Irrevocable.

archer doesn't like the idea of team rocket grunts taking advantage of the team rocket name to go out and do whatever they like, including rape tbh

like imo i think that when giovanni started out as head of it, he didn't really care about it and didn't make it a specific rule or anything. he was new and therefore didn't think that he could or should keep a close eye on his grunts

however, archer's totally different. imo i think he thinks that rape is not only disgusting but also that team rocket is a name above something so fuckin barbaric. i think if archer hears about it he's instantly digging around to find if the allegation is true. if it is? archer chops off hands or fingers or tongues or pulls teeth out and it's always with the same kinda warning like

next time i hear ur doing shit u shouldnt it'll be your genitals

[ The Grunt makes no noise but he can see her fear in the way she presses her fingers down onto the metal table, spreads them as wide as they'll go like it'll up her chances. The way she takes a too sharp intake of breath and goes rigid when Archer pulls his hand out of his pocket. The glint of the butterfly knife when he unlocks it. Twists, turn, twists until it's in full view. Shining malicious and frightening in the dim fluorescent lighting of the interrogation room.

But rather than sooth her fear, Archer seeks to make it worse. It's why he leans down to place himself deliberately in her line of sight, expression passive but eyes so focused on her that it's clear she's in trouble. ]

Try to relax. [ Archer says, taking his attention off of her hand for a moment to push a small glass of whiskey in her direction. ] Have a drink-- I insist.

[ She refuses which is expected and, really, no skin off Archer's back. It was his anyway and when he taes it back he swirls it around in the glass. Watching the light catch it, set it on fire in amber, gold.

He downs it, hisses for the burn in his throat, the warmth in his belly. Her loss, he thinks, it was aged perfectly. He takes a deep breath in and straightens up, brandishing the knife at her as if it's his finger instead. ]

If you have anything to confess, now would be the time.

[ She doesn't move, just drops her head down and lets out the shakiest breath he's ever heard anyone make. It slinks through the spaces between her teeth and he doesn't have to look at her to know she's crying.

No problem. No problem at all because he's already moving his hand. Blade tap, tap, tapping along the spaces between her fingers. A rhythm that Archer keeps to, hums along with. ]

You have all your fingers-- [ tap, tap, tap, tap. ] The knife goes chop, chop, chop-- [ She twitches, free hand clamped over her mouth and eyes wide enough that Archer notices even without looking. ] If I miss the spaces inbetween your fingers will come off-- and if I hit your fingers, blood will soon come out. [ She flinches and he picks up speed.

She moves her hand but Archer's clamps down on her wrist, brutal and unforgiving when the knife becomes a blur. A never ending slam against the table in a rhythm she wants no part. ] But all the same, I play this game-- [ It slips-- it slips or he purposely moves so that when he stabs down. All his weight thrust against it, it sinks mean into her thumb.

It's not his best aim, he'll admit. It's lodged right through the nail, pinning her thumb down onto the table. The scream she gives is blood curdling but Archer pays it no mind. Instead he straightens up, has the nerve to look a little surprised. ]

Oh my-- You lost. [ Archer says, and he pushes his hand down on hers. Yanks the blade out a little too roughly so that she writhes, clutches her bleeding hand to her chest.

I didn't do anything, she says. She insists on it. Repeats it even as she leans back in her seat when Archer moves forward. Looms over her like a shadow. Menacing, unforgiving. ]

I don't like liars. [ Archer says. And his voice is purposely calm, purposely calm so that she goes quiet, knows she's been caught in whatever trap Archer has set up for her.

It's the last thing she hears. Because as she starts to apologize, as she starts to rattle off names, what she's said and to whom, Archer lashes out a little too fast. A little too accurate, dragging his knife across the left side of her neck. The blood spurts forward, splatters hot and messy on the cuff of his shirt.

She gives one gasp of air and before she can make two, she slumps sideways, topples out of her chair and hits the ground with a thud. He doesn't bother to make sure she's dead because he knows she is. The jugular veins are thick after all. Too much blood pumping through them to survive and given how deep he cut--

Well, there was no saving her.

There's so much of it that he can smell it, taste the metallic tang of it on his tongue. And he's still while he listens to the blood drip from where it's landed (thick, hot, messy, wet) on the table. No rhythm, just sporadic patpatpat like rain water.

He straightens the lapel of his soiled uniform and sighs. ]