wisteria wishes

Corbeau of the Rust Syndicate didn’t react to your nervous smile or the internal scream that’s powerful enough to take out the building and everyone in it. He only gestured to the sofas at the corner, his glasses dangerously glinting in a way that made you want to bust through the walls.

“It’s rude of me to sit while making a guest stand,” he said. “Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?”

“Oh! Um, thank you.” You hoped there would be some refreshments. Like a cookie. Or two. You were getting kind of hungry.

“Philippe, if you will.”

The larger man who had been standing at his side moved to yours. “This way, Miss.”

Corbeau stood, and in that moment, you took in how tall—or more like, how short—he was, and your dumb clown brain simply couldn't hold back from imagining him standing in front of the mirror thinking, ‘Ah yes, my height is sure to intimidate the masses. Fear me and my custom-made dripped-out glasses! Heehee!’

Oh no. 

You sharply inhaled. 

Oh NO.

His eyes narrowed. “Is there something funny?”

Fuck fuck fuck! 

You exhaled slowly, willing every muscle in your face to be neutral.

“No sir,” you said.

But you could feel your eyes twitching and bulging from the sheer effort, so you turned away from his sight and stiffly followed Philippe over to the sofas, feeling the boss’ eyes tracking your every move as his steps quietly shadowed yours.

You tentatively sank into the cushions, a bit surprised when you sank in more than you expected; these were more comfortable than they looked. Philippe set down a tray of water from who-knows-where, and you watched in slight disappointment as he poured a fancy pitcher into a fancy glass. No little snackies at all. Still, Mama’s words snapped at you to not touch the glass of water. Best that you’re not responsible for breaking another thing of theirs. 

Corbeau, however, didn’t drop the earlier matter as you had hoped. He sat across from you with crossed legs, his shoe barely flat to the floor, and damn it you’re going to lose it if you didn’t get your shit together.

“Are you sure? You seemed to be teary-eyed. Please, I insist you enlighten me with the joke that’s amusing enough to dismiss the severity of the situation that your Pokemon caused.”

And just like that, whatever mirth you had faded and embarrassment flooded your veins. Sometimes, finding humor in stressful situations backfired on you spectacularly. “Sorry.”

Corbeau smiled, like he was gloating on shutting you down. “I see you’re catching on. It’s hardly a laughing matter when the Rust Syndicate suffers property damage. And let me tell you”—his eyes bored into yours, and you never wanted to break eye contact so bad—“those bamboo stalks were imported from Johto. Kitakami, to be exact. Have you heard of Kitakami?”

You wisely kept your mouth shut. Do not say anything. Let him talk. Stare at the pointy thing on the bridge of his silly glasses.

“I’ve once visited in search of floral arrangements. Surely you know by now that I’m very particular with how I decorate my interiors and exteriors.” He waved a hand towards the beautiful, carefully arranged rock garden that had been the first thing you looked at when you entered the office. “It’s natural that I pick only the best of the best. You understand, right?”

Not really, was what you’d normally say, but you’re afraid of waking up disoriented in the sewers.

“During one of my searches, I came across these unique Pokemon called Polchageist and Sinistcha. They’re similar to Sinistea and Polteageist, which are commonly found in Galar, but are a separate species, and more like antiques that’d fetch a valuable price. I was tempted to catch one, but the grove they lived in was far more interesting.” 

Here, Corbeau slightly leaned in, strengthening his gaze with yours and forcing you to break eye contact from nerves. His stupid, stupid intimidation tactics were working! But luckily for you, you had a counterattack.

You took a quick, casual peek at his one foot touching the floor, and all was nearly well again.

“Do you know where those Pokemon lived?”

You looked up again. Was this a rhetorical question? Damn! You couldn’t really tell, but decided to go for it.

“At the bamboo grove…?” you said hesitantly, although you knew it was the right answer. 

“At the bamboo grove.” Corbeau leaned back. “I couldn’t possibly leave Kitakami empty-handed, not when I knew those bamboo trees perfectly matched my vision of the Rust Syndicate. So I went to Kitakami Hall to find the business that sold them and purchased several young bamboo stalks. The folks there were refusing the initial amount I was offering, saying it was too much, but I told them it was a tip. I like to make sure that everyone knows I’m a good tipper. It’s important to support local businesses, after all.”

You didn’t really need to know that, but what the hell, sure. 

“And I come back to Lumiose, satisfied and content. My grunts worked to plant them as instructed, and together we’re able to look at the Rust Syndicate with pride for years. So imagine my surprise when I see that they’re gone from my roof! All that hard work growing them, cultivating them, now mush in a Pangoro’s stomach!”

At the reminder, you shrank into your seat. Maybe if you tried hard enough, the sofa could swallow your existence whole. Or maybe Pangoro should just burst out of your pokeball and eat Corbeau. Well, with his size, he’d probably be an appetizer.

You glanced at Philippe. Pangoro should eat him too.

“As the trainer,” Corbeau continued, thankfully unaware how hard you were trying not to shake, “you’re fully responsible for the damages.”

The mention of money sobered you up. “And…” You swallowed, lightly thumping your chest. “How much would I be paying?”

This time, Philippe stepped in. “Taking in the fact that they’re imported goods, the time it took to cultivate, the materials used to flourish them, such as fertilizer, soil, water—”

And he just kept on listing.

“—the total would be approximately—”

When the amount left his mouth, you immediately concluded it was a made-up number out of denial, because what the fuck was that? You didn’t have the funds, not when you splurged most of it on cute cafes and all the food Lumiose alone had to offer. You were in the middle of a solo food tour. In fact, you were on the way to get your hands on those Super Lumiose Galettes that some viral Electross was munching on. That golden brown, buttery crust, and how so many flakes just crumbled as that lucky eel somehow bit into it with only four teeth. Not that its teeth seemed like it was made for eating, but the crunch alone was pure ASMR. And the red jam filling that oozed out… You had stopped in your tracks in public and stared at your screen at how it sucked the filling, like you were watching something you weren’t supposed to. 

It made you hungry. And you get hungry often. And you were really hungry now.

“Well?”

And it just so happened that the Rust Syndicate was on the way to Café Gallant. And you were so hungry that the bamboo… the bamboo… 

Your stomach rumbled. Long and loud. Philippe coughed to the side.

“Anything else to say?” Corbeau asked dryly.

“Pangoro and I really enjoyed it, sir,” you blurted. “He thinks they have a fresh, sweet taste. I told him it was earthy, and—”

He held up a hand to silence you, mouth ajar.

“What do you mean by that?” he uttered slowly. “What you've just said implies that you’ve also eaten the bamboo.”

You looked away in guilt. “Um. Actually—”

“You ate my bamboo?! Are you insane?!”

Gone was the cool, collected, and smug ‘I-have-control-over-this-conversation-and-you-don’t’ expression, replaced with a harsher, enraged, and confused ‘how-and-why-did-you-eat-my-Kitakami-bamboo’ one. There was a tense vein on his forehead, ready to burst and beat you to death with veiny arms. Like some rando tourist trespassed on his roof and ate his prized bamboo imported from Kitakami, or something like that.

“My Pangoro,” you began nervously, “he’s a big boy, you see. The chubbiest fellow out there, like Philippe—that is to say!” You nearly yelled in horror at your slip-up just as said man made a microscopic reaction at the comparison. “I say it as a compliment, sir, you’re very beautiful and I don’t know any other man who can grow metal spikes out of his mutton chops and rock the look!”

“Thank you,” Philippe responded neutrally, then added, “these aren’t spikes.”

You couldn’t look at either of them now. Not even Corbeau’s foot cheered you up.

“I’m sorry,” you said weakly to both of them. “I-I don’t have the money, but I’ll make it up to you somehow!”

Corbeau regarded you with a scowl. “As expected!” he snapped. “Though, I already doubted you had the funds to begin with. You can instead start by doing some… jobs, for us. What do you say?”

Something in the back of your mind warned you that this was a slippery slope. Accept, and you would keep slipping and slipping.

Refuse, and you had no doubt that the Rust Syndicate would forever follow wherever you go, whether you’re eating a pastry in peace or drinking a Clampearl tea. At Café Amie? They’ll be there when you’re chatting with someone about the best way to bond with Pokemon, and it turns out to be a grunt explaining the best way to bond with the graves at the cemetery in Wild Zone 4. At Café Woof? They'll be there when you think you’re petting a Furfrou and it turns out to be a grunt with the Rust Trim on all fours, leash attached to a hand of another Rust grunt cosplaying as an old lady.

“Surely,” Corbeau drawled, drawing you out of your thoughts again, “you can imagine what would happen in that dreaming head of yours, if you refuse.”

You blinked, oddly flattered. “Huh? You think I’m dreamy?”

Now there were three veins on his forehead.

---

“Hey, uh…”

“Spit it out.”

“Are you gonna add ‘property consumption’ to the list, or…?”

---

Corbeau coughed, and quickly hid his expression.

“Boss?”