The invitation to meet with one of the newest Rocket admins had not come by email or phone call. No, it arrived handwritten on perfumed stationery, folded into an envelope closed with a wax seal bearing an elaborate 'F'. Tucked inside with the letter were the dried remnants of a black pearl rose. A quick search on the Internet confirmed Zev's suspicions: its deep red color signified death.

And so, on the appointed day, he dressed for a funeral. Tailored black suit, white shirt freshly ironed, black tie, black leather gloves. In one hand, he carried a briefcase filled with tools for the task required of him.

As Zev made his way through Rocket Headquarters — not his first time, and certainly not his last — he reviewed what information he had researched ahead of time on the woman named Elisabeth Fiorelli. A widow and florist, she ran a successful business near Petalburg City. On paper, she seemed completely innocuous, the kind of gentle woman who enjoyed many friendships and had to fend off just as many paramours. But Zev was intimately familiar with masks. Sufficient digging had revealed Fiorelli's skills with poisons and her secret sale of them to members of Team Rocket.

He reached her office in no time, knocked twice on the door, then let himself in.

The woman facing him was exactly what he had envisioned, seated behind that mahogany desk with prim posture and the hint of a smile that revealed nothing of her thoughts. In any other context, he might have mistaken her as an innocent civilian, harmless, passive. The knowledge that she was not, however, caused his own lips to curl into an amused smile.

"Pleasant enough, Ms. Fiorelli," Zev replied, pulling on aspects of his persona to project the relaxed, amiable demeanor that small talk required. "Thank you for the invitation. It's not often I get to come to headquarters."

Let's cut to the chase, Fiorelli, he thought, on the other hand. Show me the limbs you want severed. Let my knives do all the talking you wish to hear.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt

At Fiorelli's suggestion, Zev lowered himself into the indicated chair, setting down his suitcase on the floor beside him. With a sidelong glance at the Misdreavus, he took the proffered mugshot photo and examined it with a critical eye. At once, he recognized the man scowling back at him, though the face was younger than he remembered; perhaps the photo had been taken before they'd met.

"Akira Lang," Zev said, his brow furrowing slightly as he sorted through his memories of the man. "I didn't think he was still alive," he admitted. Disdain seeped into his tone and curled his lip. "Though he was one of many hitmen contracted by Team Rocket during and after the war, he was completely unprofessional. A disgrace to the business, to be frank. He broke client confidentiality more than once, and his murders were little more than wanton slaughter. I figured someone would have put a bullet between his eyes by now to spare us all the embarrassment."

Zev returned the photograph to the top of Fiorelli's desk as she explained the situation with Lang. He found himself nodding, even before she reached her conclusion and her reasoning for summoning him.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Lang has always been stubborn, so I'm not surprised he's kept his mouth shut so far." And then Zev smirked. He met Fiorelli's cold gaze with bright eyes eager for blood, the only indication of his true nature amidst the calm, relaxed demeanor with which he sat in her chair. "But I bet he won't be able to stand the pain I can inflict. Lang always had a sadistic streak. It will be amusing to dish out what he thought himself incapable of receiving from others. With that, I can get you whatever answers you want, as long as you're there to ask the questions."

Though it seemed Fiorelli could sit behind that desk for eternity, happy to move at a pace that suited her, Zev's own patience was running out. Restless, he stood, picking up his suitcase in the process.

"Lead the way, Ms. Fiorelli."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt

TRIGGER WARNING: TORTURE

Fiorelli's offer to remain anonymous while Zev worked was considerate, but as soon as he had recognized the person in the mugshot as Akira Lang, he had found himself amused at the thought of such an unfortunate reunion. For Lang, of course. On Zev's end, he could derive a little pleasure from ridding the world of such an amateur assassin who had dared be his competition.

Upon entering Lang's cell, Zev looked around, first at the captive bound to a chair in the center of the room, then at the chamber's other features. The floor was plain, not tiled, which made cleaning it easier. In its center was a small, circular storm drain. The walls were plain as well and bore no windows. A single overhead light hung from the ceiling, and though it possessed sufficient illumination by which Zev could work, it did not quite reach the corners of the cell.

Finally, Zev noticed a small table nearby, along a wall of the room. He walked over to it and opened his briefcase on top of it, revealing an assortment of tools: clean towels, a handful of black latex gloves, duct tape, and so many knives.

Ignoring the muffled protests of a confused Lang, Zev took his time getting ready, moving at a calm, methodical pace that could rival Fiorelli's patience. The usual thrill he felt from preparing for a kill had not stirred within him yet. He removed his suit jacket and folded it carefully on the table, removed his leather gloves and tucked them between the folds of his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves above his elbows. He took a moment to check that his tie was properly clipped to his shirt, then he pulled on a pair of the latex gloves and selected a knife from the briefcase. With its slightly curved blade, it seemed like a cross between a butcher's breaking knife and a hunting knife.

Finally ready to work, Zev walked back to the center of the room and stood before Lang. With his free hand, he pulled down the prisoner's gag and caught a whiff of some kind of poison. Freed from the gag, Lang promptly spewed a list of obscenities at Fiorelli, his words slurring together slightly from the poison.

"Now, Lang, that's no way to speak to a lady," Zev interrupted, grabbing the other man's jaw in his free hand and forcing his head back. If he hadn't been wearing the blindfold, he would be looking directly into Zev's looming face.

Lang sputtered and choked, but grit his teeth and turned his vehemence upon Zev. "Fucking Rocket dog," he snarled. "Bootlicking swine. I'll cut your belly open and feed you your own entrails."

"Is that what you want me to do to you today? Kind of difficult to make threats in this position, isn't it?" Using the tip of his knife, Zev pushed up the blindfold and let Lang's eyes focus on him. The rage there transformed instantly into recognition and fear.

"Harcourt," the bound man whispered. His fists clenched to hide the trembling.

Zev smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, but a wicked one. "Been a while. We are going to play today, you and me." He slowly ran the knife's tip down the side of Lang's nose, letting the blade bite through skin just enough to draw blood. Instinctively, Lang jerked away — or tried, at any rate. His bindings and Zev's vice grip kept him from moving very far. "Here are the rules. You answer Ms. Fiorelli's questions truthfully, and I will end your life cleanly. If you resist, however, I'll make it as slow and agonizing as possible. And from what I can tell, Ms. Fiorelli here has all the time in the world to watch your suffering."

To Lang's credit, he was not as much a coward as Zev expected him to be. "I'm not telling you shit," he spat.

Zev sighed, his smile fading. "Fine. The hard way it is."

Then, with the apathy of a man peeling the skin off an apple, he slowly and carefully sliced off Lang's nose. The screaming started immediately.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt

TRIGGER WARNING: TORTURE

Lang's screams did not subside right away. He gasped and sputtered around the blood that had spilled into his open mouth, horrified by the copper taste of it and by the excruciating pain. Zev sighed, impatient. Leaning back, he ripped through the front of Lang's shirt with his knife, exposing the bare torso of the other man's chest. Lang flinched at the touch of the knife's edge against his skin, though Zev skillfully avoided leaving new cuts.

When the knife continued downward past the prisoner's stomach, however, he finally stuttered at Fiorelli, "A-Akira Lang. My name is Akira Lang and I'm a freelancer — my allegiance is to no one."

Zev raised an eyebrow at that, though his expression remained indifferent, even edging toward boredom. He reached down with his free hand, the glove slick with Lang's own blood, and began undoing the front of Lang's pants. The knife tip hovered dangerously there, pressed lightly into the sensitive skin above the prisoner's groin.

The confession continued. "B-But I was hired by the Rangers recently. That's why you want me, isn't it?" Lang licked his lips nervously, a disgusting act thanks to the blood streaming down the front of his face. "You Rockets want every edge you can get over the League."

Without warning, Zev slammed the knife tip down into the back of Lang's left hand, skewering it and severing bone. He cried out in equal parts shock and agony, having expected pain elsewhere due to Zev's bait-and-switch, and writhed in his bonds.

"Ms. Fiorelli didn't ask for your opinion, did she?" Zev said in a low, dangerous tone. "Stay focused, Lang."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt

Zev drew away when Elisabeth neared, removing the knife from Lang's hand as he went. As she worked her own form of torture upon their captive, Zev took to prowling in a circle around the chair, his predatory form ever-present in the background or in the periphery of Lang's vision. He picked up a clean towel from his briefcase as he passed the small table situated on the side of the room and unobtrusively handed it to Elisabeth so she could wipe her fingers after she stepped away from the prisoner.

They stood side-by-side facing the chair. The woman with her back straight, a vision of stateliness, her fine features twisted with wickedness. The man looming in the half-darkness, blood-slicked knife in hand, eyes bright with wolflike hunger.

Lang's gaze darted between his abusers in rapid sequence, back and forth, back and forth. Anxiety. Though Elisabeth had not necessarily promised to spare him, perhaps he thought she had; after all, the Rangers had spared him after he'd given them information during their own interrogations of him. Would he gamble with the possibility of life, even if it meant a disfigured face and a hand that would struggle to hold a weapon again?

How many more body parts was he willing to lose?

None, apparently.

"Do you remember the colossal Pokémon from three or so years ago?" Lang said, relenting. "The Tentacruel attacks on Slateport and Lilycove? The Rangers were the ones who stopped them. They have secret files — studies — on the incidents in Ranger Headquarters. Maybe it's something you — Rocket — we can use."

He chuckled nervously.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt

Zev chuckled at her insinuation. It was a hollow, amused sound that suited him well.

"I'm an assassin, not a pervert," he said to her without any indication of offense taken.

It was true, though, that many men like him were perverts when it came to murder. If he were any lesser man, he might be the same. But Zev Harcourt was a professional, and he was not like lesser men. While he would not deny the pleasure he reaped from killing people, if he had to be honest, torture was not his preference. He found that hunting down his prey as it fled from him was more enjoyable, comparatively. It was a thrill that stoked his bloodlust and made the killing all the sweeter.

No, Lang would not sate his hunger that day. Perhaps later, with someone else.

Zev crossed the room to their captive's bound form. He regarded the terrified Lang with dispassion, as if a butcher analyzing a slab of meat to determine the right cut. Then, without any warning whatsoever, Zev slid his knife cleanly between two of Lang's ribs. A fatal stab to the heart.

The prisoner died in moments, slumped in his chair.

Wordlessly, Zev extracted the knife from the corpse and returned to his briefcase. With a fresh towel, he cleaned the blood off the knife, wiped any droplets from his arms, removed and bagged the used latex gloves, and packed everything up. He slid into his suit jacket and rejoined Elisabeth at the door of the chamber.

"I hope my performance was to your satisfaction, Ms. Fiorelli," Zev said, once again drawing on his false persona to bring a light, casual emotion to his voice. The smile he gave her was false, too, as if sharing a joke that only they could laugh about: Look at us, two monsters wearing masks.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

NOTES
+ Mission: The Admins are Corrupt