KiCK iT UP A NOTCH

Sapphire leaned against the door frame as Archer opened it, doing her best not to just sag to the floor as her leverage against the door dissapeared. Her hand throbs once with an icy sting and she flinches, but raises her head to look at the older man.

Arceus, did everything just hurt. Breathing was taking so much effort, and she didn’t know how she was keeping from retching again. Sapphire looked up at Archer, her eyes wild and distraught. “–What– what do you know?” She shakily brought up her glowing hand and fisted it into the admins shirt, her entire body trembling with the effort of not just collapsing onto him. Her voice was a raspy, angry thing when she choked more words out. “Of course I– I have questions, I don’t– I don’t–” 

Her sentence tapered off, acrid bile rising in her throat and she gave up all pretenses of being okay, dropping to the ground and gagging off to the side. A small trickle of blood mixed with the saliva that she hocked to the floor, her whole body trembling under the strain of coming off of whatever she had been shot up with. Fentanyl her brain supplied, that’s what the doctor had said– so much of it in her blood he was surprised she as still breathing and coherent.

She couldn’t even raise her head to look at Archer as she whispered out her next plea, “Please, I don’t– I don;t know what’s safe anymore, but I need… I need help.”

She looked like she was in pain. Archer’s brow furrowed as he really stopped to consider what sort of state she was in, and it wasn’t a good one by any means. But she’s here. And she asks her questions. What does he know? He knows she looks like she needs to sit down. He’s about to herd her inside when she grabs his shirt and continues her line of thought, and it doesn’t take a genius to tell she’s upset. Frankly, Archer is just relieved she’s come to see any sort of reason, and he’s about to say as much when she turned and gagged up blood.

Well, that was a little more than Archer had been expecting. Eyes widening in alarm, he reached out to take her by the arm and pull her into his office, where he shut the door behind them and sat her down on the cot in the back corner. “It’s alright,” he says as he fetches the tissues from his desk to wipe at the corners of her mouth with, “you’re here, this was a good first step. I’m safe. I can help.” Briefly, he feels her forehead—she was burning up—and then quickly dives into his minifridge to find a bottled water for her to drink and the coldest thing he could to press to her forehead.

Something was off, something was wrong.

She should have figured it out sooner, been suspicious from the start– nothing was adding up, everything off kilter and she had to find answers. Preferably before her body decided to give out on her, she thought sarcastically, trying to gain her bearings after another round of vomiting. The nausea was constant, the pain ebbing in waves. There were fresh pock marks on her arm, gaps in her memory. She should have known better, what would papa thin–

She heaves.

It’s a dry, aching retch, there is nothing left in her stomach to draw up. Her vision keeps blurring, her chest aches, and Sapphire wonders not for the first time if this will finally kill her. But something, some twitching in the back of her mind -a damp dark cave, gouges in your back, fever that wouldn't break you shouldn't be alive girl, how curious- feels like she has suffered worse. She can’t remember. She can’t remember and it terrifies her. Little bits and pieces have surfaced since Uncle Sycamore brought her to the infirmary, but like any good patient of Petrel’s, she had snuck out once she was feeling slightly better. Which granted, hadn’t lasted very long, and she was possibly regretting this entire idea.

But she has to know–

Archer. He had seen her with Damian and been so angry, had wanted to protect her– he might know something. Hell, he might know everything. She had to get to him, had to ignore the humming in her brain, the strange blue mark that had appeared on her arm- something she had the feeling was entirely unrelated to the drugs she had been slipped for the past few months. She had to find him, had to ignore the pain, just a little longer, just a bit more.

His office had to be around here, she had vague recollections of time spent here, he had said she had stayed with him… maybe her memory was starting to push through. If only it didn’t hurt so damn much it would be more helpful. She limped her way down the hall, unable to remember which room was his. Ha, she had a feeling she’d been in this situation before, could remember the feel of blood on her face, a knife, a note, being left in a heap near a door– that door! 

Sapphire let out a happy wheeze and slowly trudged her way over, feeling white static in the corners of her vision. She had to hold out, she had to find Archer, apologize, figure out what had happened. She made it to the door, basically fell against it and smacked her (holy shit was her hand glowing now?) dominant hand against the door. It was all she had the strength to do before she slumped down, knowing that as soon as the door opened she would topple into the room.

She wondered absently if Archer would appreciate the irony of the whole situation.

Archer had been incredibly, incredibly busy as of late; Rocket was seemingly more active than ever, requiring more and more time and effort of his to be put into varying projects, directing missions, making decisions about things he hadn’t been able to make decisions about in a long time. Even without Giovanni there, it was like something just clicked into place. Like things were getting better. But even though Rocket itself seemed to be progressing, even though they suddenly had more money than they ever had in a long, long time, there was still something worrying at the back of his mind, something Archer always kept looking for in the corner of his eye.

Sapphire. Damian. Tabitha. Drama. Scuffle. Fights. And, of course, signs of Kyogre. Whether or not he believed in the legend’s divinity was moot—she was, in fact, living within one of their grunts, and that made Sapphire’s position one Archer could not ignore. So even though he was busy, far too busy, he never stopped keeping an eye out. And somehow it seems to pay off.

He was in his office that morning keeping a subtle eye on the security camera feeds on his monitor as he scribbled hastily at his never-depleting pile of paperwork when he heard a knock at his office door. With a hefty sigh, he raised himself from his chair, pausing a moment to straighten, back cracking satisfyingly, before he trudged over and yanked the door open, preparing to admonish whoever it was before slamming it in their face—and he stopped cold.

It doesn’t take her father long to prepare it, and when its settled before him she pulls the folder out from its secured position and places it gently down before him. She slides it over, takes another sip of her drink and smiles patiently at him. Her mission was a simply one, a cleanup job for a traitor who thought he could sell information on them to the police. She had silenced him before he had and had made sure to submit falsified information to the police instead in his place.  “Oh I think this is longer than a forty-five minute conversation, Archer.” She taps the folder with her index finger, lets it sit a moment before her eyes light up. “A success, of course if not a little tedious. You know how I am with the cops.” She pulls her hand back and lets it find her glass again so she can nurse at it. 

“Exactly  as I expected,” he told her, “but then, you always had a certain flair for this line of work, didn’t you?” He flips it open and browses the contents as he sips at his drink, and deciding to go over the details with a fine-toothed comb once he returned to his office, snapped it shut to place his attention on Aya; he did, after all, promise her forty-five minutes—or apparently more, if she had anything to say about it.

“As always,” he chuckled, “an executive’s work is never done, I’m afraid. every day there’s a new stack and I am... always behind.” He shook his head in exasperation and took another, larger sip of the drink, as he tended to when Rocket got too overwhelming (which, of course, it always did.) “Am I really dull?” he said after a minute, “if you want to play, I’ll play, you know. But it will have to be after shift. Just because you’ve gotten your work done doesn’t mean the rest of us haven’t. I envy you, truly.”

Sapphire, for her part, was horribly confused. Nothing was adding up, nothing made sense. This man– Archer, seemed so adamant that Damian was the bad guy, but he wasn’t– right? The muted screaming in her head wasn’t helping, everything hurt. Her body was trembling, both from emotional and physical exertion, nausea made her head swim. Damian looked her over, keeping an eye on Archer as he did. When he saw him reach towards his belt for his pokeballs, he yelled;

“Zion! Hold him!” The Gardevoir was quick to obey, using her psychic abilities to hold the man master had commanded her to keep still. Sapphire stared blankly ahead, still not sure what to do in this situation, confusion, frustration, fear all leaking in her head. She didn’t have much time to think, before Damian stood up with a hiss of pain, pulling her up with him. She looked up at Damian, who was grimacing in Archer’s direction. 

The pressure consumed him, forced itself into his throat and lungs, and breathing was harder than it had been, and in that moment Archer kicked himself mentally for not having his houndoom out, for not having any of his dark-types out, mourning the fact that humans couldn’t be dark type, because if he was, if he had been, if Coyote or Knightro had been out but they weren’t, and she was with him—this was the worst thing that could possibly happen the absolute worst.

She returns from a mission and not long after establishes a connection with the executive. 

A time. 

A place.  

She expects him to turn up promptly, to not keep her waiting and most importantly to have his hands free of work.

Heels click along the sturdy and familiar flooring of her father’s bar, leading over to the counter where she sits, back to the door. She doesn’t need to see it and instead raises her chin enough so that she can drape it over the back of her hand as she stations her elbow firmly on counter top. It doesn’t take long for her father to notice her return and after he serves another customer he makes his way over to her side. 

They converse. The usual. They’re both well, successful and his business is doing better each and every night. He makes her rum and coke as they speak and once served she pauses to take a long needed sip of the beverage. She enjoys the alcohol hitting her tongue, lets it roll down the back of her throat and warm all the way into her stomach. She enjoys it as much as she enjoys talking with her father but a glance towards her watch tells her Archer should be arriving soon. 

“Meeting him?” Her father asks, a knowing look in his eye as she sips from her glass and merely smirks around the rim of it. He knows her too well, knows what she’s up to and as she sets her glass down the ice in it clicks and she hears the approach of familiar footfalls on that wooden floor. 

So when, one day, he receives communication, receives a time and place, a moment of delight passes through him; she’s  back. And it’s time to catch up. From then until it was time to change and leave to meet here, Archer hunches over his desk and does his paperwork with the ferocity of a madman, doing his damndest to free himself up for as long as need be, and it was nearly impossible to scrub the small smile form his face. It’s going to be a good day.

He arrives at the bar on time, dressed casually with his jeans and flannel button-down over a simple tanktop, looking for all the world an average trainer, and has to take a moment to collect himself and calm before he entered. And there she was. Aya sat at the bar counter, back to the door, and Archer took a deep breath before approaching; he’s not surprised when she notices him, turns around to greet him, and he smiles in return before taking the seat she pulled out for him.

“Who’s– the monster… now?” He rasped out, playing the situation up as much as he could. The movement out of the corner of his eye was growing closer, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to grin. Checkmate. 

“STOP!” 

That was when she hit him, ran into his side, and Archer was caught off-guard, surprised that Sapphire would throw herself into the fray at him, and wide-eyed he toppled off of Damian and scrambled backwards, fearful that any new attack he made towards Sapphire’s captor would end in her getting accidentally hurt.

Perfect. 

Sweeping Archer had been simple, but he wasn’t prepared for the man to twist, to flip them around and pin him down– Damian let out a string of expletives, he had forgotten that Archer could be fucking vicious if given the opportunity. It happened so fast, Damian almost didn’t feel the pressure on his arm until blinding white pain shot up to his shoulder and he let out an involuntary howl. Son of a bitch. Forearm was broken, that he knew– it wasn’t his first time grappling like this, he would have to train more with Tabitha after this, he had made a stupid, stupid mistake and now it was costing him.

He heard Damian’s theatrical bullshit, and that only served to make him angrier, a vicious growl loosing form his throat. “Shut yer whore mouth!” he snarled, “just shut yer fuckin’ whore mouth, ye goddamn LIAR!” His hands sought out Damian’s neck, gripping tightly onto his throat as he began to mentally prepare himself for the aftermath, the fallout. Tabitha was going to hate him. That was okay. Archer was going to put everything right. Tabitha would get over it. And Damian finally, finally would be gone.

The motherfucker had headbutted him! Damian spit curses, drawing his leg out to sweep Archer off his feet, grappling for a good grip on the older man with his free arm as he tried to blink the stars out of his vision. His spotty vision cased him to miss his grip at Archer’s shoulder, throwing him off balance and actually falling into the man. 

But he felt Damian’s leg sweep at his feet not a second later, and unprepared, Archer felt himself wobble and fall, but he kept his grip on Damian, aimed to bring him down too as he felt his back hit hard against the cold floor, and he could see a glint of metal as Damian went down, too. Archer wasn’t an idiot; weapon, his mind whispered, and there was only thing to do in such a situation: make sure Damian was incapable of using it.

He grins up at Archer form his crouched position on the floor, subtly gesturing to Zion to stay with the girl for now. He’s got this covered, he’s been so bored. Sapphire makes a low moaning noise from her position under Zion, and Damian gives a small chuckle. “Such a nice bruise you’ve given me Archer, it’ll only help reinforce my hold on her now you know. How I saved her from that dangerous man~” Damian gestures dramatically in front of him, sweeping into a cramped bow.

“Ye damn sunova bitch,” Archer growled, fists clenched tightly and trembling with seething anger, “ye Lugiadamn psychopath, I swear if ye don’t git the fuck away from her right now—” His eyes fell to Zion, and his brain snapped into overdrive, the energy of his anger concentrated into his strategists’ mind. His hands stilled, and Archer was suddenly, eerily calm. Dangerous man, Damian said. Archer could be dangerous.

He could be excruciatingly fucking dangerous when he wanted to be.

He kneels over her, brushing hair away from her face and shushing her, his whole demeanor changing to fake concern and care. “It’s okay dear heart, you’re going to be fine– calm down and try to breathe okay?” He pulls out Zion’s pokeball and releases her to stand over the two of them, keep Archer from interfering with what he is about to do. Sapphire can only wheeze, her body slumped, but seemingly calmer.

“Damian,” he snaps, feeling the fire of righteous justice flowing through his veins (the only appropriate course of action at this point would be for him to scream FOR AMERICA and tackle Damian to the ground foot-ball style) but before he’s able to demand just what the uncultured piece of shit had done to the poor girl, Damian kneels next to her, coos sweet words as though he hadn’t been the demon previously in her life, and Archer is disgusted. He is disgusted by the man before him, disgusted not just by his words and actions, no, but by his very being. He shoots her up with something, it has to be some sort of drug, and with that shit-eating grin of his tries to talk to him.

But he’s talking ill of Damian, and Sapphire doesn’t understand. The fog threatens to crush her, and Sapphire can feel her whole body begin to shake, breathing becoming harder and harder. “No, you’re wrong– Damian, he took me away from… from s-omething awful, he kept– kept me safe fro-om that man, T-tabitha, he wouldn’t–” She has to stop for a moment to try and breathe in, only to wheeze helplessly as a sob tears from her throat. Everything hurts.

But then all of a sudden it seems like she can’t breathe and a second later she went down. Archer wants to go to her side, to help her back to her feet, but after how well his last attempt at grabbing her went he was more than a little reluctant to try again.

The stress of the situation is triggering more side effects of the drug Sapphire doesn’t realize is wreaking havoc on her body, and her gut churns as he manages to get a hold of her arm– right at the injection site. Dozens of little needle pricks and the bruising from them sting as he grabs her, and Sapphire  can feel the fog pressing down on her, unrelenting. “Please no! Stop, please don’t, don’t hurt me I’m sorry, I don’t, who are you , I’m sorry!” 

“Sapphire, it’s me,”  he tried again, “Damian isn’t your friend, Sapphire, he’s been hurting you and I have been trying to protect you!” He doesn’t know how he’s going to get through to her, doesn’t know how to jog her memory. He’d promised to keep her safe. He’d promised her.

Sapphire furrowed her brows, trying to think past the heavy fog in her mind. He said he knew her, that she had stayed with him for a time, but she didn’t– Damian had said he had taken her from something terrible, and she could only remember him, so was this man lying?

It strikes Archer far too late. They’ve done something to her. They’ve done something to her mind. He looks into her eyes, her glassy, unfocused eyes, and they’re like mirrors. He should have seen this. He should have known from the instant he saw her. They finally did it. They finally got to her mind. A rage broils beneath his surface. No. This wasn’t right. She was a child. A child.

“Sapphire,” he says, more sharply than he means to, “Sapphire, you’re coming with me. Right now.” Everything is a bad decision, but he can’t stop himself, because she’s scared, so he’s scared, and he knows what they did. They shattered her mind and glued it back together like a children’s toy, like some sick, broken stained glass window and they took her memory. He didn’t know how they did it, only that he knew he should have tried harder, should have stopped Damian sooner.

Sapphire let out a soft hum as she made her way towards the labs, hoping she was going the correct direction. It was strange, not having Zion at her shoulder to make sure she didn’t get lost, but the Gardevoir had returned to Damian for something– she didn’t really remember what. Thinking to hard, or too long on things made her head hurt something terribly, so she’d best not dwell.

She had turned a corner when she heard someone call out, and immediately tensed. A man she didn’t recognize came near, but she could feel that screaming knowing in the back of her head, right on the edge of her mind– something that hurt to much to grasp, better left unknown. Maybe she did know him? But Damian hadn’t told her about him, he could be one of the people she couldn’t remember, all she could see in her mind’s eye the scars on her back. People were scary, reading them was hard. Harder when her head was pounding that way it was, nausea creeping up.

Briefly, the images he had seen through her so long ago—the cave, the dream, the reality of the situation, the sheer terror of it all—and he could say with gravid certainty that there was no way anyone could act so calm under threat of their life’s personification of hell. So something was horribly, amazingly wrong.

“It wasn’t him.” Sapphire knows her voice is shaky, but tries to keep it as steady as she can, looking over to the wall for confirmation. “That’s not– that’s not his handwriting. On the wall. It’s not his.” She debates babbling on, but finds her words are heavy on her tongue. She’s so tired. 

Instead, he turns his mind to Sapphire’s confirmation that it is not, in fact, Damian’s handwriting in the blood. Which means... his gardevoir? To get in and out without being seen, must have been—and though Archer had never actually seen a psychic-type write in the blood of an innocent, that didn’t expressly mean anything considering he hated psychic-types with a fiery, burning passion. But if it really was the gardevoir....