Thomas, as a rule, overdressed for everything. It was an aspect of his personality that was present whether he was himself, or the Nightingale. Often, it was a double-edged sword, for wearing cotton jersey would be just as opprobrious as having to clean bloodstains out of silk brocade.

At least, in this costume, his cane looked more like a prop than an actual tool.

It heartened him, then, to see his associate had done the same.

“Apologies for any tardiness,” Thomas announced, though he was very sure he was right on time, as he approached the only other overdressed man on the street. Indeed, the establishment was fine, and the patrons dressed well, but none had quite such well-pressed suits.

At first instinct, Zev Harcourt struck him as a professional. It was a respectable first impression. And he knew, of himself, those often didn’t come off so well. But a misleading introduction could be a tool-- one he wielded as well as any weapon.

He gave the door attendant a nod, gesturing within with the ground point of his cane. “Shall we?”

Zev Harcourt

☉

Hoenn was, undoubtedly, a vibrant and bustling locale, though not one so in need of his particular services, until quite recently. Perhaps because the market was so saturated with those willing to get their hands dirty. And maybe, if Thomas was being truthful, maybe he was becoming more selective about his clientele and scope of work in his old age.

But with all the unrest and doomsday talk, lately, and very few outlets through which to seem genuinely productive, he was more than looking forward to a good old chance to slit some throats.

You could call nearing thirty old when you were in his line of work.

As far as Zev, well, he seemed quite the accurate picture. Look up mercenary in the dictionary and there was an image of him to the left of the bolded word. Precise, professional, that well cultivated sort of empty that was both an intimidation and survival tactic. One of many facets: flattened to sharpness and disconnected.

As they enter the lounge, he allows himself a measured, deep breath; he didn’t smoke but always enjoyed the scent of freshly-lit tobacco. He followed Zev through the building, their bodies drawing contrails in the faintly silver-tinged air.

He inclined his head to the club attendant in gratitude as he crossed the threshold into the lift, the foot of his cane knocking hollowly against the floor of the elevator car. He used the tool to depress the third floor button, then wrapped his long gloved fingers over the golden handle, dimming the gleam of it in the elevator potlights.

“Only the third floor,” he said, voice a shock in the quiet, humming car. “How brazen.” A smile like the smoke still clinging to their clothes curled across his face.

The car clunked to a stop; the doors swooshed open.

Zev Harcourt
holy goddamn ballsack SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT

☉

The last man was armed with a Pokemon which, in this world, was the norm. That so many of his compatriots touted guns and blades was the exception to the rule.

It was a Sneasel, and though fast and deadly, it wasn’t prepared for the simple brute force of Peter, charging into it. The Sharp Claw Pokemon aimed the devices for which it was named at Thomas’ gut but was broadsided by the big, burly form of Nightingale’s Gabite bodying it into a chair.

Now defenseless as his Pokemon wrestled with the much larger dragon, the thug hesitated, stuck somewhere between fleeing and staying to fight. It would be his undoing. Thomas stepped forward and, in a fluid, practiced movement, slipped the line of his cane around the back of the thug’s neck. With a flick of his wrist, it snapped to the thug’s throat, the end of it meeting Thomas’ hand behind his own head. A quick, jagged movement caught the man’s chin and snapped it almost one hundred and eighty degrees, dropping him like a sack of wet kittens.

Peter finished the Sneasel off with a large chomp to the head, crushing the smaller dual-types cranium between his jaws. He stood, viscera sliding in the spaces between his teeth. Thomas recalled him.

“Unfortunate for them,” he said, in the quiet that followed.

Zev Harcourt

☉