Howard was a liar.

Grigori hauled the equipment in several heavy bags, each one massive in size. Once more, he’d been made the pack mule by his boss. Yet this time it was under the expectation that he knew what to do. But he didn’t. The ones who told him what to do knew how to track the important Pokémon.

He was a grunt. Nothing more. He and Howard would have to have a long conversation about his skill set and what it entailed.

“You would know better than I the threats in the area,” he said to Temp. The grunt had never been to The Borders. What a strange place. “And unfortunately, I hope you are more knowledgeable than me with the equipment I carry.”

“Speaking of, what should I expect of the set-up site?”

---

Tempest Quinn

Grigori made for an excellent pack mule. Despite the constant ‘just a little further’ and uphill that never seemed to plateau a single time, he did it all without complaint. The equipment was heavy, but heavier was the atmosphere. So long as it did not drag him down, then all would be well. If not?

“It is not impossible,” he said. “But if it’s alright with you, I hope that our quarry is not inside whatever we stumble upon.”

Best not to think about it. Grunts were ill-equipped to deal with legendaries. They had entire programs and initiatives dedicated to them. More often than not, the answer was another legendary Pokémon. What a rough time to be a rocket grunt.

Even rougher when ugly, pestilence-filled mist spawned a massive, terrifying, ugly, awful, disastrous… bridge? Sure, it had seen better days. Much better days. Holes dotted its surface like it’d been hit by a colossal buckshot shell. Its legs looked shaky at best. And– did it just shift beneath the invisible breeze?

“I did not know there was a need for a flying type on this expedition?” Grigori set the heavy bags down for a moment and stretched his aching back. “Apologies.”

This was asking for trouble, to cross it the intended way. Yet the alternative was a deep ravine both ways. If it even ended at some point. “It might be best to split the load if you are willing and able. Distribution of weight might keep me from going through the floor with all of it.”

He left out the part where it was equally nice to not be carrying it all. “Have you any experience with these bridges, Mr. Quinn? This is my fifth trek into the wilds, and first in here…”

The Deep Sea and The Border made the Power Plant look stable. Reliable. Safe. “What else might lie ahead of us?”

---

Tempest Quinn

Grigori grimaced at Temp’s hand. Gross. Fortunately, he had planned somewhat ahead. From one of the bags he kept, he produced a wet wipe for his boss to use. “Rather peculiar. It seems even the land wants to obfuscate our path forward…”

What did that leave then? They had to still cross. But being covered in that unknown substance sent a shiver down his spine. Temp touched it and he hadn’t fallen over dead yet. He also didn’t seem that nervous about it. So it was likely more annoying than dangerous.

That he knew of.

Grigori stepped up and set one foot on the bridge. Somewhat stable. Very wet. His foot squelched into the strange ooze. While he flinched, he put his next foot forward. The same effect.

This was going to be a very long walk.

“If you do not mind me asking,” Grigori said above the sounds of their footsteps, “what is your plan for when you find the Yveltal? Does its interest still align with Rockets?”

It drove him up the wall. Life was a healthy thing to desire, as seen with Xerneas. Death was a natural part of life. Yet its ruler could only spell misery and despair with its power. Its use. Better left alone, in The Border, while the people of Hoenn worried about the threats already in front of their faces.

Rocket would remember that death did not discriminate. It was just as likely to consume their own faction as it was the enemy. Did they really hope to win the zero-sum game?

“For that matter, are things so dire as to warrant its power?”

---

Tempest Quinn

When all they possessed were hammers, then all their problems looked problematically similar to nails. But Grigori kept his mouth shut and nodded along. “I see…”

Xerneas’ death would go down in history as a necessary sacrifice. It would only be fitting for its sibling to die a needless, violent death. With a bang and fanfare, without dignity nor grace. But when was it not the case?

“I suppose you are not wrong,” Grigori commented. Temp’s eye contact was inquisitive, but he would find only the eyes that listened and the face that watched. It betrayed little of his damning thoughts, tucked away to be never seen. “I can only pray that it will be willing to work alongside us.”

The ones that spurned it away. He did not bring up the idea that if they attempted to kill it when there was a League party around to intercept, then they could just as easily attempt to befriend it. That had to be a thought his bosses had, right? What better motivator than murder?

"And speaking of work, I wouldn't attribute Petalburg entirely to Mr. Howard's actions, Mr. Quinn," he said. It sounded like he was a key factor, but there was a lot to a thing like a battlefield. Many moving parts ensured success more than a single soul. "To be frank, victory was assured when the League decided to engage on Sootopolis, and our Kanto forces moved on to Petalburg."

Howard's head was large enough as was. The grunt felt it in his bones. He would not contribute to its inflation more than necessary. Not after all the death experienced that day, in that city. Caused by their hands. 

He could only hope Howard struggled to sleep since that day. The alternative was much worse.

"What was more surprising was our failure in Mossdeep. Were you there, Mr. Quinn?"

---

Tempest Quinn

Such was the cutthroat way of Rocket. You had to take responsibility first and risk having your name attached to failure, or wait and risk having success branded under a different name. For most, it was the most dangerous game but well worth the risk. Grigori had yet to play.

He had joined Rocket for his own personal desire, and now would rather be dead than have his name attached to any horrific atrocities.

And speaking of…

“I was there as well, Mr. Quinn,” he said. His grip on the bag tightened. In the distance, he could still hear the rain against the rising surge. “We were doomed from the start. There was no chance, once the League cosigned themselves to helping Kyogre.”

Which would not have mattered, if Rocket had never dared set foot in Hoenn to begin with. Most failed to notice the domino that set everything off. He could not.

He had been part of the force that put it into motion.

But once again, he did not say such. “Perhaps, if you’ll allow me to speculate, it was a sign. The will of the gods is absolute. Our qualms are ultimately secondary in their eyes, and Kyogre was merely the reminder of the realm we tread.”

Much like the bridge they tread. It groaned, and Grigori raised an eyebrow forward. “That’s… not standard, is it?”

His foot sank into the ground, and he yelped suddenly. “Mr. Quinn!”

---

Tempest Quinn

Barely, just barely, Grigori caught the hand of Temp. His foot did not sink further in, which mattered little when the entire thing threatened to collapse in on itself. “Mr. Quinn, what is happening?!”

Unfortunately, the tables turned quite quickly. The entire situation became an anomaly as the grunt soon found himself to be the one that kept them from certain death. Temp fell, and his foot was the anchor that let them live. Above, debris rained down from a–

Maw. Maw? The pieces slid into place like they slid off the tongue they rested on.

“That was a saliva or mucous of some sort,” he said to Temp. “To ensare us! Why did you not tell me of this before we started to cross?!”

It would have been nice to know before they became the lunch of… whatever this Pokemon was. But then wasn’t the time to argue. While one hand braced Temp’s in a desperate attempt to keep him alive, the other reached for his belt. Which of his six could help with the situation at hand?

It was rather obvious. When something needed to evaporate, Scizor was always capable. The red insect materialized from a flash of white. Metal clacked together as it quickly took stock of the situation. Grigori pointed upward, “Please, buy us time!”

Scizor nodded, and then it raced up the ‘pathway’. It’s Bullet Punches at every step would hopefully dissuade the creature from thinking they are food. For now, Grigori grabbed Temp with both hands and attempted to haul him upward.

“How do we free ourselves?” He asked through strained teeth. It sounded like Temp had an inkling of their situation– surely he had a solution as well? “And hurry!”

---

Tempest Quinn

Things were very much not fine. All it would take was a single slip, then they were both dead. Lost to the belly of a massive beast. No one would even find their corpses. “We will not make it if we run!”

“Scizor, please!”

Scizor nodded, then pivoted away from going deeper. Instead, it Blazed a Trail down the tongue and straight to the two men. With careful yet quick precision, both were gripped roughly by the collar. Grigori nearly fumbled his grip on the gear as they were plucked from the safety of the hole.

And even still, their feet skid off the ground. They were half-dragged-half-carried back the way they came. The grunt could do little but try not to slow them down. Ahead, the dim light grew dimmer as the jaw started closing. Safety and death were but the mere difference between five and six seconds.

The former let them live, and the latter damned them to the hell they belonged. “Mr. Quinn, we’re not going to make it! Do you have nothing to help us?”

---

Tempest Quinn