While Shred slept like a child, Grigori lived like a panic-riddled war veteran. His hands grip the steering wheel like he hung off a cliff. The vehicle swerved inside and outside the lines. Pulled along like a kid with a wooden Rapidash rather than the man behind the wheel. Check the mirrors, check the sides, look front, look behind, check the mirrors–

They drove at a solid fourty miles per hour. The speed limit listed fifty-five. He clung to the right lane for dear life, desperate to avoid the other drivers and Pokémon riders who also took the road. Many of them flipped him off, and a few yelled at him through the thick windows between them.

But only now did one of them honk violently. A surprise in all honesty. It had taken this long to have someone honk at him? The horn blared bloody murder as the driver furiously merged into the other lane and passed them.

“Shred, SHRED,” Grigori yelled as he furiously glanced at every single point of interest with intense urgency. “Where the hell is the exit?! I don’t know where to get off!”

Unfortunately, this is where the Copperajah in the room makes itself present: Kingambit shouts at the top of its lungs. Its forehead blade wiggles back and forth, which jutted oddly between Shred and Grigori. Pumpkin sat in the very back seat, having the time of its life. It never got to ride in a car before! Oh how it moved! How the masses gave them attention! Pure bliss.

It also covered most of the back window, making it near impossible to determine what the hell was behind them at any time.

---

Shred

Oh, yeah, you were supposed to give Grigori a driving lesson on the way over here, huh?

You let out a low groan as you stir from your slumber, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you slowly return to the land of the awake. In hindsight, it probably wasn't a good idea to pop those sleeping pills beforehand, but the van hasn't been wrapped around a tree, so it all worked out in the end. With a yawn, you stretch your arms as you glance over to Grigori, then out towards the road ahead, before finally settling on a green signs overhead.

"Next exit is in a half mile." You mumble, lifting Salandit off of your lap and lowering him down onto the dashboard of the car. "Just keep on keeping on, and you'll get there eventually."

Man, this might be the most nervous you've ever seen Grigori. But, hey, you weren't exactly calm and composed during your first driving lesson either. Granted, that was because you were self-taught, but that's neither here nor there. You nonchalantly lean back in your chair, idly rifling through your pockets as you do so.

"So, how are you finding driving? Pretty easy, right?"

---

Grigori Sokolov

“Shred, this is the worst thing I’ve experienced in the last week,” Grigori said through clenched teeth. Slowly, they crawled up the ramp (thank goodness for this exit) and came to a halt at the light. Only then did the man finally slump in his chair. The first in the last few hours, the man deflated into a lump of stress-exhaustion.

“Driving is hard,” he repeated. “You have to be on constant alert, others seemingly go out of their way to make it harder, and I’ve been doing it for the last five hours.”

“And we aren’t even there.”

A honk got Grigori to bolt back upright. The light had turned green. They moved forward inch by inch, taking a right onto the street. A gas station sat right off the highway, open and with plenty of parking. “I need a break. Or a trade. Please.”

“Kingambit! Gamba gamba–”

“--hot dogs and slushies and pocket knives and chargers and gas and people and other Pokémon! First, I will stretch my legs, then I will find others to partake in poetry, and then I’ll attack them! In that order!”

“Pumpkin, please,” Grigori responded tiredly to the Pokémon’s excitement, “can it wait until we stop?”

Soon after, they finally arrived at their spot of brief respite. Grigori pulled up to the nearest open pump and engaged the brakes. He turned the car off and slumped into the wheel. “Mr. Shred, how the hell do you and Mr. Howard do this? This feels awful. Are you sure we couldn’t take a taxi? Or my bike?”

---

Shred

"Yeah, sure." You reply, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from your pocket, and plucking one out. Then, you proceed to delve back into your pockets once more, looking for a lighter. "Let's take ten, and I'll drive the rest of the way after the break."

You end up searching for quite a while. First you search the pockets of your jacket, inside and out, and find nothing. Then, you reach into the inside pockets of your pants, both front and back, and still find nothing. You even end up opening up the glovebox and shuffling through it, and even then, nothing. You consider asking Grigori, but that idea doesn't make it for. You don't even think you've seen Grigori so much as acknowledge the concept of cigarettes, let alone smoke.

"...Scratch that, we're taking fifteen."

Grumbling beneath your breath, you open the door and get out, closing it behind you. At the very least, you remembered to bring your wallet with you, and lucky for you, money can be exchanged for goods and services. So, you walk towards the gas station itself, unlit cigarette in hand as you step through the sliding doors.

Your mission to purchase a lighter has begun.

---

Grigori Sokolov

“Thank you, Mr. Shred…” Grigori groaned. Finally, this nightmare would be over. He could go back to living in the other, more abstract nightmare of being a member of Team Rocket instead. Driving would just be that thing he did once and never again.

So, he crawled out of the driver seat. The Kingambit tried to follow along, but Grigori stopped the massive metal monster with the flat of his hand against its long forehead blade. “Stay, please. I’ll go buy you something, but please… keep the Sandile company, aright? It might want some company.”

He really didn’t want it out and about in public. That could only end in disaster. So, he left the grumbling creature and followed Shred inside the gas station. It looked worn down but functional, for better or worse. An old man stood behind the cash register and didn’t give so much as a second glance.

“Mr. Shred, I think the lighters are in the back. If you need me, I need some caffeine and Pumpkin needs anything at all,” he told the man. He walked over to the side and poured steaming hot coffee into a foam cup. Afterwords, he added four packets of sugar and cream. Nice.

For Pumpkin, he threw a rolling hot dog into a bun, applied ketchup, and called it a day. That would keep her preoccupied for at least ten minutes.

With that out of the way, Grigori returned to the front counter. “Mr. Shred, are you good to go?”

–

Meanwhile, in the van, Pumpkin sulked in the back seat. Lame trainer. Grigori didn’t want her to have fun, and that was lame. “You, creature of the sand. Do you know any fancy words? Songs of the battlefield? Phrases that make your enemies blood curdle in their flesh?”

The long blade pointed directly at the Sandile, an unintentional consequence of anatomy: if she wanted to look at someone else, her head must move. Maybe this thing didn't care, or maybe it would be too terrified. She honed her eyes on the Sandile with razor sharp focus.

---

Shred

"Got it."

You follow Grigori's advice, walking along to the back of the gas station, arriving to the section with the lighters, and finding... An empty display tray, with nary a lighter to be seen. You scowl. Of course it couldn't be that easy, could it? Of course the incompetents that ran this heap couldn't keep their shelves stocked up. If they could, maybe they'd be able to pay someone to mop the floors every once in a while! BUT, it's fine. They probably have some lying around in storage. You'll just go ask at the checkout.

So, you double back, past Grigori and his cup of coffee, and to the front counter, where you proceeded to wait a solid two minutes before someone arrived to serve you. And of course, that someone was about eighteen years old, greasier than the bottom of a deep fryer, and reeked of artificial sweetness. Still, you guess that bad service is better than no service. You guess.

"Hey, do you have any lighters in the back?"

"...Whauh? No."

"...You didn't check."

"If you want a lighter, they're at the back."

"They're not there. I looked."

"...You got a problem, man?"

"YES. I want to purchase a lighter, so I can light a cigarette, and there's none on the shelves. So, check the back, and--"

"We got matches. Twenty for two bucks."

"...Fine."

Defeated, you proceed to toss two dollars out from your wallet onto the counter, and in exchange, receive a box of matches that are, generously? From the 1800s at the latest. Still, apparently, they'll get the job done. So, you grab them, and turn to move towards the exit, only to be greeted by an obscene sight.

"What the...?"

-

Honk, shoo... Honk, shoo... Honk, shoo...

While Shred and Grigori were enjoying their exceptionally boring gas station adventures, Salandit remained where he was, snoozing atop the dashboard of the car. Out of all the inhabitants of the van, out of all their trials and tribulations, there was perhaps none more comfortable than he. One could only look upon his sleeping face, and wonder what things that little lizard was dreaming of...

Or, if you were an exceptionally sharp and pointy Kingambit, you could look at him, and proceed to bellow as loud as you could, waking him up from his sweet dreams and bringing him back to the real world.

"H-Huh? What?!"

Purple eyes opened up to see the gigantic blade bearing down upon it, and reacting in the only way it knew how - Panicking and pleading.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" The Salandit cried out, a Flamethrower pouring out of its mouth as it let out a scream of true terror. "I DON'T WANNA DIE! PLEASEDONTKILLME PLEASEDONTKILLME PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

This was going well.

---

Grigori Sokolov

“AAAAAA, FUCK,” Pumpkin screamed out. Flames scorched her metal body, causing the edges of her ‘skin’ to blacken or even melt. All except for the thing that caused this problem: the forehead blade. That stuck around, yet it ate the brunt of the attack.

As the seats caught the wisps of flame and ignited, the Kingabmit cursed. “Fuck you, stupid creature of sand! You will fall beneath my blade, like the rest of those who call the yellow dirt their home!”

Thus, she raised her head and– hit the ceiling. Ugh. She couldn’t work under these conditions. Steel struck plastic again and again, until the roof of the car cracked underneath (overhead? Who knows) the force.

Grigori and Shred came out of the store, items in hand, as such an act occurred. They would watch the steel that gleamed stick straight up from the car, then collapse back down inside. Orange flickered behind the windows, and a strange smoke poured out. “Oh no…”

“PERISH, LIKE THE DOG YOU ARE!”

The blade came down with the force of a thousand hammers. Except, of course, for the fact that it missed its target by a wide berth. Steel cut straight through the cheap material like it was not even there. A powerful Kowtow Cleave dug into the car itself.

And unfortunately for both of them, it had also tried to go more forward. Thus, organic steel dug into the inorganic. Whatever’s behind the dash and even at the very edge of the engine block was sliced into two.

Ugly, thick liquid poured from underneath the car. “Mr. Shred, what do we do?!”

---

Shred

"Quick!" You drop the matches and reach down to your belt, frantically grabbing Salandit's Pokeball. "Call back your Kingambit! We've got to stop them before they--"

BOOM!!!

Too late. The Kowtow Cleave rips into the fuel tank, and the Flamethrower ignites the gasoline, and before you know it, the whole thing has exploded. You stand there, mouth agape, as your van turns into a burning husk before your very eyes. It's an emotional experience, watching the very first thing you bought in Hoenn being consumed by flames. Your old reliable van, bought for three hundred Pokedollars from a legal and reputable chop shop. It was your one shelter from the cold and uncaring world, the one place where you could eat and sleep and laugh and drink and-- Oh, who are you kidding? You have no attachment to this hunk of junk whatsoever. It might just be the worst fucking vehicle you've ever owned in your life. Honestly, it's a small miracle it survived this long.

FWOOSH! There's a second smaller explosion, and the ash-covered bodies of Salandit and Kingambit are launched out from the fiery wreck, landing in a heap right in front of you. The good news is, neither of them seem too badly hurt, which is a relief. The bad news is, well, y'know, the fact that your van exploded.

"Bweh..."

Taking a deep breath, you return Salandit to his Pokeball, and crouched down. At the very least, you can still enjoy a cigarette for your efforts. So, you grab your dropped box of matches, picking them up from the puddle... That they fell in... Getting them wet...

"...Gregory, I think your Kingambit is a cunt." You declare. Walking over to what was once your van, you proceed to stick the end of your cigarette into the burning wreck, lighting it. Then, as you take a long puff to help suppress your violent urges, you pull out your phone and begin scrolling through your contacts. "We're still fifteen miles out, and there's no way in hell I'm walking, so we're splitting a cab the rest of the way. That's fine with you, right?"

---

Grigori Sokolov

“... I think I must agree,” Grigori said. He looked down at the hot dog in his hands, and then back to Pumpkin. She looked awful, to put it nicely. Like it had just crawled through a chimney while the fire below was still lit. Embers smoldered on its armor as its eyes gazed to the sky.

“-ambit,” the Pokémon muttered. It reached up and snatched the hot dog from Grigori’s hands. It munched on the food while its trainer looked back to Shred. He had pulled out his phone and looked through it with fervor. At least he lit his cigarette finally? Ugh. No positives here, other than they themselves weren’t hurt. A trip to the Pokémon Center would fix their Pokémon’s wounds as well. But the car…

“Mr. Shred, I apologize fully for the damages,” he said as he walked up to the man. The grunt felt awful even glancing at the metal samurai still on the ground, ketchup smearing its lips. “I will repay you for the car in full, as well as the taxi. Please, I promise that this will never happen again!”

Something told him he wouldn’t live this down, even with the promise to replace the vehicle. The one that sat alone in the lot, a burning inferno of heat and gasoline and oil and everything else that smelled terrible in a car. He covered his mouth and nose with the lip of his shirt; that thick, black smoke looked hazardous to breathe.

One thing stood clear, though: Grigori would leave the driving to Shred and Howard. Himself? When they got back, the first-- no, second-- no, THIRD thing he'd do is investigate the price of a bus pass.

---

Shred