A masked dog creeps through the mist. He evades strange paradoxes and the agents of the League. Today, he's on the prowl. Like the elite approaching the encampment, he is fresh - reinforcements brought in after a tour de force in Orre. Fate, it seems, has brought them together.[break][break]
Staring at the man from under the mask, the dog recognizes him: one of the elites. A big paycheck. Were he to lay this man's head before the underbosses, it would earn the lady he serves much honor.[break][break]
"Hey!" He speaks with trademark cheer. "You're an important guy, yeah? So do me a favor and die. Your body'll help me out a lot."[break][break]
Two Pokemon back him up. The first is a Kleavor, charging Mr. Mime and lowering a stone axe. The other is a Samurott, aiming to cut Scyther with a ceaseless edge.

The masked dog believes he's in for a fair fight.[break][break]
His opponent's earth spike spells an end to that delusion. Kleavor's stony precipice is pierced, pinning the Pokemon in place. Neither the Pokemon itself nor the dog who has raised it know this yet, but that blow ensures Kleavor's death will come in but a few hours. The walking dead raises its axe, aiming to cleave the Mr. Mime skyward with an air slash.[break][break]
Samurott is faring little better. His own attack is returned on him, placing the dark Hisuin otter squarely on the backfoot. Trying to keep some distance, then, he sprays water onto Scyther in a powerful hydro pump.[break]
"Shit." The dog curses.

"Don't you dare call me short!" The dog asks, taking his opponent's words literally. It's a second language to him, and the proper words for the elite's proposition tastes just as bitter on his tongue. Finally shrugging off the words, he returns to watching the battle. These two Pokemon are giving his the what-for.[break][break]

Kleavor is in no position to return fire. He's too busy freeing himself from the spikes. His axes find the earth, pulling himself free and stumbling about. Looking up at Mr. Mime, he eyes the jester, using focus energy even as he finds himself on his last legs.[break][break]
Samurott, meanwhile, is on no legs. Scyther's double cut takes him just under the armor on his chest. A gout of blood sprays across the ground. This, at last, gets him to truly consider the proposal.[break][break]
It might be time to beat a retreat. In its death throes, Samurott charges forward and delivers a fury cutter to Scyther.

"F-fuck you, man!" The Pomeranian curses, yapping like a creature who is all bark and no bite. Back away slowly, his Kleavor is only saved by the fact that the dog's hands are swift. He's pulled back into his ball. Were it not for the furious death throes of his Samurott, the elite would have a clean path to him.[break]
"So, uh, I might wanna retreat now, huh?" He asks, not even knowing what a rhetorical question is as he asks one. "What the heck are you?! You beat up a Samurott with a frickin' scyther!" That, however, isn't a rhetorical question.

And so, Team Rocket blasts off again. There is nothing glorious about this. There is no triumph. He only makes it out alive because he has a promise to keep. A dog is an ignorant beast. It doesn't know he bared his fangs against the avatar of a god. All he knows is that a lesser beast chases him across the island.[break][break]
His Samurott is not even afforded the honor of a burial. It died here, its name forgotten even by its owner. Another casualty of a pointless battle. Guilt hangs heavy on the dog's heart.