“Fuckin’ hell,” Lights groaned aloud. Of fuckin’ course the forest led to a dead end. Why wouldn’t it? Y’know, he always wondered if he’d die by someone telling him to ‘face the wall’ and then promptly emptying an entire machine gun clip into his back and spinal cord. How silly it looked on TV.

How situationally comedic. Maybe it was the mask– look the part, act the part, be the part. Good to know his last ten minutes of life was a comedy routine at the stand-up club. The only difference was he pissed off a criminal organization instead of some loser office workers.

Oh, and there was a guy there too. Lights looked backward, towards the small horde that poured through the trees like Krabby when you lifted their rock. He double-checked to make sure he–

“What the fuck?!” Lights raised his pistol at the stranger. Who the fuck was this? How the hell’d he get there?! He had to ignore so many of his natural instincts to not immediately put two new holes in his skull. Ones that’d kept him alive until now.

But… he didn’t have any immediate weapons. No guns. So… likely not a Rocket here to blow his brains out? Like the people behind him tried to do?

Parts of the rocky cliff exploded as gunfire rang out once more. “Fuck, down! Get down, you fucking idiot!”

Lights barely managed to get him and the stranger out of immediate danger, but it didn’t prevent rock bits from pelting them on the way down or as they huddled behind a tree. Not a very thick tree, but any port in a storm.

“Are you trying to fucking die?!” He peered out from behind cover. Fuck, they were a lot closer than he thought. He took aim (thank fuck) and put a round down range. One of the encroaching Rockets crumpled over, which made the rest slow their roll and take their own cover.

“You packin’?” He asked. Better, if he’s down here. Fourteen rounds might not cut it.

---

Caleb Harcourt

“Yea, I’ve been runnin’ around down here, fighting for my damned life, just for shits and giggles. What do you think, dumbass?”

Lights shook his head. Not packing heat, asking stupid questions, not going for the kill on those that’d shoot them both dead in a heartbeat. Arceus, no wonder the League had been eating shit for the last half-decade. They were trying to get themselves killed.

But he’d just thrown out his lot with the crazed lunatics armed with enough guns to make a shooting range blush. So.

"What's all this then," Someone called from above. Their voice was constantly in motion, somewhere above the trees. “The defector got himself some backup, heh? Well, ain’t this a surprise!”

Who cared? No one, that was who. “Ain’t nobody got to get hurt, Alpha! Just leave, and you can keep your sorry fuckin face in one piece!”

“Bosses, orders, mutt! You fucks get in there and snuff that Lights already!”

Movement. Neither of the groups held any advantage in the darkness, but they held the superior numbers advantage. No doubts or questions about it. Someone right next to the one with the burning pants deployed a water type, a Politoed, and shot out water at high speed. They were doused, and soon the shots of water went higher. Straight for the Zoroark-H.

Lights peeked around the makeshift cover and groaned. “Can’t see shit. You seriously just a pretty face? Nows the time to show me a pair of wings under your jacket.”

Footsteps got closer, both human and Pokemon-sized. A small army, ready to murder, maim, and kill. A Machoke emerged from Lights’ poke ball and crouched alongside the other two men. 

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL: 213
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“Don’t–huh?! Are you fucking nuts?”

And yet Caleb was too fast and determined to stick around and explain himself. Of course not. Cause apparently most League people didn’t really value their lives. Took some pretty big balls to charge into a group of armed Rockets, though, and Lights wasn’t about to get one upped by this loser.

Guess it was the least he could do, to not shoot them in the face or heart. But if they bled out, that couldn’t be on him.

“I guess we fuckin’ fight, Champ!”

“Machoke!”

“Now ain’t the time for dat, Champ! Break their legs or some–”

He heard the whistle of a Rocky Blast, a payload that’d tear him to ribbons. The defector scrambled away from the cover, and ran forward. He didn’t, and couldn’t, see just how obliterated that solid tree was now. But he could only imagine the millions of pieces it’d just been turned into by the collision of massive boulders.

Lights ran forward, pistol raised but not too raised. Didn’t want to get chewed out by Mr. Hotshot.

He saw the first enemy, barrel raised directly for his own chest. Before they could figure out how to work the trigger, two clean shots rang out. A desperate scream of agony rang out as they crumpled to the ground.

“Over there, he’s–”

Another gunshot, another scream. Champ rushed forward to met the charge of an Escavilier. He went straight between the lances that tried to skewer him and pulled back a muscly arm. The knight then slammed its Iron Head into his chest.

Not enough to knock him down. Much like a shotgun, it shot forward and slammed into the bug’s helmet in the form of a Dynamic Punch. It flew back and slammed into a tree, then slumped to the ground defeated.

Together, the pair, alongside Caleb, dominated the Rockets.

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL:
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This was fucking hard.

Not the way he dismantled former colleagues with brutal efficiency. His gun made do with its meager reserves, and put them within an inch of their lives. Might’ve nicked an artery or three along the way, but that wasn’t his problem. That was Mr. Hotshot’s problem (more like Mr. Hotknife, cause he’s fucking stupid).

Nor was it hard because of the Pokémon. Champ bodied Bisharp, took Drifblim from the sky, and rocked the world of two perfectly round Politoed. Lights looked at his pal with envy, for it was much easier to deal with a Pokémon nonlethally. Hell, that was the entire basis of Pokémon battles. Fuckers had it easy.

That’s what made his brow slick with sweat and his eyes constantly on the prowl for Mr. Hotknife. He heard the way the other man dealt with his side of the problem. He sounded brutally efficient, but not enough to actually finish the job. Like… a defective Rocket. Damn, did this guy take jujitsu classes? Maybe he could get some pointers from the other guy.

But as they finally joined together, backs against one another, Lights panted hard. Even if he’d done relatively little physical activity, the mere intensity of it all left him breathless. Alpha must’ve fucked off too, because he didn’t hear his stupid ass above the trees. He holstered his gun and hunched over, hands on knees.

The first break today.

“You… probably did fine too. I guess,” he said. Lights couldn’t let him feel too confident. It’d go to his head.

But his head also said he would let Lights follow along to Slateport for the defector program. He let out a massive sigh of relief at the news. “Thank fuck for that. Ain't lookin' to rot in a cell for the rest of my days.”

Lights took Caleb’s hand and gave him a singular handshake. “C– Lights. Call me Lights.”

Couldn’t let his name slip. That’d spell death. Wait. No, that was in Rocket. He wasn’t Rocket anymore. But… he wasn’t League yet either.

“Guess... you're in charge now.”

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL: 269
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