HUNTRESS FOR HIRE.

Art © Me

Jessie bites back any retort toward the defamation of her beloved Team Rocket, and instead sizes the woman opposite of her up, down, up again. What with the prospect of work — much needed, much appreciated work — falling directly into the lap of the crooked vagabond, who is she to refuse? 

Plus, her pockets aren’t exactly heavy enough to decline such an offer. “Deal. You got an hour to work on that pitch. Don’t be late, and definitely don’t think of wasting my time.” 

She taps the capsules at her belt-loop for a sprinkle of intimidation (blindly so, considering how little she knows of the other), and takes to power-walking toward Hulbury’s marketplace — Arceus knows it’s about that time to steal snag something to replenish herself, after being holed up among luggage in the hull of a ship for days.

“There you are...”

The tone of the caustic voice--still sharp as ever--was unmistakable. Violet looked up from her purple flip phone expectantly, a bemused laugh escaping her lips as she locked eyes with the familiar redhead once again.

“All business, huh?” she retorted casually, shrugging off the Rocket’s accusatory tone with a playful smirk. “...I was sort of planning to treat you to a nice lunch inside, but it looks like you’ve eaten already. I have money, you know.” 

Violet let out a disappointed sigh (played up for dramatic effect), turning her phone towards Jessie after pulling up some grainy pictures on the small screen. “Speaking of money...that’s why I called you here. Check these out.”

With the whip of her hair and a halt in her step, Jessie sears her eyes into the stranger, boring fiery holes beneath the wrinkle of her brow. “Little squad?” She’s come a long way through managing her anger, not immediately flying off the handle as was once habit. Still, it takes very little to rile her up, forever and always too hot-headed to be handled.

“I regret to inform you that Team Rocket is as prominent as ever,” the lie escapes her lips easily, a trick of her trade. After all, it’d been at least a year since her communication with the higher-ups had been cut. An entire year of aimless wandering, wandering for something that’d put her in their good graces once again. Although, there are times she ponders if whether or not their approval holds any water in her already half-empty glass.

Easier sticking with a prior purpose than mustering the courage to find one’s own, a conclusion she falls back on far too often. Maniacal, her lips curl up in the most mischievous of manners. “We’ve just gotten a lot better at hiding our tracks is all.”

Hidden, in this instance, they were not: spectators began crowding around the two, almost as if watching a reenactment of some sort. “But, believe it or not, I’ve only just arrived.” She shrugs, her confident smirk hanging like a crescent moon. “So any wrong-doing you’re trying to snuff out has nothing to do with me… officer.”

“So any wrong-doing you’re trying to snuff out has nothing to do with me… officer.”

Amused, Violet quirked an eyebrow as Jessie snapped back with the expected venom, her caustic tone complimented nicely with a dangerous smirk. Even so, the Nighthawk would still take the Rocket’s vitriol over Hulbury’s fake niceties any day--finally, here was someone traveling along a similar wavelength. 

“Not an officer, unfortunately,” Violet replied in a casual tone, the faint smile remaining on her lips. “Actually, now that I think about it...I guess that I’m looking for trouble-- for someone like you.”

Stepping from the vessel onto the docks at the edge of the waters of Hulbury, Jessie’s met with quizzical stares almost immediately; typically, this type of attention is aroused by the insignia on her chest, one she still wears brazenly (despite her current standing with the big TR). No, these glances were of a different variety. Of a “who is this foreigner?” variety.

One would expect the people of Galar, world-famous for their legendary trainers, to be a bit more receptive to foreigners. But, as is typical, the fiery Rocket is simply expecting an outcome unlike the one she receives elsewhere.

Regardless, she begins her waltz into the bustling seaport, one teeming with other equally-as-foreign visitors, each wide-eyed and wondrous of their first little taste of Galar and all it’s glory. “What’s the big deeeeeal,” she muses, shielding her eyes from the blazing suns. “Looks like any typical seaport to me…”

Even still, the towers of Hammerlocke loom against the blue skies, a welcoming but daunting realization of just how far she is away from home. Her reservations aside, she continues her walk through the city, mindful but receptive to what may lie ahead in this uncharted territory…

Hulbury–a tranquil seaport city perched on pristine shores, with sparkling waves gently lapping at the banks–was a dream vacation destination for many globetrotting trainers. With its famed Seafood Restaurant, energetic Stadium, and quaint street market stalls, the sunny locale had something for everyone.

And despite this–maybe because of her gritty Kalosian background–Violet hated Hulbury. In such a smiling place, the dark-haired, dark-clothed bounty hunter-turned PI stuck out like a sore thumb. Given her present situation, she was thankful for her dangerous aura–even the welcoming citizens of the city knew to give her a wide berth. And this unspoken suited the Nighthawk just fine–after all, she was here for business, not for pleasure.

Knots twist and turn as Shauntal drags along the path behind the bathhouse, steam escaping with a hiss from the interior chambers. Her company seems a bit quicker on their feet, the writer taking more leisurely strides alongside—when not behind—the other. “My pace is fine; perhaps you’d do better to not sprint…,” she can only mutter, beneath her breath, tone unable to hide her irritancy. They take the steps, up beyond the marketplace, with the entertainment districts lingering streets below and behind them now.

She’s still not certain about entertaining this venture, but finds it fair to at least discuss a few of the details over another drink. And oh, how she needed it, what with her nerves the way they’ve become.

Violet finally gives her caustic mouth some time to reload as Shauntal sweeps confidently into a shoddy, half-obscured tavern. Despite the Pad’s worn-out aesthetic, the former Gang Member breathes a sigh of relief, unabashedly wringing Virbank rain from her black locks onto the creaky floor. The bouncers glare--one even takes a threatening step forward--but one of Violet’s steely glances roots them all hesitantly in place. The Nighthawk’s bespectacled partner--focused on disappearing into a seat upstairs--doesn’t seem to notice the frosty encounter.

Violet stays silent as the pair enters into the “VIP section”--a secluded loft filled with surprisingly cozy booths. Of course, Violet’s been to top-end Kalosian restaurants and hotels before, but the Pad’s hidden surprise factor earns a low whistle of approval nevertheless. She slides smoothly into the seat across from Shauntal, just as the nervous waiter totters off to pour drinks. Removing her purple jacket and resting her toned arms on the polished table, Violet can’t help but grin at her new partner’s unnecessary introduction.

“Violet--bounty hunter, gang member, free agent,” she shoots back, leaning slightly forward, that omnipresent smirk playing on her lips again, “...and yeah, I know way more about Plasmat than you. I did a couple jobs for them, after all.”

lt isn’t having been spoken to like a child, or even the brawl that broke out only moments prior, that has Shauntal considering a hasty getaway, as the two approach Virbank’s Center. Once she’s fully equipped, even someone as gnarly as this mystery woman wouldn’t stand a chance in battle. And any other unfortunates? Well, consider the Elite’s nerves rattled enough to withhold any mercy.

All she wanted was to escape the incessant ring of the League’s telephones, to escape the disastrous images that still dominate news feeds. To disengage enough to focus on her next work. Dissociate long enough to convince herself that everything’s fine enough for her to do so…

But even through the strained apology, the general sense of irritation towards someone of Shauntal’s status, making that call is excruciating. She sees an urgency now, a role that she too can assist with, even despite never receiving the proper orders. 

Had she always been the type to wait for a call to action? Perhaps.

Is that something she’d like to change about herself? That was to be foreseen. But, with the way the night is setting itself up to be, Shauntal’s certain she’ll reach an epiphany on the matter, one way or another.

Leaning up against the damp brick of the Pokemon Center, Violet waits--her grey eyes casually surveying the frenetic Virbank nightlife. In the back of her mind, she knows that Shauntal could ghost her without much effort, but she doesn’t fret over the possibility--the Nighthawk has never been one to worry much. In her new “position” as the most unofficial of investigators, it’s necessary to be adaptable, receptive to changing circumstances and environments.

That being said, this environment sucks. Humidity clings to Violet’s olive skin, and she mean-mugs a Trubbish poking its head out of a nearby alley. Two minutes, then I’m gone, she thinks impatiently, her fingers twirling an imaginary cigarette. Rule number one for places like this: never stay in one place for too long. Luckily, Shauntal emerges from the Center’s sliding doors seconds later, saving the pair’s tenuous collaboration.

As desperately as she’d like to feign naiveté in all matters involving Plasmat, a disgruntled sigh escapes her lips against her wishes. It’s uncharacteristic, sure, for her to be this blunt, this slovenly, in front of someone who clearly knows their way around a brawl. However, Shauntal can’t settle for anyone bad-mouthing the League… regardless of how spot-on they may be about the negligence surrounding all matters Plasmat.

“Y’know what,” she can’t help but to lay into the other woman, who’s tone never quite becomes daggering, and yet yields the same results. After all, it is Shauntal’s chosen family this vigilante is slandering. “Joining the Elite Four is one thing, but taking care of street gangs? Are we supposed to be the police?” Shauntal stares deep into the movements of the other woman, as they both refuse to bend to any will beyond their own. Bass from within several clubs pulsate into a hodgepodge of noise, puddles of city sludge mirroring the skies while bathed in neon glow. 

“D-Do you realize how often we’d be out here, weeding these streets, were we to answer to every beck and call,” she bemuses, eyes weary, sobriety settling in. Shauntal stifles a hiccup, her arms folding sternly against her bosom. Chandelure wanders further into the receding shadows beyond the mouth of the alley where the women situate themselves.

Violet merely rolls her eyes as Shauntal launches into a predictable defense of the Elite Four and its policies...too busy, too many responsibilities, blah blah blah. She’s heard this all before, of course--many of her anonymous tips regarding gang activity within Lumiose City were previously dismissed or outright ignored by the Kalosian Pokemon League back home. The Nighthawk tamps down the anger simmering in her chest, fighting back the familiar urge to knock someone powerful off of their high horse. As Shauntal finishes laying out her case, however, an exasperated sigh still escapes Violet’s lips.  

“Look, sweetheart...” she finally declares as if speaking to a child, with a pity-filled expression to match, “...I’m not saying that you need to catch every dumbass who steals a handbag or whatever. But when I was watching the news a couple days ago, I saw a Plasmat goon squad freely hunt down a couple of kids. I saw Plasmat blow the fucking roof off of your biggest stadium.”

Despite her needling, the sting of Violet’s accusations is blunted somewhat by the playful smirk on her face as she continues to pick at Shauntal’s institution. “Does that not register just a bit on your, uh, importance scale? I mean, I heard you--you don’t do police stuff--but come on.”

    Serena was currently getting Charle’s favourite tea considering she had a feeling that his nerves would be shot with the interview with Violet. It was then that she heard a sound that indicated that she was being called for. He actually lasted longer then she was expecting. Gathering the tea and kettle on the tray as well with three bottles of water she picked it up and headed for Charles office.

    Knocking on the door she opened it up and was greeted upon Charles in her face before she could even enter the place. He started spewing sentences towards the female as she stared at him unsure of what to say.

I will personally be paying you...

Violet’s grin widens as Serena takes a seat across from her, next to the beleaguered model manager. Unlike Charles, it seems like the world-famous model truly understands the situation. The Nighthawk unscrews the cap on the provided drink--fancy water--and takes a greedy swig, purposefully spilling some on the manager’s precious desk. In Serena’s presence, Charles can only bite his tongue, turning redder than a Cheri Berry.

“C-can a girl not enjoy the nightlife every once in a while…?” Apparently not. Shauntal’s slurring formats itself more intelligibly, her buzz fading rather rapidly following the scuffle. It all happened so quick, she’s still gathering in the scene before her, the thugs lifeless against the cold, wet concrete. Only one of them squirms, still unable to recover from the mystery woman’s fist to the head. Shauntal thanks her lucky stars and yet, still, she hangs onto her ‘thank you’s’: she’s cautious at best, skeptical at worst.

Whoever this woman is, she’s an absolute force of nature. 

Ravishing, sure, but trustworthy…?

Now, if you’ll excuse me…I-I’d like to go get myself another drink. After all of this commotion, I’m afraid my buzz has left the building… So, if you don’t mind…?

Violet merely laughs at Shauntal’s earnest request, plucking the cigarette from her mouth with a bemused expression on her face. Despite the Elite Four member’s clouded state, the Nighthawk sees small signs of why the Ghost trainer is regarded so highly around Unova: her eloquence, resilience, and--of course--the Chandelure bobbing eerily behind her shadowy figure.

Yep, the former Gang Member confirms to herself. This is too good to pass up.

Starter for @streethxart

     “You do realize that she could have been endangered! I’m not going to be hearing anymore, you are relieved of your duties.” A sigh escaped the male’s lips as he leaned back into his chair as she rubbed his temples in frustration. The honey blonde female kept quiet for a bit letting the silence linger as the door shut with a click.

     Serena Lang was a famous model and currently, her manager had fired another bodyguard due to their failing duties. Gathering her thoughts the 20-year-old opened her mouth after the silence settled. “Do I say I’m not attending the show?” The question hung in the air before once again her manager let out a sigh.

     Shaking his head side to side he spoke. “No, you are the important guest after all. Besides everyone from all over the world will be there.” So, in the end, she was to be expected on being there.

Keep reading

Violet sits across from Charles, her dirty boots braced against the expensive mahogany desk. Serena’s red-faced manager is trying to sputter through the rest of the interview questions, and she’s trying not to laugh at his indignation. “Will you please...” Charles pauses to press two fingers to his temples, “...get your feet off my desk? For Arceus’s sake, how unprofessional can you be?”

“Very. Also, no,” Violet shoots back, a smirk finally emerging on her lips as Charles’s face purples with anger. She leans back in the polished wooden chair and yawns. “Why are we even doing this? I’ve got the job already--quit wasting my time.”

“You had the job, until...this,” Charles retorts, grasping onto the last straws of his authority. “Showing up in those clothes. Stinking of alcohol. Lack of respect--you’ve insulted me at least thirty times since your arrival. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not even the slightest bit qualified to protect Ms. Lang!”

starter for @streethxart​

“‘Ey, yer that famous writer lady, huh… whatcha got in the bag?”

Had she anticipated being followed tonight, Shauntal would’ve indulged in a few less drinks at the bar prior. And yet, here she is, stumbling about the alleyways of Virbank, and immediately landing herself in the sour company of several street rats. Oh, how quickly a relaxing night out can spiral toward such undesirable depths…

“I-I don’t have to answer to any of you, you know that, right?” Ballsy, her voice is, each word slurring the further she speaks. It’s true that, as a member of the Elite Four, she could easily wipe through the three men cornering her now… when fully prepared, that is. However, seeing as she’s accompanied tonight solely by her Chandelure, Isobel, the chances of her being outnumbered are as apparent as the men’s growing hostility. The bespectacled author holds her ground as they zero in on her, their tones becoming all the more malicious behind their snarling catcalls.

Keep reading

Yeah, nothing good is gonna come of that.

Violet sits near the back of the Virbank bar, glancing over at Shauntal’s slightly-flushed figure with disinterested grey eyes. Despite the Elite Four member’s fame, everyone minds their business for the most part, too busy battling their own vices and personal demons to care about a celebrity in their midst. In seedier cities like this one, people know that it’s best to keep your head down. For Violet, a Kalosian transplant on a secret, personal mission, the anonymity is a blessing.