#ic. ask

he’s unmoved. 

he’s quiet for a minute, assessing her, a thin smirk on his mouth as he makes no effort to hide how much he is enjoying himself.  

the touch is light enough to make him twitch. it leaves behind a lingering heat and some other sensations that he cannot parse. proton curbs the impulse to put his own hand on the spot she just touched, as if he could rub the feeling away. instead his lip curls in a half snarl, and he jabs two fingers at her.

this world is a cold one, but it takes one to know one.

“field work is a bitch, isn’t it.”

it doesn’t really matter how good you get - sometimes what it takes is the slip of a finger to blow you and all your parts sky high. they both had this built into their bones, because they knew guys who didn’t, and what happened to them. someone loses a hand or part of a foot or worse, fucking around with arbok acid and proton catches clarissa’s eye over the carnage. field work is a bitch, isn’t it. they’re not in rocket anymore, but some things just don’t shake loose.

this explosion rips through the pokemart and into the ground floor of the next building, sending the windows and shelves of mangled products shattering outwards into the street. proton’s not at the center of the blast, but still well within the radius when it goes off two minutes ahead of schedule. they’re like clock work together now, so as he throws himself low and pulls the back of his jacket up to shield himself, he knows that clarissa’s dead. her finger slipped. or maybe, she just got tired of running wild on the wire, and she saw a way out, and took it. 

when proton straightens up, shards of glass slip off his back. a few are embedded into the exposed back of his hands, and there’s cement dust coating his skin and hair. he glances toward the wreckage of the pokemart, dips his head to one side and gives it a little shake, as if to dislodge the ringing in his ears. it’ll pass, and in its place, there will be quiet. 

he turns on his heel, shakes out his limbs, buzzing with adrenaline, and walks away, slowly, even as sirens begin to converge to the site of the explosion. he keeps replaying that split second before the accelerant went up, trying to imagine it through clarissa’s eyes. if she made a mistake, or a choice, and had just enough time to recognize it for what it was. 

it’s the first thing said between them in hours. for all his seemingly endless chatter, proton can do silence well. the delicate split of his attention between the wriggling fish for hunting, and the boning knife by plumeria’s hand occupies him enough that he doesn’t feel the need to entertain himself with words. at least, not yet. 

proton’s in the middle of gutting his own catch when plumeria speaks, and his head flicks in her direction before she even finishes. there’s a beat, as the sounds arrange themselves into meaning, and when they do, the good side of his mouth twitches and pulls with the same amusement that narrows his eyes. 

proton catches the eyeball expertly in his mouth, and it bursts into a salty gooey liquid between his teeth. he runs his tongue along them, lips pulled back so she can see what he’s doing. 

you’re not around to witness rennard get beaten into shape – just what comes after. (companion to this.)

examine.

once the radio tower goes to shit, you’re beyond livid; you’ve got a rage that turns outward into a physical force that almost makes you tremble, almost makes you laugh. so you spit on them all, and explode through the interpol cordon and away into the night. 

what happens in between isn’t what’s important; what’s important is the boss, well, he’s always had a particular way with words, and a particular way with finding people who don’t want to be found, even someone as good in the field as you are. and he brings you back; it takes some time and some blood, but he doesn’t put a bullet in your head, the way you thought he would. 

you haven’t decided if you hate him for that, but whatever the case, it catches you off guard, and both you and he know that’s enough to hook you. for the time being.

you don’t see rennard again until a month into your uh, ‘reeducation.’ the base you’ve been sent to is unfamiliar, out on one of the less populated islands along kanto’s coast, and that alone has your teeth on edge. some privileged little agent favorite is to babysit you for this stretch. you’re not looking forward to it. 

she meets you just outside. and there’s a moment when you almost recognize her. and then you don’t. 

see, you’ve always had a keen eye for discrepancies. it’s part of what makes you so goddamn good. not that you really need it now, because this? this ekans already jumped up and bit you.

so sure, she’s wearing the same bones, the same skin, the same nose and the same mouth. but everything’s been shifted a little to the left. the cut of her uniform’s changed; it’s cleaner, nicer fabric. her hair’s been pulled back, opening up her face and neck. the hat’s gone. her head sits more straight, her spine is stacked all nice and neat. and the more you look, the deeper it goes. the flat line of her lips. the equally flat line of her brows. and her eyes. those aren’t the same at all. not even close. 

for a minute, the pair of you stare into each other. and as you do, you notice that she notices you, notices you seeing her. whoever the fuck she is. 

you’ve never believed in moderation, and you’re not going to start now.

examine.

this is tonight’s spread: freshly shucked shellder served raw on ice. no pussy-footing about with lemon or sauce. vivd red and orange slabs of goldeen or seaking. thin slices of boiled tentacruel. kingler claws in butter. you’ve always liked food you can eat with your hands, the mess and power of taking something apart and consuming it.  

the well makes everything damp, and keeps it that way. your socks haven’t been dry in days. 

examine.

azalea’s a bit of spit folded into the pit of the forest. it’s mostly snotty children and old bags, so when you set up shop, they leave you be, no fuss. you’d like a bit of fuss, right now, but even the thought of terrorizing some nothing town is boring to you. 

it’s a great ugly hole in the ground. that’s your first impression. your second? it’s a great wet ugly hole in the ground. the rock floor is fairly smooth, even sandy in patches, and there are countless pools of tepid, cloudy water, which seems to drip constantly from some unknown source. there’s not enough natural light to see by, so you set up flood lamps, and get to work. 

the slowpoke don’t seem to know what you’re doing to them, because the pickings are always easy, even when it couldn’t be more clear what you’re after. all they do is lounge in the shallows, and yawn. it gets to the grunts; more than a few start nodding off on duty. it never gets to you, though. you don’t sleep. you don’t let the grunts sleep much either. instead, you fall into a monotonous, ugly rhythm of chopping the tails, packing them on ice, and shipping them off for distribution. the fresh tails curl and uncurl themselves for a good minute after they’ve been cut, and you have to sharpen your knife several times over, what with how industrious you’re being. 

chop pack ship. chop pack ship. until a few weeks in, when you destroy the entire stock you’ve built up in a blaze of restless anger. that gets you a rap on the knuckles, but it doesn’t pull you from the assignment because, yeah, that’s right, there’s nowhere else for you to go, is there. so you’re stuck building the stock back up.