"Aren't we?"

Howard's eyepatch fell off as he unclipped it. His Key Stone gleamed, embedded in his eye socket.

"Even if that's true, does it really matter? We're colleagues. Our opinions don't matter. Team Rocket doesn't care."

“That’s why we are not the same. And that’s exactly why it matters,” Grigori left the side of Howard’s table and approached the broken door. He pulled it back and attempted to line it up with the door frame. All things considered, it wasn’t an unfixable break. He managed to brute force it back into the proper place sans the hinges and remnants of where it had pulled apart. It ‘shut’ with a satisfying click.

“You think ambition means a higher spot on the ladder?” Grigori turned around, adopting that scary visage from when he first walked in. “My ambition for the longest time was Rocket gaining power. I harassed, stole, assaulted, murdered, —all in the name of Rocket. Because if she kept power, then I had control. Control a high position could never hope to replicate.”

In those days, he wanted to be on the opposite end of the relationship. Not to be beaten around by a deadbeat drunk that called himself a father, but the one who didn't live in fear.

“It’s taken me twenty-five years to regret my decisions, Howard,” he kept his eyes locked onto the Key Stone, his turn to hide from scrutiny. “And it’s too late to change a damn thing.”

“And that’s where we differ.”

Grigori dug a finger into Howard’s chest. “Do you know how much potential you have? The world is your Cloyster, Howard. Despite how thigns may seem, things are yet to be cast in stone. You still have time to make things right, no matter how big or small,” the grunt explained. If he was blind, then Howard was oblivious. 

Even if he stumbled up, the man had yet to truly define himself. For every one thing Grigori learned, he felt like there were two other facts yet to surprise him. He could hold his own when push came to shove. It had been proven many times, over the course of their early friendship. Yet something always came back and reared its ugly, disappointing head. 

“Yet you're afraid. You keep running, hiding. You did it at that Power Plant. You did it on that island. And you're doing it now. Don't you get it, Howard? It matters because it's going to ruin every good thing that happens to you, if you let it."

---

howard slayte

"I AM afraid!" Howard's voice cracked. "Why aren't you? Can't you realize that nothing good has ever happened while I've been in this organization?"

"Nothing!" Howard spat, shaking with rage as he snarled at Grigori. Repressed anger and fear billowed forth. He couldn't rage at his superiors, given that they were bound by gods. Grigori, however, was just a man. A terrifying, capable man. Nonetheless, he was mortal. The worst he could do was beat Howard to a pulp and leave him there to weep.

"NOTHING! I can't leave. Nobody in the Pokemon League will look at me the same way if I turn sides. They'll think I'm garbage. and they're right! They'll see a paleontologist who sold his morals for cash, and they're right! They see another nameless soldier doing the will of declan walsh , and they're right!"

"Do you think Rocket gives a shit about you or me? Do you think declan walsh even knows who I am? Who you are?" Howard barked out a laugh. "Do you think Elisabeth Fiorelli gives a shit that you tackled her to the ground? Do you think she remembers your name? Do you think even she even cares?"

The answer to that was obvious. No.

"Same with the other Underbosses, Admins, and Beasts. Zev Harcourt ?" Howard's body froze, uttering his name. Out of sight. Out of mind. "We're just sacks of meat to them! We can be replaced! We're so insignificant that they don't even notice we're underfoot. We just have to run around and hope we don't get crushed."

Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of sight. Out of mind. It's not your fault. Let go.

"Yes, I'm terrified. I'm a coward. It's why I'm still alive today. My position is terrible. Can't do anything about it! Do you think running to the League will save me from the ostracization? Are you gonna tell me that it's my fault that black crystals ruin my every dreaming moment?"

Howard took a step away from Grigori. He walked, almost dreamlike, towards the couch where Shirley lay dozing. He lifted her chin and put his forehead against hers. He was silent for a while. After several moments, Howard spoke up.

"That's why I have a plan to make each passing day more bearable for us, Grigori. For the nameless grunts like you and me. A year. Two years. Twenty-five years... Those are blips on history."

With a deep breath, Howard turned back.

"A better place, Grigori. One where we don't have to hate ourselves for one weak decision."

---

Grigori Sokolov

“...” Grigori stared hard at Howard, letting him let out all his built-up emotions. Frustration, regret, sorrow– a depresso espresso. A cocktail of everything he’s kept simmering beneath the surface. Likely for longer than this encounter had gone on. Beyond that, He could not guess. It was an understandable feeling; one he also knew as well.

Yet…

Grigori slapped Howard. Not hard, but firm. The smack of skin rang throughout the apartment, a return to reality. “Absolutely pathetic.”

“I’m telling you that sitting around on your ass isn’t helping anything,” Grigori snarled. Those who acted in such a way garnered nothing but pity and anguish. Even if they shared a friendship, that did not mean he would be around the bush any longer than necessary.

“Did you not just hear what I said?” he asked. “It took me twenty-five years to regret my decisions, which was five years ago! ‘Blips on history’ my ass. I've been in Rocket longer than not.”

He stepped away, not able to even face his friend at the moment. A quick smoke did little to help the cloud that stormed within his brain. If he squinted hard enough, he could see the little blips of electricity arc between the grey cloud. Howard seriously didn’t get it, did he?

“And guess what, Howard? They fucking notice, alright. They know when people are acting like you do. It shows up in reports. Gets mentioned casually. Before long, you build a reputation you can’t hope to escape,” he explained. Their reports told their story for the bosses to read. A lack of one spoke just as loud as a record chock-full.

“And even if it isn’t all of them, it’s enough of them. It only takes one fuck up in front of the right person.”

Another drag.

“You act like your life is over when the chance to cleanse your conscience stares you dead in the eye.”

---

howard slayte

Grigori's strike rang through the apartment. Howard's head was slapped back, and it slowly turned back to face Grigori. The wound was already turning red and raw. Although it wasn't strong, Grigori was a strong man. Howard knew that Grigori could do worse. Much worse. He had the resume to prove it.

Yet even this man, with all his experience, couldn't shake Howard more than Team Rocket did. Grigori was a man. A smart man. A traveled man. Yet he could only threaten so much. Howard wanted to hate this man. He really did. Yet he couldn't.

"Twenty-five years is nothing. A hundred years is nothing." Howard said quietly. Arceus above, how did he explain this to Grigori? "Team Rocket won't let me leave, Grigori. They just won't. Even if I did, they'd send someone after me."

Turning, he picked his way towards the kitchen. He set down two mugs shaped like Kabuto, and poured coffee into them. He stared into his reflection, distorted by the black liquid.

"They might send you or Shred . I can't do that to either of you. All I can hope for is that someday, we'll lose." Clink. Howard walked back towards the living room and put the two mugs on the table. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a cigarette. "I'll ensure nobody lays a finger on June."

He drank, eye not leaving Grigori.

"Drink. Light me."

---

Grigori Sokolov

Grigori turned one curious eye backward. “You are correct, Howard. They don’t let anyone leave. And this organization isn’t in the game of losing.”

He didn’t feel the need to confirm Howard’s thoughts. Though, in all likeliness, it would be him that would have to do the awful task. That’s what enforcers were for: ensuring the absolute rule of the organization. Humor no slights. Punish all wrongs. Eliminate all hostile threats. Defectors fell firmly within all three of those categories. The kind he ‘fixed’.

But that wasn’t what drew his attention. The clink of porcelain on the table did, alongside the procurement of a cigarette and a promise. Something among the lines of a faint dream. One that he knew the man couldn’t ever hope to guarantee. One that he couldn’t hope to either.

But perhaps that was the beauty of it, this hopeful prayer. Grigori eyed him cautiously. “You have yet to address my concerns with you telling her the truth…”

However, Grigori pulled the lighter out of his pocket and lit the tube in front of Howard. “But I’ll humor you this once. However, I take my coffee with milk and two spoonfuls of sugar. Please.”

“And you better not be messing around with me. I'm very much not in the mood, if you haven't guessed.”

---

howard slayte

"How can I expect you to trust me? You heard about the Clawitzer." Howard sighed as he stood up and returned with milk and sugar. He took a puff of his cigarette. Purple Koffing was a brand he and Shred puffed behind the Rustboro Pokemart from time to time. He had never been much of a smoker, but Team Rocket brought out the worst in him.

Even before then, he had smoked with locals to learn about their history. Puffing tobacco was one of the most ancient methods of attaining friendship in history.

"Let me make this clear: I do not lie. I lied to June in a moment of weakness, but I loathe it. Historians cannot afford to embezzle the truth." Howard took a hit, before washing the taste of herb down with coffee. "When I said you lack ambition, I misspoke. You have the wrong ambition for the job. I, for better or worse, do."

Clink. The coffee cup clinked against the table as Howard steepled his hands together and leaned forward. "I know a few higher ups that can likely get June whitelisted. I'll talk to them."

Howard stared forward, eye unblinking. His Key Stone gleamed, reflecting Grigori's distorted face in its shine. His face was tired. Both of their faces were tired. Weary. Howard had been in this organization for the fraction of the time that Grigori had, and it looked like he had aged a decade.

"But you need to trust me. Trust that I made a mistake. Trust that it will not happen again. Can you do that?"

---

Grigori Sokolov

Grigori muttered his thanks for the items as he joined Howard at the table. As said, he put in two full spoons of sugar and milk. Disgustingly sweet, just how he liked it. It felt odd to see from such a large, muscular man. Maybe that’s why he worked out so much: so he could afford such a comical amount of sugar in his diet.

As Howard explained everything, Grigori sat silent. He stirred his coffee and listened to every word, like a spectator to a show. Each word he clung to as it left his mouth until the keywords finally were spoken into the air. ‘June, Whitelist–likely’. His heart skipped a beat. Could this actually be done?

The grunt wanted to jump out of his seat and bear hug him. He almost did, in honesty.

Then he kept going. Until that faint flicker of hope was ground underneath his heel. Howard had gotten so, so close to exactly what Grigori wanted to hear. Yet he missed the mark by a mile. Intentionally? Better not be.

“I have no choice but to trust you will do your best,” Grigori finally spoke, disappointment thick in his voice. “I’m aware of the odds not being one-hundred percent, so failure on that front will be tempered on my end.”

“But you still don’t get it,” Grigori ground the cigarette into an ashtray. The clash of acrid smoke and sugary beverage fought violently in his mouth. He remembered why he stopped. “I know you know that you made a mistake. I trust that you will do your best to not make it again. But you still avoid my main concern: when will you tell June? She already has numerous bombs hidden underneath her feet. I do not want yet another.”

All because he wanted to hide and hope it never detonated.

---

howard slayte

"When I can muster the courage to do so." Howard smiled grimly, aware that there was a Bergmite's chance in hell of that ever occurring. "A long shot, but it's the best I can promise you."

Was he seriously going to throw his hat into the ring? Protect a girl he had only met a few times? There was no reason to do so. He hardly knew June Sleigh, beyond her stint as a delivery girl. It would be best if she left Hoenn, never to return. He suspected that Grigori had posed that question to her, but she had refused. She was stubborn, like that.

Yet maybe Grigori was just as stubborn. What that who she got that from?

"We all have bombs strapped under us. We're surrounded by corners." Howard took a long drag of his cigarette. "No matter where we move, they entrap us."

Another drag. Howard tapped his vice stick against an antique ash tray.

"I wonder how many of those bombs were placed by you."

---

Grigori Sokolov

“Almost all of them,” Grigori responded simply. No fanfare, no dramatic pause– just blatant admittance to the circumstances. His face had a hint of something in there as he said it, but it disappeared just as fast.

“If you’re still referring to June, of course. If not, then you’d have to tell me what else I’ve done.” He took a long drink from his coffee, downing half of it in one go. Odd, if one considered how they had only been sitting for a minute or two tops.

“When do you plan on building up that courage? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year or five? Come on, Howard. I know how this song and dance works,” he said. Tomorrow was always one day away, never actually arriving. Excuses showed up at the last second, whether from outside sources or plucked from within the mind.

Grigori crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “For now, I’ll say this about my relationship with her: I’ve ruined her life enough. I don’t need, nor want, your help. Even if this is but a smudge on the record, I want it gone. Can you do that?”

---

howard slayte

"Trust me, I want that more than you can imagine." A humorless laugh rang out. Shirley looked up from her spot, and Howard scratched her head absentmindedly. "But it's too late. You've kicked down my door and gotten my attention. You don't dictate my actions."

Plus, he didn't want this guilt crawling over his skin anymore. He wouldn't end up like Rocket's senseless killers, mauling others on the battlefield for reasons as petty as glory. He would do more. Be better. He wanted to be better.

Yet that road was lonely, and the reward was absolution.

"I don't want to fight you, Grigori. You're one of the better men in Rocket. You'd win, anyways." Howard sighed, placing the cigarette stub in the ashtray. Smoke billowed up towards the ceiling. "But if you force this, it won't satisfy you. Will dragging me, bruised and battered to June make her feel better? Or is this all just a big parade for you, instead of her."

Did June get a say in any of this? Likely not.

"Let me do this in my own time. In my own way. I'm a historian, remember? The more I procrastinate, the more work I have to do.

---

Grigori Sokolov

Did Grigori do this for himself? A hard question, to be sure. His first instinct was to immediately call Howard out for the blatantly awful question. But before he could get the words out, his voice stopped. Was this really all for June and her alone?

Perhaps not.

“... I don’t lie, Howard. Some portion of this is for me.”

He attempted to decipher his emotions. His inner subconscious. “Perhaps the need to feel like I’m fulfilling a promise to someone I knew. To me, your hesitance to tell her feels like a failure on my end.”

“But I do not do this solely for my satisfaction,” he quickly added in. “I do this to help her. To help you. Relationships outside of Rocket seldom last long. I would know. To see you not try to preserve this to the best of your ability is…”

Disheartening? Aggravating? Confusing?

“Awkward, to say the least.”

But what else was there to say? Howard had given his answer. It might’ve sounded like a ‘Yes’ in his ears, but to the grunt, it sounded like a shaky ‘No’. He knew Howard meant well. Surely, in his head, he had all the intention to do what he said. Grigori did as well, with other things somewhat related.

And look how those went most of the time. “...A word of warning, since you seem to be hell-bent on this path.”

---

howard slayte

"I am taking the path that I started, foolishly, a few years ago. Can I change it? No." Howard took a deep, shaky breath. "You're aware that there are multiverses?" A certain Rocket Beast had mentioned them. Howard did not well on that man for long. "This path I've taken is a childish one. In another world, I'm probably a cashier or something. Clean, yet unhappy."

In another world, he could've been a dozen things. A cashier, a clerk, or a dozen other minimum wage jobs when his degree fell through. There was absolutely no way that there was a world where Howard was a simple museum curator. If there had been one, it would've been this universe. If it didn't happen here, it wouldn't happen anywhere.

Howard had to accept that he had to choose between his passion and his peace of mind. He had joined Team Rocket because he was afraid of working in a dead end career. Several Rockets joined for ideals. Several joined for power, or for money. People often labeled Howard as the latter, when it wasn't true.

Team Rocket hadn't recruited him, he had joined them out of the fear that he wouldn't get to study fossils anymore.

"I am not choosing the path you imagine. Stop asserting your own beliefs onto me." Howard snapped at him. "I will apologize, as soon as my heart is strong enough to bear that shame. You can't take all the blame, Grigori. You can't carry it all. So stop this perverse egotism, and please have some faith in me."

---

Grigori Sokolov