It's funny, really: You never thought that lying in bed all day could be such an excruciating experience. Back when you were lugging crates in the smuggling ring, you would've killed to be able laze around for days and weeks. Now? You'd kill just to be able to get out of bed. Fate's a real bitch like that, isn't it? Giving you what you want, but not how you want. It's probably ironic in some way, but, well, you didn't go to college, so you're not smart enough to say that with confidence.

It's boring. That's the long and the short of it. You're being subjected to a unique kind of torture in the form of an overwhelming sense of ennui. And escaping it would be as easy as standing up and leaving, if only you could.

If only...

Your train of thought is interrupted by the door opening. But it's not a doctor who steps through, nor is it a nurse. It isn't even a medical professional of any sort. But it is a familiar face.

"Grigori?" You blink, surprised at first, but that's quickly replaced by a rising sense of relief. Finally, a visitor! "Yeah! Yeah, come on in! Fuck me, you're a sight for sore eyes, bud. It's good to see you again."

---

Grigori Sokolov

Grigori quickly stepped into the room and shut the door softly. Even gentler footsteps carried him to the beside, and he quickly took a seat in the chair. The flowers were deposited, without consent, onto his lap. Let him figure out the surprise hidden betwixt the shadows.

Or something. Poetry was hard.

“And you as well, Mr. Shred,” he said. When’s the last time they’d properly ‘hung out’? He didn’t count the time behind the Poke Mart, when the Beast had stars in his eyes and freedom in his heart. That left… the time he blew up Shred’s car. Damn. Too long, and for the wrong reasons.

But he kept that to himself for now. “I apologize I hadn’t shown up sooner. Time flies when you try to herd your own Skitty.”

June. Howard. Actual Skitty– one of which was burrowed inside his vest. The bulge shifted, and then began to move to the collar of his shirt. Its small head poked, and with closed, tired eyes. Cream had caused her own share of problems, but they never beat out the first two. He should probably be doing stuff for them right now.

“But they can wait for a spell,” a faint smile crept onto his lips. “So…”

How the hell did he approach the situation? Or, rather, avoid it? He didn’t want to be the twentieth one that asked him ‘how is everything’ when it was very clearly not good. “Have they told you how long they plan on keeping you couped up? Surely not for long, I hope.”

---

Shred

"Thanks." You accept the daffodils, not even sparing them a glance as you place them on your bedside table. The bouquet joins an ever-growing display of flowers, most of them sent by Team Rocket's own executives, but delivered by grunts. Frankly, you didn't even want one set of flowers, let alone fifty, but since they're from Grigori? You can't complain.

Besides, even if you don't care for his gift, you're more than happy with his company. Seriously, ever since you became a Beast, you've hardly had the chance to hang out with him. This is long overdue.

If only it were under better circumstances.

"I'm supposed to be here until I'm completely better." You answer, even if you're clearly unhappy with that you're saying. "But as soon as I feel up to it? I'm out of here. I've got too much going on to be lying around any longer than I have to."

When you put it like that, it almost sounds like you've got everything figured out. And yet...

"As for when that is? Beats the fuck outta me."

---

Grigori Sokolov

“I see.”

He did not see. It did not seem a good idea to ignore the advice of a doctor or otherwise licensed medical professional. Especially when he had heard what had happened. When he was a living, breathing mummy. Shred would've made a perfect prop for the next big blockbuster set in some ancient cursed ruins.

But Grigori also knew that Shred was a free spirit, and as he’d learned before, herding Skitty was a fools' errand. He rubbed the head of Cream, to remind himself of the difficulty of it. “I will not be the one to try and stop you, Mr. Shred. Just… please don’t hesitate to tell me if you need assistance afterwords.”

It would be rather terrible to find him back here, or worse, in the morgue. All because he didn’t want to remain bedridden for another second.

“But, on a positive note, It’s good to hear you so energetic about it,” he said. “That’s a good sign. It means you’re going to make a full recovery. I can feel it in my bones.”

He did not stare at the place his other arm should’ve been. That would just be downright rude and a mood killer.

---

Shred

"Well, I'm glad your bones are feeling good, because mine feel like shit."

Is that a joke? Is it serious? Even you're not sure. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't really make you feel better or worse. Doesn't even really make you feel, to be honest. That might just be the morphine doing its job, though.

But it really isn't taking the edge off. Instinctively, you reach for your breast pocket to fish out a pack of cigarettes. Oh. Yeah. No more of those, huh? Not for a long, long while. Eesh... You clench your fist and hit your mattress in frustration, before reclining even further back. That's one less reason to live...

"No point dwelling on it." You murmur, looking back to Grigori. "How's the rest of Rocket fairing in my absence? Howard doing alright? Is Lulu okay? Have they tried replacing me yet?"

---

Grigori Sokolov

Note to self: Do NOT mention anything about body parts or bones.

“Well, as far as I’m aware,” Grigori leaned back into the chair, “Mr. Slayte is fairing… as well as he can. I haven’t checked in on Ms. Lulu, I’m afraid.”

The former felt restless, disturbed. The grunt could only imagine what it must’ve been like, to see someone so close to you in such a sorry state. Especially in person. In front of your eyes. Lulu, well, they had no reason to meet. He wasn’t a scientist, and she wasn’t tasked with grunt work.

But if it was meant to be, she would’ve stopped by sometime soon.

“And they are not trying to replace you,” he said. “If memory serves me right, demotion is usually of the violent variety for Beasts.”

Scientists stepped down at some point or another, and Admins could be changed out if ill-suited for the job. Beasts? Better to put a bullet in the back of the rabid mutt's head and let the next one try to bark its little heart out. But he also tended to stay out of the political side of things, so he could be sorely mistaken. Hopefully mistaken. 

“Besides, you are… well suited for the position,” he frowned. Very well-suited. Perhaps a little too much. “Men like you are a rarity. Passionate. Ambitious. Brave.”

Violent. Desirous. Reckless. “You fit in perfectly, Mr. Shred. Everyone eagerly awaits your return-- I think.”

---

Shred

The first two answers don't surprise you: Howard's a wreck, but despite that, he always manages to keep it together. At the very least, you imagine he's doing just as well as when you last saw him. In terms of Lulu... Grigori doesn't strike you as the scientific type, to be honest, so you suppose his non-answer isn't surprising. Still, no news is good news, right? If she hasn't visited, then that means she's got more important things going on. Fair enough. You guess.

The last bit, though? That's both surprising, and nice to hear.

"Well, that's a relief. Glad to know I'm still getting paid, because my mortgage sure ain't paying itself."

It's a rare silver lining to your cloudy days. If nothing else, you've got job security in your future. That's good, because as far as you can see it, you DO have nothing else. You lost everything you fought for, and even more on top of that. You'd lament it, but you've already had several days and several weeks for that. Those wounds are just as numb as the rest.

You're not sure whether they'll scab over or fester. But until you find out? The passionate, ambitious, and brave corpse has nothing to do but seethe.

"...I'm not going to let them get away this this, Grigori. Them, their allies, the League, all of them. They'll pay for what they've done."

---

Grigori Sokolov

Grigori gave Shred’s comment a short, brief, but polite chuckle.

For his declaration, he gave him a dangerous look. The tension suddenly materialized, and it felt thick in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then, he exhaled just as slowly.

Shred was upset. Pissed, He had every right. If the rumors were true, then he’d died in that fight. And death was quite the setback. Revenge was a natural reaction, and it wasn’t something he could realistically stop Shred from wanting. Positionally, Shred outranked him as well. Furthermore, violence against the League would be encouraged anyway.

All the grunt had over his fellow friend was experience. But, perhaps, that could calm the storm, if only a little. “I understand your sentiments, Mr. Shred.”

“And I think your anger is justified,” he followed up quickly, his hands intertwined. A brace for the hell that might follow. “Yet, if I may offer some advice from my own experiences…”

“This is not a path that you want to travel. Turn your frustration into something, anything else. But do not let it fester into revenge.”

---

Shred

"Don't tell me what paths I can and can't walk, Grigori."

It's a remarkably cold rebuke.

He wasn't there. He wasn't at the Silent Icelands, standing across from the best and brightest that the League had to offer. He didn't have to contend with Gods and Avatars and more. He didn't fucking die. How could he ever begin to understand how you feel?

After a moment, you shake your head. No. No point wasting energy arguing about it. Besides, Grigori Sokolov never factored into your plans for revenge to begin with. Better to leave him out of it entirely.

"I think you should go now, Grigori. We can talk again when I'm better."

---

Grigori Sokolov

Grigori sighed. This wasn’t a surprise. The young spirit wanted to be free. That included every factor of his life, even revenge. He’d been much the same, when he was younger.

And look how that turned out.

“Then I will,” he rose from the chair and pushed Cream, with her sleepy, tired eyes, further into his vest. “And we will.”

“But just know,” Grigori stared at Shred Zeppelin, in his sad, sad state as he walked back the way he came, “that I do understand your struggles. Not of the physical variety, but the mental.”

And before he could get another word in, he shut his mouth and opened the door. It was best to be supportive, not antagonistic. Anything further, and he’d likely give the man an aneurysm from the rage inside his chest. This might have to be a lesson the beast learned the hard way.

Or die trying.

---

Shred