Poor guy. Grigori hoped he wouldn’t be in the hospital for too long. At least he had survived if the way he twisted and groaned on the store floor was any indicator. Shred had handled the money; the man had a knack for the identification of pricey objects. And how to hope safes. And cash registers.

The car was hot. His face was hot. Felt like it was splattered in tar. Probably blood. However, Howard had been very explicit that he couldn’t make a mess in his new car. And he wasn’t about to wipe his face with his sleeve. That’d ruin another shirt. His vest was another story.

And to top off this terrible night, neither of the men in the front seat ordered him his desired double-large ice cream cone. Once again, too messy. So, he nibbled on his second Double-Decker-Deluxe and sipped from the large Coldy, filled to the brim with frothy ice cream slurry. “Take a right after the second stop sign from here, Mr. Howard.”

There was one place he knew how to navigate, and it was Slateport City exactly. Thank goodness. Otherwise, he’d be just as lost as their driver. “From there, it’ll be a few blocks up the street.”

The gentle hum of the motor was drowned out by the radio, which blared the Top 100s list for Hoenn. Somehow, a jazz song from Sinnoh had wormed its way onto the list. A saxophone solo droned on in his ears. “Can you turn down the radio please, Mr. Shred?”

---

Shred Zeppelin howard slayte kyle lopez

"Buddy, you're cashing five figure paychecks, and you only got two sets of fries for three people?" You counter Howard's complaint, looking at him with a mixture of jealous, incredulity, and disdain. Unbelievable. Even when he's living large, this man still lives smaller than you do, and you have a thousandth of his cash. "Was the extra two dollars too much? Get real."

With a grumble, you take a bite of your Bacon Double Cheeseburger, before reclining into your seat. For all of his whining, you've got to admit, the man picked a nice car. Though, after a solid few months of driving exclusively banged-up vans full of smuggled Pokemon, maybe your bar for a "nice car" has lowered a bit. Still, it's not a bad car. Maybe a little more conservative than what you would've gone for, but it can drive on a flat road without bumping you around, so it's a solid upgrade from Howard's shitter of a truck.

You could almost trick yourself into thinking it was a relaxing ride, if not for your choice of company.

"Man, Greg, can't you just change it yourself?" You groan as you lean forward, beginning to fiddle with the buttons and dials of the radio. "I fucked up my back opening that safe. Why was it so heavy when he had so little money in it...?"

After a good minute or so of messing around, you manage to change mediocre jazz to mediocre rock, and turn the volume down from "too loud" to "slightly too loud", before slumping back once more. Man, music really went downhill. PikiTok completely fucked it all up for everyone and now it's straight to hell. Or, well, maybe your ability to enjoy hearing things in general just got worse after you went through your ill-advised Slurpcore phase?

Hard to say, hard to say.

---

howard slayte Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez

"It is mathematically proven that buying a third large is less efficient than buying nine small fries. Plus, they're bad for your heart. You'll thank me when you're older." Howard put a finger to his chin and turned towards Shred. "Oh wait~"

Man, this music was horrible. Of course, none of them would agree to turn it off. Without the blissful noise pollution masquerading as 'sound', they'd have to speak to one another. Howard would rather drive into a brick wall than let that happen. Hell, he'd rather deal with his own intrusive thoughts.

On second thought, maybe not.

"Gotcha." Howard saw the stop sign in the distance, past the next light. Slateport's roadwork was terrible,  despite the city's importance to Hoenn. People could rail on and on about Rustboro's street structure, but at least it was consistent. It was a grid. Slateport put lights on every corner which burned traffic to a slog. At this hour, there was nobody around. Good thing, too. That brick wall would've looked far more appealing otherwise.

He was about thirty meters off when it turned yellow. "Oh, hell no." Howard floored the accelerator to speed the light, resulting in the car going from a cool forty miles per hour to a solid seventy.

Damn, that was some solid acceleration.

---

Grigori Sokolov Shred Zeppelin kyle lopez

“I apologize, Mr. Shred, but I warned you to lift with your legs. Or let me help,” Grigori said. One day, that man's stubbornness would get him killed. Hopefully not while he was there. That’d be really tragic. His heart couldn’t take something like that again.

At least the drive was smooth. Howard knew how to handle a wheel, he had to admit. All the other Rockets had some fascination with speeding and running red lights, yet the archeologist had yet to do so. Maybe he should ask for driving lessons. He wasn’t getting any younger, yet the job demanded he travel further than ever before.

“Mr. Howard, I have a–”

Grigori flew backwards, right into the seat. A hard bit of plastic stabbed him in the back, right between the shoulder blades. One hand pressed harder into his burger, the other floundered for the handle next to his head. “What the–”

Scratch that. Never mind. Why couldn’t anyone accept a yellow light for what it was meant to be? This guy and June would get along really well… maybe too well. He’d have to carefully introduce them somehow.

“Mr. Howard, pardon my language, but what the frick is this all about?!” he shouted above the radio. “Yellow means slow down! Not speed up!”

The worst part? They didn’t even get into the intersection before the light changed to a bright red. Its awful, horrid color spilled into the car and painted them all in the worst light possible. If they hadn’t robbed a store earlier, he would’ve launched into a moral story about their position at Team Rocket didn’t mean they needed to always be committing crimes whenever possible.

Not that he couldn’t try regardless.

“Why? The police are on the lookout for any suspicious activity as is. Why give them an actual reason to pull us over?”

---

Shred Zeppelin howard slayte kyle lopez

Multiple bad decisions happen in a very short span, and surprisingly, none of them are your fault.

Why did Howard break the speed limit trying to beat a yellow light? You don't know. Why did he continue to floor it even after the light turned red? You don't know. Why, why, why did he do all of that in front of a fucking cop? You really, really, REALLY don't know. Would you have done the same? Maybe, but that isn't relevant right now. What's important is that the trunk is full of dirty money, and if it gets confiscated, you can't make rent this month.

"You GOON!" You slap Howard over the back of the head, the scowl on your face so fierce you could be mistaken for a Maschiff. "You just did all that illegal shit in front of a pig! What's wrong with you? Why would you do that?? Are you stupid???"

Yes, yes he is. Howard Slayte might just be the stupidest man alive, but right now, you've got to run damage control. Time to buckle down and shove as much of this mess under the rug as possible. If you play your cards right, you might get out of this horrible incident with nothing more than a ticket, a slap on the wrist, and a stern talking-to.

"Pull over, Howard, and keep your mouth shut." You shake your head and sigh, glancing over to Howard, then in the outside mirror at the approaching police officer, and then at the inside mirror at Grigori... Grigori! Shit, he's fucking CAKED in blood. One look at him, and all three of you are going straight to jail. There's no time to clean it up, no way to hide it, so there's only one choice... Your scowl deepens as you make the snap decision, pulling off your jacket and tossing it back to the man. "Gregory, take off your clothes, now!"

Shit, shit, don't freak out, don't freak out, just say calm, you've got this, you're strong, you're cool, you're sexy, you're beloved, you're the best, you're going to get out of this shit, you're going to win, YOU CAN DO THIS, YOU! CAN! DO! THIS!

...Arceus wept, you're so unfathomably fucked.

---

howard slayte Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck...!" Howard muttered as he saw Kyle in his rearview mirror. Of course there was a fucking cop! Of course! There had been two people fighting in the Burger Kingler parking lot, and nobody batted an eye! Oh, but when Howard sped through a red light on an empty street, there was a cop waiting in the bushes, quivering with excitement.

Slateport was the worst.

"We're gonna be fine! It's fine! Do what he says, Grigori!" Howard turned towards his colleague and frowned. Holy shit, what had Grigori and Shred done in that store? That was an obscene amount of blood! There was no way to turn that into a proper cover story without Shred's jacket.

"Yes officer, he just tripped over the ketchup packets at Burger Kingler."

"He's a winemaker."

"He's a painter!

All of those sounded equally shitty, and like a fast way to get arrested. Man, he couldn't go to prison! Who would pay his bail? Amor Rose? Tempest Quinn? Oh, oh! Maybe he could get Michael Navidson to save him! That would be a fun conversation.

"I'm pulling over...!" Howard flipped the blinkers and turned to park. "Fuuuuuuuuuuck."

His head donked against the steering wheel.

---

Shred Zeppelin Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez

Grigori wasted no time. His vest was torn off his body. Stitches ripped off their seams, making the armholes into normal holes. Since it was now a glorified towel, he used the inside to try and mop up the red stains on his face. Blood went onto the vest, sure, but he could feel the residual warmth be shifted around rather than properly taken off. He shoved it under his seat, embarrassed for even trying.

Next, he took Shred’s jacket. This thing... wasn’t going to fit him at all, was it? He knew that they were different sizes, but this thing was about two sizes too small. It’d look silly even to try. Yet the prospect of jail was no joke, even if all three deserved to be there. So, he shoved one arm into the hole. Went in relatively fine, if a little tight. This gave him hope. The grunt twisted his arm in an uncomfortable way, and then slid the jacket on without any–

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!

…Problems. “Sorry, Mr. Shred. I’m too big.”

No big deal. The officer wouldn’t see the back. Grigori squished himself into the small seat and managed to worm his way into the jacket entirely. His head hit the top of the car hard. Dull pain throbbed, and he craned his neck to a sixty-degree angle. Then his neck started to ache. “Mr. Howard, if we avoid detection, we’re going to have a long conversation about this.”

But they wouldn’t get caught. The key to acting calm was to be calm. It didn’t count against his promise to never tell a lie, because acting was merely pretending. It was his words he’d need to watch out for. “Do not let them ask me any questions, under any circumstances. Hear? Mr. Shred, give me some napkins, please.”

---

Shred Zeppelin howard slayte kyle lopez

This is not a good day for Team Shrigorward. To your right, Howard is having a complete and utter crisis, like his brain is about to explode. Meanwhile, instead of using your jacket like a blanket like you intended, Grigori just tried to put it on, and ripped it to pieces in the process. How did this get so bad so quickly? This is terrible. If the car had exploded in the middle of the intersection, it would've been less of a disaster.

You toss a clump of napkins back towards Grigori without even looking back at him, before shotgunning what remains of Howard’s Diet Bepis, also without looking over to him. Okay! Alright. Time to talk the talk, walk the walk, and if all else fails, reach for this cop’s gun.

Clearing your throat, you tap on the button, waiting for the window to slowly go down, before leaning your head out of the window to look towards the mysterious traffic officer.

"Evening, officer. What, uh… What seems to be the problem here?"

---

howard slayte Grigori Sokolov kyle lopez

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The window rolls down. The officer appears. Kyle Lopez prepares to give them a ticket.

Wait... Kyle Lopez? The Top Champion of Hoenn? One of the best players of Varoom Kart 64 in the entire region? One of the strongest trainers in the entire region?

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Kyle's face disappeared from view as Howard rolled up the window. Howard turned to Shred and Grigori. He said nothing, but his face said it all.

We're fucked.

Yet Howard actually seemed happy about it? Like, he seemed to legitimately be glad that the Top Champion had pulled them over. In actuality, it was the worst case scenario. Between Shred and Grigori (featuring a cameo appearance from Howard), the grunts could likely take a normal officer.

Kyle could fart and atomize the car.

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The window rolled back down, putting the Top Champion's face back into view. The Poochyena barked at Howard, and the archaeologist was jealous of that little dog. Getting to run around with Kyle probably meant that dog had seen some shit. At minimum, it probably got to see Kyle play Varoom Kart.

Lucky bastard.

"Of course, officer." Howard snapped his finger for Shred to hand him the registration information. "But first..."

Howard's eye sparkled as he leaned towards Kyle.

"Can I have your autograph?"

---

kyle lopez Shred Zeppelin Grigori Sokolov

Why did Shred drink all of Howard’s drink? That wasn’t particularly nice or fair. It doesn’t surprise Grigori, but it disappoints him. Friends didn’t steal one another’s drinks in times of distress or turmoil.

The grunt wiped his face clean. Within the tiny space of the rearview mirror, he confirmed that he had successfully gotten most of the blood off of his face. Some clung stubbornly to his skin, but so long as the cop did not ask, he would not tell. He shoved those into his lap, too late to throw them underneath the seat as well.

… Why did Howard roll the window back up? Even as his heart beat into his ears, it couldn’t hope to overwhelm his inner voice. A million questions raced through his head, and none of them were positive outlooks on the situation. The driver’s solemn gaze fueled this fire high.

A Poochyena barked. Grigori looked out the window to see the cute little dog right next to the police. He gives it a little wave, previous woes forgotten for the briefest of moments. Perhaps a life sentence wouldn’t be so bad, if it was at the hands of this small creature.

But his attention was whipped back to the present abruptly when Howard asked the cop for an auto– what the heck? Autograph?

“Mr. Shred,” Grigori tapped the man on the shoulder and tried to whisper quietly into his ear, “Who is this?”

---

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