bad thing. A more noble person might take him in though if they were anything like himself they’d take advantage.

Walking through the rain-soaked streets, umbrella protecting her from the drizzle, Ariana couldn't help but feel furious about the night's events. She'd arrived at the pickup location, expecting a briefcase at the very least, only to be handed nothing more than a plastic bag full of cocaine. It was insulting, infuriating beyond belief, and nothing Ariana could do anything about. She would have liked to think that whole job was a setup designed to test her trustworthiness, or reliability, or something along those lines before giving her a real job to do, but Ariana knew better. The man who'd hired her did it just because he could, because he was influential here and was basically Ariana's only option. It made her want to hurt someone, but instead she'd taken the bag and done the job like a good delivery girl. At least the client had given her a good tip.

Now, though, it was late, Ariana was tired, and she was still in a bad mood. All she wanted to do was get back to the hole-in-the-wall apartment she was renting and get some sleep. The next day's agenda involved a meeting with her current employer, and wouldn't that be a pleasant experience? She could hardly wait for the inevitable snide comments the man would make about the job. Even the thought of being paid did nothing for her; she would make next to nothing for such a pitiful delivery.

Ariana was only a couple blocks away from her place when she heard someone singing, loudly and poorly. It didn't take long to figure out what was going on: some drunk idiot was making a fool of himself in the street. His antics were embarrassing, she thought, watching him fall into puddle on the side of the road and laugh at his own misfortune. She could probably nab his wallet fairly easily, but with how drunk he was she doubted he would have much cash on him.

As she drew closer the man stood up, his hair becoming illuminated by the streetlight. Ariana blinked at the familiar color. It was soaked from the rain, but it still looked like—Petrel? The man was walking straight towards her now, and the sight had Ariana nearly stopping in her tracks. It had been a long time since she'd seen that face, but she knew it. The person didn't just resemble Petrel, it was him.

And oh, wasn't this funny. For all his pretenses, Ariana knew her former coworker was no idiot—you couldn't be, not if you wanted to do as well as he had in Team Rocket. So what was the master of disguise doing drunk as a Skuntank out on the street on such a miserable night? Unless this was one of his many acts... But somehow Ariana thought not.

"Don’t you just feel like dancin!" he shouted into the night.