Business was bad today. You've got bite marks on your knuckles and a split lip as proof of that. The smuggling work went poorly, and the protection racket went even worse. Course, a few cuts and bruises was nothing compared to the verbal bollocking you'd get when you reported your results. Lord knew that if there was one thing that the Rocket Brass loved, it was lecturing. Fuckers couldn't get enough of it.

Still, as scuffed as today has been, you've got one last shot at turning it around. Arceus knows it's a long shot, but hey, what have you got to lose at this point? Might as well try it...

"Nobody's going to fuck you, mate." You announce yourself with that cheap jab, though you can't manage a smug smile to go along with it. Not with the day you've had. Still, you gain a meagre amount of joy in punching down, so you suppose in that sense, things are already looking up. "Not clockwise. And certainly not counter-clockwise, either."

With your presence made known, you entered into the alley, and lean on the wall across from Howard. A hand reaches into your coat pocket to fish out a lighter, while your other hand makes a vague gesture towards the archaeologist. You figure that's evocative enough to get your point across.

"Why the long face, bud? Did one of the college kids call you 'sheriff' again?"

---

howard slayte

"Impressive. Your humor is older than the antiques I transferred last month, old man."

This motherfucker. Shred was an individual that Howard had a mixture of contempt and tired resignation towards. As much of a asshole as he was, Shred's words were just that, words. It was better to hear something rather than nothing. At least when you heard something spoken towards you, you were still considered.

"Tsk. Here." Howard passed over a cigarette. The nerve on this guy... This wouldn't be the last time that Howard gave him a cigarette as he puffed in the man's face, though the smoke dispersed before it even got close to Shred's. Howard lowered his hat to avoid a possible smoke blowback. A wise and tactical move, Howard thought.

"Just like all that skin cream isn't gonna keep the wrinkles off. Whichever brand you're on isn't working, buddy." Howard grunted as he popped a muscle in his neck, rolling his head in the process. He stopped for a moment when he got a good look at Shred's face. "You look like shit. Maybe you should call the 'sheriff' on those college kids that keep giving you a trashing. Bad job?"

Of course, Team Rocket was full of bad jobs. Enforcing, protection, jobs, smuggling. All of these things fell under the group's purview. When you were a grunt, you did all these things and more. Howard was an exception with his skills. His schedule was flexible, as long as he brought in relics.

The one downside was that he had to deal with Shred. 

Even if he was far older than Howard, Shred could probably kick him around with minimal effort. Despite that, Howard was perfectly willing to talk shit with him, even if he was slightly higher up the Team Rocket totem poll than he was.

"It's been a long day with little to show for it. I have to head over to Mauville in the morning for a dig, and it'll be even longer."

---

Shred Zeppelin

How do you feel about Howard Slayte?

On one hand, the man doesn't like you. Really, you can't blame him for that. After all, you're the guy they send to harass him over the small details. If his projects were late, or if he went over-budget, or if anything else went wrong, then it's always you who ends up paying him a visit. That's bad enough, but he also has to deal with you mooching cigs and chatting shit. Frankly, the only reason he even slightly respects you is because you could kick the ever-loving shit out of him. Even then, that doesn't stop him from biting back.

On the other hand, isn't that part of the fun? The back and forth, the give and take, the push and pull. There's something primal about it that pumps dopamine through your brain. You suppose that's because it's a bit like fighting, isn't it? Except instead of cuts and bruises and broken bones, the worst wound you could get is to your pride. In that sense, Howard is a worthy opponent. A good sparring partner. Formidable in the battlefield of linguistics.

But, let it be known, you could still beat him mercilessly without hesitation. You could fold him; Like an omelette, like a lawn chair, like a pretzel, like a cheap suit, and like a bad hand in Poker. It has to be known just how badly you could fuck him up if you wanted to. Anyway...

"You know full well I'm not going to run to any pigs with my problems." You practically spit the word out as though it were poisonous. Still, the aroma of a lit cigarette does wonders to wash the taste out of your mouth. As you spark your lighter, you take a deep drag, before breathing out a long wisp of smoke. "Today was a wash. For your sake, I'll spare you the details. Don't want to drag you and your hard-earned diploma down to the gutter, do we?"

Well, wasn't this a nice bit of small talk? It's a shame that this is all just beating around the bush. Once the topic changes from your business to his, the opportunity to pry presents itself.

"Oh, yeah? Tell me a little more about that."

Your tone is not that of a friend trying to keep the conversation going, but of a teacher asking a student where their paper was. You don't even try to be subtle about it, because you don't need to be. After all, you both know that's the whole reason you're here.

---

howard slayte

'Hard earned diploma'.

Heh, fucker.

The undertone was clear as day. Despite his diploma and education, he was underneath a glorified thug and enforcer who constantly hounded him. Whenever Howard had the unfortunate chance to lay eyes upon Shred, it was always for some imagined slight or blunder. That was simply who the man was to the archaeologist: a glorified punishment for a failure to deliver valuables.

Yet in the end, that was simply how the world worked. Strength ruled above all in Team Rocket. Qualifications were irrelevant. Potential was null and void. The only thing that mattered was loyalty and results. If Howard failed to deliver valuables that would sell or had some secret power, he was shunned and didn't get paid.

Team Rocket was a cruel place.

"Of course." Howard smiled in response to Shred's disgust. He toed the line even closer. "You've always had troubles with the authorities, I forgot."

Howard and Shred had vastly different pasts, and they kept that to themselves. Of course, secrets weren't meant to be secrets forever. Pasts were like artifacts. You had to unearth them, carefully brush around them, remove them, and inspect them. At the end of it all, you decided how to best use them. They taught you how people ticked, what made them angry. In that sense, people were like ancient civilizations. You learned more about them by digging up remains of the past. 

Therefore, their different pasts were like a loaded gun: easy to reach out for and grab, if you were willing to suffer the consequences. Yet that wasn't important. To business, then.

"I'll be heading up to Route 111 for a dig. The sands should be shifting around this time of year. I expect to run into some ruins when the dunes churn in a few days." Howard grunted as he puffed another cigarette. "A few fossils would be nice. We'll see how it goes."

Route 111 was a harsh area, filled with sandstorms and quicksand and enough sand to fill an ocean. It was also treacherous to cross. That was good, Howard had no desire to see anyone. Or perhaps Shred's presence was making him moody. It was hard to tell.

"You have a problem with that, old man?" Howard raised an eyebrow in expectation.

---

Shred Zeppelin

"Problem? Me?" You snort, smoke venting out of your nostrils as you do so. "Nah. Honestly, I couldn't care less. But my opinion on the matter doesn't really play into this, does it? It's all about what the higher-ups think."

An audible sigh escapes your lips. Always what the higher-ups think, isn't it? Never much care for what the boots on the ground thought, was there? Though, you suppose that's just the way of the world. It's always the people with the money and the power that get to decide how things go. It doesn't matter whether you've thrown your lot in with the League or with Rocket, it's the same shit. You don't climb the ranks by being better than others, you climb by having friends in high places to pull you up. As always, nepotism rules. The only difference is, Rocket is at least transparent about it.

But bitching about it won't help anything, and the last thing Howard wants to hear is you shifting the blame to someone else. So, to cut to the chase...

"They want more." You say, pausing for a moment before you elaborate. "More relics to pawn off, that is. I don't know if they're hurting for funds, or if they're just trying to pad their pockets, and I don't care to pry. What matters is, they want you to kick it up to the next gear. They're already lining up more clients, and they're expecting products to sell."

You don't even have any wisecracks for this one. There's no quips to make here. Even you, a common grunt with no greater knowledge of archaeology, know that this is a ROUGH deal, capital letters, full stop.

"Yeah. Sorry, mate."

---

howard slayte

"Heh. Assholes." Howard stared forward as smoke bellowed out of his mouth like a dragon. The ash from a thousand cigarettes couldn't quash the dusty feeling that washed over Howard's tongue. He sat there for a moment and gathered his thoughts.

Of course they wanted more. What sort of organization like this didn't want more than what they already had? It was such an easy word to say, too. 'More'. It was the type of thing you'd hear from shareholders or a poor manager at a store. More profits, more hours, more sales. More, more, more. With one exception. Bosses and administrators seemed to forget what the word meant when you asked for more money.

They acted like you were speaking an ancient Hoenn dialect that nobody but a specific few could even hope to translate, let alone comprehend.

Howard sat in a field few could ever dream of understanding fully. Why understand something when you could pay someone else to understand it and make money off it for you?

"Growing a heart in your old age? I didn't think you had it in you. Howard laughed humorlessly. It's not your fault, man. It's mine for getting into this shitshow of a business. Thought there'd be more to it then this endless grind.

It sounded childish to say out loud, but Howard didn't really care much. He was sitting out behind a cheap slushie store with someone in his forties. The two of them were simply dancing along to the strings of their superiors. Eventually, those strings would be cut, and that was that. It was humbling to imagine. Shred got torn apart for various brutal jobs that ended with him being brutalized and sore in the morning. Howard never worked with him, but he could tell that Shred's job was excellent at putting him through the wringer.

Meanwhile, Howard got crushed under paperwork and the demands of those too distant to understand his plight.

"It's childish." Howard said. "You have my funds from the last transfer?"

---

Shred Zeppelin

"Yeah, I got the money. That's the good news."

Digging a hand into your jacket pocket, you fish around for a bit, before producing a creased envelope with the word SLAYTE crudely scribbled on the back. Taking a few sluggish steps forward, you hand it over to Howard, giving him his hard-earned payment, before retracing your steps back to the wall. Sure enough, he'll find all the money he was promised, enough Pokedollars to continue scraping out a meagre life, just enough to let him keep chasing his dream, but not enough to catch it. Poor bastard. He's not locked up, but they've got him caged all the same. With the way the Rocket rat race works, he's not getting anywhere, let alone getting there fast. And, as you're about to tell him, he's about to be getting there even slower.

"Hope you enjoy it, because it won't be getting any higher." You explain, repeating your dull recollection of the same explanation you were given. "Apparently, the budget for 'traditional relics' is getting cut so they can invest more in 'extraterrial and outerdimensional artifacts', whatever the fuck that means."

A frown settles upon your face. You don't like this either, because when life gets harder for Howard, it gets harder for you, too. Turns out, the phrase "don't shoot the messenger" isn't very popular among criminals. Much the opposite, they quite enjoy making an example of the middlemen. You might outrank Howard by technicality, but in the greater machine of Team Rocket, you're the replacable part here. His skillset is valuable and hard to cultivate, but your job can just as easily be done by any of the hundreds of thugs that flock to the organisation like flies. Hell, most of them would probably do it better than you, too.

That's the second reason you don't like this. The first reason is that you've also been told your cut of the profit isn't going to be increasing, either, and that's really fucked you off.

"So, yeah."

You turn your head to stare up at the sky, only to be greeted by an overcast gloom. You can just about make out the glow of the moon behind the sea of dark clouds, but that's hardly a match for the vast ocean of the cosmos that lies behind the murk. Right now, there's hardly much to look at. Still, you look anyway.

"That's that."

---

howard slayte

Howard received the envelope of money with a grunt of affirmation. It wasn't one of thanks, because there was little to be thankful for. It was enough to live off of, but not enough to live at the level that someone highly educated was expected to thrive at. Nonetheless, it was pay, and it would allow Howard to continue scraping by. He didn't even check the amount in the envelope as he slipped it into his bag. It didn't matter, it was always the same. Perhaps Team Rocket would grant him a larger stipend if he brought in something truly spectacular, but what did they expect him to do? Unearth some ancient superweapon? It was childish.

Nonetheless, for a man like Shred Zeppelin, who had partaken in every vice on this side of the planet, the money seemed pitiful. It was, but Howard was an expert at stretching money as far as he could, whenever it wasn't wasted on valuable artifacts. The wonderful thing about the wilderness was that you didn't have to pay rent to sleep under a tree in a sleeping bag, or pay the rocks blood money to pitch your tent on them. In that way, Howard excelled not only in his field, but on Team Rocket's budget. Shred or any other middleman could threaten him easily if he dared to go over his budget. Yet because he was frugal and didn't enjoy confrontation, it never happened.

They were puppets dancing to a string.

"What a load of shit." Howard grunted as he flicked his cigarette against the ground to kick off the ashen end. "It's a bunch of nothing. Just a load of nothing that the scientists say so they can siphon more funding to their own personal projects. I could bring in enough money to fund Team Rocket for a year, and you could succeed in whatever brutal shit they're making you do... Howard trailed off. He didn't really want to know what Shred was up to. It was ominous and dark, and he was a simple scholar. "Wouldn't matter. They'll cite some bureaucratic nonsense such as 'reorganizing'."

Team Rocket loved to pretend that it was tough, that it was the antithesis to the League. In the end, it still followed the same bureaucratic cycle of paperwork and back-scratching that the League did.

Howard looked up at the same sky. This was all that they had to their lives. Maybe they'd eventually crawl up the ladder, but more likely they'd become part of a tower of corpses that someone climbed over. It was why Howard preferred the ground. The sky was pretty, full of possibilities for those capable of reaching it. Yet in the end, what was it but a hoax? A lie?

The ground didn't betray you. It yielded secrets if you put enough work into it.

That's that. Howard echoed.

---

Shred Zeppelin

"It is what it is."

That's a funny phrase, isn't it? You might as well just say "Yeah, it's fucked, but we can't do anything about it", but that's hardly what anybody wants to hear, is it? No, because to say it so bluntly would be admitting defeat, acknowledging that you're just a cog in a machine, and letting yourself turn. It's one of the many grim facts of this world, ruled by the few with the luxury of being born wealthy, but, well... It is what it is, isn't it?

You breathe a sigh, accompanied with one last gust of smoke. No point getting bogged down in the mire of the modern economic and sociopolitical situation of the world. You already worked through that phase as a teenager, and you're far too busy to repeat it.

"Well, if anything changes, I'll be in touch." You drop your cigarette down to the ground, stamping out the last embers with the heel of your boot. This little chit-chat's been nice, but it's time to wrap this up. After all, you've both got to be up bright and early tomorrow. "In the meantime, try not to get buried alive, yeah?"

With that rather glib warning, you begin to walk away, away from this unassuming alleyway, and off into the city. No point being too flowery about it. You'll inevitably see each other again, in a non-descript alleyway like this, discussing the exact same topics you discussed tonight. Such is the nature of your relationship: It's always a matter of "when", not "if". It might not be the same time and the same place, but you'll meet again, of that much, you're certain.

"Night."

And with that, you disappear into the concrete jungle, leaving Howard alone with his thoughts.

---

howard slayte

"Never say that. I fucking hate that saying." Howard grunted, and it was true. Howard despised that saying because it was a proclamation of defeat. It was heralded as a symbol of an individual who accepted circumstances, faced them maturely, and continued marching forward towards their goal and destination.

Fuck that shit.

If your dig went south, if your translation was stuck, if your diving suit malfunctioned, you did not say 'it is what it is' as your lungs filled with seawater. You clawed your way up towards that breakthrough, towards that gulp of fresh air, towards that next dig site. You pushed forward and desperately tried to find something that would let you make a place for yourself in a world that simply did not care.

Yet in the end, the world didn't care. It was such a childish way to think. Howard knew that if he elaborated on his prior statement, Shred would spit in his face and call him an utter tool. He'd mock him as a child, and maybe he was, in a way. He didn't know Shred's story, beyond a sarcastic snippet that the older man dropped in-between a slew of insults.

"Night." Howard grunted. "I'll contact you when I have something useful. He watched as his Team Rocket contact disappeared into the night. He sat there for a moment as other buildings began to shut their lights off. Howard stood up. "It is not what it is. It's not." Howard vowed, even as his heart dragged him back towards the darkness of his position.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing its light into ash, before disappearing into the opposite direction; into the night.

---

Shred Zeppelin