On the nightstand, an old flip phone vibrated. It was older than dirt, ancient by modern standards and old for a geological era. There were fossils in the world that were younger than the archaic piece of tech that threatened to vibrate off the table.

"Mmmmph." Howard's head rose blearily from the former underboss's shoulder. His hand reached out, grasping for the phone. When it fell and clattered against the bedroom floor, he heaved a sigh. "Fuuuuuuuuuuck..."

Eight hours of sleep. That was all he wanted.

Alas.

He shimmied from the grasp of blackened fingernails, irritated at how tightly he was being held. Was he an emotional support plushie or an admin? Both, likely. His eye narrowed at the caller ID.

Click.

"You didn't die." Warm words, almost as comforting as glacial ice and frostbite. "What?"

---

Tempest Quinn

"Of course you do. Does this one involve me getting shot in the back?"

The wounds from Ultra Deep Sea had not yet healed. In some cases, they're fresher than the ones from Petalburg. Latent fear claws at his soul, an ember that Mesprit could not quash. Regirock had mended, but its owner had not.

An annoyed sigh rang in Tempest's ears. The admin sat up in bed, rubbing his temples.

"Go ahead. Let's hear it." A flicker of interest. "What?"

---

Tempest Quinn

"Eh?"

A weird sound erupted from the admin's throat. A mix of a laugh and an exhale and a choke all at once. It's only then that Howard realized that Tempest wasn't joking.

"You're serious." The phone crackled with static. "One sec."

He crossed the small bedroom in a few paces and stepped into the hallway. Chu-e had been an underboss. If he had any respect for the title, he wouldn't listen in.

Not that it mattered.

"On whose authority?"

---

Tempest Quinn

His eye didn't move from the closed door. With baited breath, he waited for the shuffling that indicated a snooper. Yet nothing happened. Nothing ever moved.

"It's manpower we can't afford. I can't delegate any grunts from Petalburg without Kanto taking complete control." Too many people died. Too many were wounded. Not enough were fit to fight a god of death. "Have you checked with SPECTRA or Nebula?"

Two thirds of Nebula were on the phone.

"Are we killing it?" He asked carefully. "Or catching it?"

---

Tempest Quinn

Regirock had been offered the same choice, albeit unknowingly. It had joined the admin, not Rocket, in his crusade to scrub all uncleanliness from this world. When the contract had been struck, Elisabeth Fiorelli had attempted to undermine it.

Her struggles had gotten her a fist of stone and a shallow grave.

"Then you won't want me. I'm poor under pressure. Always have been." In spite of that, he was still Rocket's trump card at Petalburg. "But fine. I'll join your death march."

It's the refusal to use grunts as meat shields that swayed him. It's one of the few things that the two can agree upon, even now. The senseless slaughter of grunts offered little but blood and tears.

"Regirock needs a field test, anyway."

---

Tempest Quinn

Another deep sigh. It meshes with the static into a baritone burr.

"Sure. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Rocket, and to salvage what scrap of dignity I have left after turning Elisabeth into paste."

It's a partial lie, but the Rocket Beast need not know that.

"What?"

---

Tempest Quinn

There's silence on the other side of the line. It's deafening. Heartbreaking. The fear of abandonment leaks through, threatening to gnaw at the Rocket Beast's soul.

"If I can stop him, I will." The words come slowly, haltingly. Even if he and Cillian are not close, they share a mutual hatred for a shared enemy. "But nothing will happen to you. We'll pluck death of its wings."

The door creaked slightly as the admin regarded the person curled into his bed.

"You will survive. Or I'll dive into the Border and piece you back together myself."

---

Tempest Quinn