It's a familiar situation in an unfamiliar place. You're well used to late night driving, long hours spend at the wheel, coasting down the road in the dark of the night. Slateport, though... Slateport is new. Never been there before. Still, you can't imagine it's much different to every other port town you've ever visited. The sights may change and the layouts may differ, but deep down, they're all the same. It doesn't matter if the fabric is in different shapes - All these types of modern-age cities are cut from the same cloth.

"Yeah, yeah..." You murmur under your breath, glancing to the left as you make the right turn.

You're not sure what to make of your "handler" yet. You know that they outrank you, and frankly, that's reason enough for you to dislike him on sheer principle alone. The only reason the high and mighty come to meet with the low and meek are because they have an agenda, an angle they want to push, a goal they want to fulfill. He's not here out of the goodness of his heart. He's not here because of some bond of brotherhood. He's here to inspect your performance, like an over-eager middle manager with too much time on his hands. He's here because he wants to know if you can actually do your job. He wants to know that you're not a colossal screw-up that can't be trusted with important work. That's rough for you, because you are a colossal screw-up who can't be trusted with important work. But, he doesn't know that yet, and if today goes well, he'll be kept in the dark, and you'll be kept in the good graces of your bosses.

Besides, this isn't the worst work you could be doing right now. All things considered, lugging around cages full of Woopers and Lechonks is easy compared to some of the dirty work you've done. All you have to do is--

Uh oh. Problem sighting. There's something ahead, blocking the road you've just turned into. Is it a car? A van? Criminal? Police? It's hard to tell. The lights on this street aren't working, the bulbs in the streetlamps devoid of light, and you get the feeling that isn't a coincidence. You push down on the brakes, but you don't stop fully. No, the slow drift will make a quick getaway easier, if it comes to that.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." A swear rolls along your tongue, but you flick it to the back of your throat. No point cursing just yet. No, there's no guarantee you're in trouble yet. You glance over to your accomplice as you continue to creep forward, ever closer to the roadblock, the range of options narrowing with every second. If it was up to you, you'd already be speeding away. But, it's not up to you, is it? No, you're not top dog right now, and if he's so much better than you, then he'll know what to do here. "Orders, boss...?"

You like to consider yourself something of a "wildcard". Unpredictable, erratic, like a lit firework, that sort of thing. It's not the sort of position that's particularly valued in modern crime organisations. Nobody actually wants a wildcard. A wildcard just causes problems and makes things difficult. Having a King and Queen is all well and good, but a "Joker of Crime"? That isn't a sweep. It's not a full house. They'd rather have a Jack. Actually, why is the Joker even in the deck if we're playing Poker?

Alright, forget the confused card game metaphor. The point is, the simpler the order, the more concise it is, the less liberties you can take with it, and the less opportunities you're given to screw it up. That is to say, "stop the car" and "open the window" are exactly the kind of orders that stifle that kind of inventive foolishness that causes problems.

In this specific case, that's more of a blessing than a curse.

You instinctively reach for a crank to open the window, but find nothing. This is one of those fancy modern automobiles, the kind that just has a button you push. Oh, those boffins and their innovations. What will they think of next? Anyway, click the switch down, aaaaaaaaaand...

"Evening, fellas. Mind helping me with my car? The engine up and died on me, and I can't get it running again."

Yeah, sure, buddy. Your car just happened to die blocking this specific route. You have half a mind to plug this guy before he can cause any more problems, but you manage to restrain your trigger finger. Sure, this guy might be a filthy pig or a rival ganger, but there's just as much chance that this is a genuine idiot, a moron who actually managed to brick his automobile in the middle of the road. You couldn't ventilate him in good conscience. Stupid people are your kith and kin. Besides, even if they're not, a dead body is a complication.

"Ah, see, well..." You begin, putting together an explanation in your head. But, again, you're sitting next to a big-timer, aren't you? Someone who has ran this type of job a hundred times over? Yeah, if this guy wants to breathe down your neck, then you're going to make him pull his weight. "I don't know, boss. Is this little stop going to interfere with the schedule? After all, we don't want to be late..."

What schedule? What are you late for? You don't know. Lying comes to you as naturally as breathing, but that doesn't mean that your lies are substantial. No, you're passing that particular problem to your superior. Come on, Beast. If you're so good, validate this rubbish excuse for an excuse. Make something into Something. Prove that you're deserving of that rank of yours. Prove that you're really as good as Shred Zeppelin. Hell, prove that you're better, if you really can.

---

Zev Harcourt

Well, this was a pain in the backside, wasn't it? He was persistent, you'll give him that, but it doesn't bode well for his act. After all, isn't he a little pushy for a total stranger, asking after your Electric-types? This guy's either a real piece of work, or he's a cop, though those aren't necessarily mutually exclusive. It's by no means a guarantee, but if it looks like a pig, and it talks like a pig, and it smells like a pig...

As your handler left the van to handle things, you let out a sigh and turn on the radio, only to be greeted by the affront of Slateport FM, in the middle of some tripe song about "loving your Pokemon partner" and "Being the best in spite of the trials and tribulations you face". It's terrible bubblegum nonsense, the kind that gets stuck in your ear as easily as it gets stuck to the bottom of your shoe, or in your hair. The kind of soulless drivel that infests everywhere. Even just hearing it makes your face scrunch up as though you've bit down on something sour. You fiddle with the knobs, but the other radio stations don't fair much better. Your choices are pop music, sell-out "rock" trash, country filth, and letting the static scratch your ears until it deadens your brain.

Idly, your eye looks around the van. It's a standard Rocket vehicle, loaned out whenever a mission calls for it, and predictably, it wasn't cleaned out between this mission and the last. Your gaze settles on something heavy. There is another option...

You're sure that the Rocket Beast has his own plan, but as you open your door and step out, you don't much care for whatever strategy he has in mind. No, yours will be much quicker, and it'll get your blood pumping, too. The man is fumbling with his keys, trying to find the fob that'll open the boot. He's just managed to unlock it by the time you're behind him...

THUNK!

It's a meaty, heavy sound as the loose wrench thwacks the bystander over the back of the head. You wish it were meatier and heavier, but you've learned to pull your punches over the years, to hold back just enough to keep the brain damage to a necessary minimum for survival. As their body falls limp and slumps down against the car boot, you instinctively take a step back, scanning your surroundings for witnesses. Then, you let out a satisifed exhale, pleased with your handiwork. Yeah, this is the good stuff. This is what you're familiar with. This is what growing up with a wild soul taught you. This is right.

After taking a moment to appreciate what you've done, you turn your attention back to your boss. Doubtless, he won't be pleased that you meddled, but you're more than used to talking around uppity better-than-thou types. But, you're not heartless. No, at the very least, you'll play dumb, cede the first rebuke to him for free, let him give you a verbal lash or two for good measure. After all, if you're not going to be reprimanded, what's the point of breaking the rules?

"Alright, got him. What's next?"

---

Zev Harcourt

Hm. Nothing? Really? For some reason, you find yourself surprised, and a little disappointed. You were really looking forward to getting into a petty and meaningless argument. Alas, twas not to be. What a shame.

With a shrug, you take a few dozen paces back, and let the Beast do his work. For a moment, you wonder what his plan is to clean this up. You're familiar with these kinds of consequences for your actions - Lugging this car to a chopshop is an thirty minute operation, maybe an hour if the workload is backed up real bad. And figuring out what to do with the pig? That's a tough one. Personally, you'd be content to toss him into a dumpster and leave him to his brain damage, but that's hardly good for your reputation. "Shred Zeppelin" can't become Hoenn Champion if a cop with a concussion puts out a warrant for his arrest. So, more likely, he's going to--

--Your musings are cut to a short as a yawning void opens wide and consumes the entire crime scene without so much as a second thought. The body, the car, all the evidence inside it, it all vanishes in an instant. There's nothing left of it. It's all gone. The only thing left to ever say that it existed is the wrench in your hand, the metal lightly speckled with crimson.

A low wolf whistle escapes your lips as you look at the perpetrator of that annihilation, the Gengar standing there with a grin on his face. You hate to admit it, but that was pretty slick. Turns out your boss isn't as lame as you'd assumed.

"Not bad, not bad at all..."

Still, this was little more than a diversion on your merry little quest. Sending that policeman straight to hell where he belongs wasn't the purpose of coming all the way out here. No, this was just a complication in your plain old delivery mission. You've still got a van packed full of cages of Fidough that aren't going to deliver themselves. But the night is still young, and there's still plenty of tranquiliser flowing through their systems. What better time to take a break than now? You've earned it.

Reaching into your jacket, you pull out a pack of cigarettes, plucking one from the box and placing it into your mouth. It's as your fumbling around looking for your lighter that your eyes drift over to your boss. Hm. Are you supposed to offer? You're not really sure how these junior-senior dynamics work. Frankly, you don't want to give him one of your cigarettes, but you suppose that after he showed you that trick with his Gengar, it's the least you could do. So, you flick the pack open a second time and twist your wrist in his direction, offering one of an identical selection to Zev.

"Take one. On the house, yeah?"

---

Zev Harcourt

As you light your cigarette, you take a moment to savour it. Not just the smoke, but the adrenaline, too. It's been a while since you've had to get your hands dirty. Too much time spent running, and not enough spent fighting, though typically, you find too much the latter inevitably leads to the former, anyway. Still, it's nice to know that petty violence is enough to get your blood pumping. If it wasn't, you'd start to think something inside you had gone off.

Such a shame you can't gorge on it like you want to, but it is what it is. Shred Zeppelin can't become champion if he's getting caught braining people willy-nilly. No, just a little indulgence every now and then will be enough to get you by, and so long as Team Rocket keeps offering you the chance at a fix, who are you to turn them down?

Nothing wrong with it. Just the way you were raised, the way you live. Can't be helped.

"Whatever you say, boss."

The obstruction's gone, and the evidence is, too. Nothing left to do but the job you were sent for. So, you jump back into the driver's seat and speed away, leaving the empty road behind.

---

Zev Harcourt