Has to fucking let his lips curl into something deadly, nasty and bad like grout stuck between worn tiles and feathers caught between a canine's teeth as he crouches down to the balls of his feet and pops his shoulders. Rolls them around, ( bone crack, crack ), back and forth. ]

[ Proton hitches, his eyes narrowed and his look every definition of mean, every shade of judging as he casts Archer a wary look. A bored one as the door sweeps open and he steps into the room.

Proton knows Archer knows what he’s capable of. Everyone does when it comes down to it. But it doesn’t make sense for Archer to ask him of this unless there was some incentive, some higher meaning behind it. Maybe he just wanted to have power over Proton like he always did.

Maybe, maybe it’s something else.

But whatever it is, whatever it could be twists Proton’s lips into something ugly.

Manipulates him into something mean and bad, so, very fucking bad as he uncoils the whip and lets it smack and clap across the tiled floor.

The grunts shudder in their restraints and it’s something visible. Something that pours delirious pleasure down the ridges of Proton’s spine, his skin. But what he’s really focused on as he turns with an air of confidence, an air of madness is Archer and Archer only as he says;]

[ And Archer makes it clear that he is unhappy with this fact. Unhappy with the fact that they’re more valuable alive than dead because they are, essentially, the back bone of this organization. It has him rolling his shoulders like a tiger readying to strike. Has him pulling his butterfly knife from his pocket just in time for one of them to try to talk their way out of it.

They did it for Team Rocket, they say. It was a mistake, they add. Never again. They can give him the name of the trainer if he wants it. 

Because he already knows who it was. Only the name. But even so, it isn’t something worthy of any true interest from Archer. After all, he can’t possibly imagine that these two were all that hard to defeat. Not only that but considering how much talking he’s doing because he’s afraid has him wondering what exactly he’d do if he had been under interrogation by other people.

Enemies.

Police.

And so it is with a quickness unmatched, a fluidity and grace that snakes possess that Archer lashes out. It’s a series of twists, flicks, turns and then the telltale slam of Archer sinking the blade into the Grunt’s hand.

Because screaming was better than pleading. ]

Executive Proton. [ Archer says, attention still focused on the screaming Grunt as he twists the knife, ripping tendon, muscle. Blood gushes from the wound, coats the sides, the fingers of the Grunt as well as the table in red.

Smearing the blood all over the white, plastered tiles, squeaky clean is what he aims for as he pads the rest of it off like rain water dripping between the cracks. And once it’s done and over with, he’s dusting off his hands, dipping for a bow like’s he a star on his own Broadway show because he might as well be.

Because people might say murder was the easiest thing to commit. Easiest thing to fall into, but he fucking knows that’s not the case.

Because just as easy as it was for him to snap those kids’ necks, slit their throat, stab into their veins, make them cry and make them beg for their life, pleading for him to not go over that edge, he knows, it could have been just as simple, just as mundane for them to do the same. ]

Nothin’s dangerous anymore. [ Proton comments deadly and bad. ]

Memory curves her lips into a private smile when she recalls Archer coming back with a bruised and bleeding face from dealing with a boy five, maybe six years the senior of the children Proton has killed today. A silly contrast to someone speckled in blood that only belong to their prey.}

Missed a spot.

Sounds like horse shit.