These missions were the ones Grigori loathed the most. A younger version of himself would've been ecstatic for numerous reasons. Perhaps because he was going to be accompanied by a more senior member. Because he got to be violent and let himself do whatever he wanted. Because maybe he'd get a pay raise from it.

But that Grigori was long gone. This one loathed every step he took down the street, dressed as he always was. There was a reason he let everyone else get their pick of the available missions, or request certain 'problems' to take care of. All the young recruits jumped at the opportunity for stuff like this. Wanted to claw and tear their way up the ladder.

At least old and current him had always agreed there: stability was best, and a raise in status would only put that in jeopardy. And if this mission went extremely medicore-ish, then he might get the chance to keep things as they were. Perhaps even convince this defector to leave the country and never look back. 

At least, that's what he WOULD tell himself if he hadn't promised to never tell a lie again. As he slowly approached Zev, he pulled his mind out of the depths of despair. The less emotion, the better.

"Good evening, Mr. Harcourt," Grigori responded. Unlike his boss, he didn't adopt a quieter voice. No one came around this area. "I have no questions at this moment, though the brief did not mention potential escape routes. I went ahead and scouted earlier, took note of a fire exit directly outside our target's window, and the stairway that leads to the roof. Worse comes to worst, we can flee on the rooftops if things get... rough."

'Target'. A 'trick' they used in the military (or so he heard). Less humanized, the better. 

Then... why did his muscles shake? His mind in top gear, still stuck on that one night? Grigori knew why, but he was allowed self ignorance. Unless, of course, this doomed soul forbade it. Time would tell.

"Best be quick and quiet," Grigori turned to the relevant building and started towards it, "Well... my apologies. Presumptuous of me to pretend this is your first mission, Mr. Harcourt. I'm sure we both know how best to act."

---

Zev Harcourt

In response to Zev's release of a Gengar, Grigori would release his own Pokémon: a Scizor. Once again, not at all an attempt to remain naturally hidden. Any light at all would catch and reflect off its carapace. The grunt nodded to the Pokémon, which nodded back and dashed ahead. By the time it mattered, the bug would be in position on the stair well. 

"Front door is usually the best door," the grunt agreed. Especially in a place like an apartment complex. Those didn't have the back doors found in houses. Options for escape were to jump out a window, fire escape, or somehow get through the front door.

If that managed to happen, then these two weren't suited for their positions in Team Rocket.

Fighting types? That would only be problematic in the sense that they liked to cause commotion. Make noise. "If you can handle any deployed Pokémon, I can handle the target. Of course, if you agree with it."

He took the lead up the stairs, careful to not make any sudden noises. A plan started to form inside his head. "I'm unsure what you have in mind," Grigori whispered, "but I picture we sneak in, silence the target, then make our exit. If our target is awake, then we hit fast and hard. If it drags out, then perhaps best to go loud and deal with the consequences' afterword."

Strictly business. The grunt regarded this operation as a banker would a transfer of funds. Yet in such close quarters, it was impossible to ignore the way he took his time up the stairs. How Grigori gripped the handrail with bone white knuckles. Or the tense air that surrounded the man, palpable enough to cut with a knife. 

What could possibly get him so anxious? So tense? Impossible to guess. 

They reached the top of the stairs. The grunt crept along the floor, like a snake in a shadow. At the end of the hall was their target. Despite the eerie quiet that engulfed the space, faint movement and rumbles of activity made it present that one of these rooms had activity. Each door they passed crossed it off as the source, until they stood in front of the targets' door. The apartment that belonged to Miles Dubois. 

Fuck. "You want to take point, or me?"

---

Zev Harcourt

Grigori could do this. Just like all those other times, and especially not like the last time. Defectors weren't usually paragons of morality, either. Most of them ran, but continued a life of crime. Didn't like bosses. Miles didn't seem the noble type in his file. This wouldn't be like the last time.

Each heartbeat rang in his ears, a fast-paced drum that kept an impossibly high tempo for such low stakes action. The soft click of the lock cut through the silence like a knife through warm butter. Slowly, the door opened. The grunt followed close behind. He could not fuck up his first mission with a higher up, and especially not his first mission since THAT day.

Unfortunately, the target was wide awake. Fully aware of the situation almost immediately.

(Un)fortunately, Grigori's adrenaline spiked as soon as the man raised his voice.

Instincts took over immediately. "Watch out!"

A poke ball was drawn from his belt and thrown with all his might. Right into the forehead of the Pawmo that dove straight for his partner. It took it off course enough to send it right past him. Those 'cute' Pokémon could be surprisingly vicious if given then chance. Shred learned the hard way a few weeks earlier.

"Imp, cover us!" Grigori watched the thrown sphere return back down to the ground, and out from it came a Grimmsnarl. Just in time, too, as their target deployed yet another Pokémon.

"Stop 'em, Primeape!" Out came yet another creature, similar to the Pawmo. Except bigger, fuzzier, and a lot angrier. It charged right at the Grimmsnarl, readying a Drain Punch. Right before it made contact, the Grimmsnarl clapped both its hands right on the furious ball's forehead. Fake Out.

Quiet wasn't an option. Even worse, the Grimmsnarl took up a large amount of room and that Primeape would just maul either man if they tried to get close. Unlike Zev, the target knew the escape routes by heart and muscle memory. He headed for the fire escape...

"Mr. Harcourt, get me an opening now!" the grunt commanded. Rank mattered little if they failed. In the meantime, he got half a foot away from his own pokemon, ready to capitalize on whatever managed to make happen.

---

Zev Harcourt  

Zev ran forward. Grigori had to restrain himself from reaching out and stopping the man himself. Sometimes the most necessary action was to put yourself in harm's way. Especially in cases such as this, when the target had a prime exit opportunity. Not nearly as prime as he would’ve immediately thought, but he had better odds than to stay.

Pawmo would need to be Zev’s own problem, as there was no clear line of sight. While the Primeape attempted to pivot around and attack the person instead, Imp quickly positioned itself between the two. It ate the nasty Drain Punch instead, a firm blow to its chest. However, that left it in a precarious enough position that it couldn’t escape its grasp. It attacked with its own roughhousing, a Play Rough that kept it preoccupied.

Perfect timing, then. Miles knew that he stood stuck between a rock and a hard place. So, he ran towards the rock past Zev. Grigori stanced up, ready to take the man on directly. As soon as he got in range he–

“Too slow!” Miles taunted. His plan wasn’t to run past the grunt, but right into him. They both fell to the ground, limbs tangled. The grunt tried to grab onto just about anything on the target, but somehow failed. Slippery as a Magikarp, he evaded immediate capture. “You’re the best they could send?!”

“Yes,” Grigori lashed out at Miles’ legs with surprising force. Enough to throw him off balance, which toppled directly next to the front door instead of through it. A meaty thud echoed throughout the room. “You won't get away that easily!”

Grigori rose quickly, just in time to pin Miles against the wall. Unfortunately for him, that meant little. A quiet click, and--

"GRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH--"

His grip weakened immensely. Thick, heavy jolts of pain cascaded from his side. He didn't need to look down to know that a blade dug deep into his flesh. One hand reached for the knife and pulled it out. It clattered to the ground, covered in fresh blood. "Zev, help!"

---

Zev Harcourt

Grigori flinched as the crystal extended. Blood painted the area around Miles–the target. He kept one hand pressed against the wound, desperate to keep it from bleeding hard. His heart pounded against his chest, adrenaline thick in his blood. It'd sting for weeks to come, but not the worst in the world.

Arceus above, he should’ve fucking stayed home. Came up with an excuse. Taken up more missions in his downtime. Twiddled his thumbs while some other fucker got the ‘luxury’ of a mission with someone like Zev. Hell, he should’ve offered to do all the hard work himself as a show of ‘strength’.

At least the man would’ve had a halfway respectful fucking sendoff and not become an impromptu art display. He shouldn’t have asked for help. Should’ve figured it out on his own. Grigori grunted and sat upright the best he could, “I’ll live–”

Oh, Arceus, the smell. The sight. So clean, yet so bloody. Miles had been alive not a minute before, and now his corpse clattered to the ground. Empty. A rush of nausea and déjà vu sent his head into a whirlwind. Words got caught in the back of his throat.

He swallowed. No. Look away. Push yourself up. Do not connect the dots. This man does NOT look like him. Nothing at all. Focus. Focus. Loud noises. His own deep, laborious breath. Not that, from earlier. They needed to go. Now.

“Won’t matter if we get caught. Need to retreat. Mission complete. Whatever.”

Slowly, he rose to his feet. He peeled off his vest before they left. For medical purposes, they’d need to cut it off anyway for stitches. It did no good here. For personal reasons, he draped it over the tar-- Miles.

He started to hobble over to the window. The rooftop would probably not end well, and the way they came almost begged to end in capture. “Cops usually don’t hang out around this area, we should be good if we–”

A bump into the Grimmsnarl sent him stumbling. All the way across the room, into the kitchen. Fuck, this hurt. When had the last time been since he’d been stabbed? It never felt this excruciating before. Blade must’ve gone deeper than he thought. That or the adrenaline wore off.

Or both. “...Hurry."

---

Zev Harcourt
 

“I said we need to hurry,” Grigori complained as the Hatterene emerged. Why waste time doing this here when they still needed to vacate the premises? His care could wait a minute.

Yet as the Heal Pulse took effect, his gripes slowly faded. They still remained, but perhaps most of it could’ve been attributed to the mind-numbing pain. Now, the bleeding slowed to a trickle. That metaphorical red-hot knife in his side became just a thorn.

“...Thanks, Mr. Harcourt.” That was all he said before he retreated the Grimmsnarl and hobbled over to the window. “Let’s get out of here before half the neighborhood comes down on us.”

So, with the help of the Gengar, the two men descended the fire escape and returned to street level. While the road they came from lay on one side, the grunt began to walk in the opposite direction.

“I know a path over this way,” he explained. “Great cover to the proper wilds, and once we’re there we’re in the clear.”

Unless Zev had done his own scouting (or had a flying type), then Grigori knew that this would be the best path. He’d taken it a half dozen times for similar reasons, and another half doze for convenience. This was home turf, after all. He knew it like the back of his hand.

“And if you got a pair of wings, then feel free to do that instead,” Grigori bent down to grab a small rock. With a grunt, he lobbed it all the way up the building to the roof. A signal to his Scizor that it could come back down.

---

Zev Harcourt

“I appreciate the review, Mr. Harcourt, but I think your critique part of the assessment means I did far from a ‘good job’,” Grigori stated bluntly. Good job? Objectively, it was mediocre at best. He had acted sloppy. Slow. Cowardly. Zev's tone fell on deaf ears.

Zev, though? His boss had the idea to cover the exit routes. Cut off the target. Leave nothing to chance. Leave emotion at the door. Not even in his younger years had he been that efficient or ruthless. Maybe that was for the best, though, to show neither shame nor glee. Anger nor sadness.

Better to show no emotion for a hit, or show joy in wanton violence? These weren’t the answers.

The correct answer, he thought, was to not do it in the first place.

And then the other shoe dropped. Grigori stopped in his tracks, a wince on his face. This was bound to happen eventually. He could not lie, but that did not mean he had to tell the entire truth. That would make him the next target.

“There was an… accident, to put it one way,” he said carefully. “The last person I killed was an old friend. Defector, from a long time ago. Some buried emotions came to light in a way I deeply regret. Still haunts me to this day, despite being… not even two years ago.”

Grigori turned his head a crack, enough to gain eye contact. “Guess you could say my head isn’t in the game.”

He knew it didn’t exist in the file, but he also knew that Zev wasn’t born yesterday. Odds were that Zev could put two and two together and surmise the supposed date of this ‘hit’ with when his mission completion rate took a nosedive. Or what type of missions he stopped doing up until this point.

---

Zev Harcourt