By contrast, it seemed hardly fair that Shioda Yoshiro was not a stranger to the abandoned warehouse scene, whether it pertained to the more run of the mill illicit activities, or the one that she had recently burned down to dispose of the body of Amber Lenoir 's previous head of security detail. But that was neither here nor there, and this warehouse, despite all outward appearances, was decidedly anything but abandoned, instead packed with a crowd of people unpleasantly sweating beneath the spotlights.

Crammed into this makeshift...was it a ring of spectators for an arena, then? Rocking up onto her toes, she scanned the surroundings as best she could, unable to discern whether this one in particular was for human or pokemon combatants, but noting a decided lack of blood. Not her usual, then. And where was...

"Boss!"

Ah. There they are. Chiyo and Botan, her proverbial left and right hands, both standing next to a door that looked as if it could be anything from an exit to a storage area. In their line of extracurriculars, it could be almost anything. Shouldering through the crowd, and doing the first loud drunk to jostle into her the courtesy of being thrown bodily back into it, she makes her way over.

"Do I want to know what we're doing here?" she inquires smoothly above the sudden uptick in music from the loudspeakers, obviously meant to amp the spectators up for...something. Withdrawing a hand-rolled cigarette from its neat carrying case in the interior of her silk jacket, she has only just lit it when Botan snatches it out from between her fingers, almost seeming incredulous with himself as he looks from it to her as if he had just seized a live snake from an even...more dangerous snake.

"Really?" Yoshiro inquires, a brow arched at him in query as her hand remains upraised as if awaiting it being replaced.

He throws it to the floor, stomping it out hurriedly with a half-hearted expectation of they don't have enough time, and she is summarily ushered into the dimly lit backroom with some expediency - where Chiyo seems intent on removing her jacket so she won't get any blood on it even though Botan is insistent it isn't that kind of arena. With the certain, steady patience of one who is well aware they wouldn't idly waste her time, or perhaps, one that hopes not, Yoshiro carefully drapes her jacket over Chiyo's awaiting arm.

"Are you planning to tell me why you called me for...whatever this is," she gestures idly at nothing in particular, "Two hours before a d-"

"Swap shirts?" Chiyo interjects, a sharp and appraising glance made over the oyabun before she glances toward the other yakuza.

"For sure swap shirts," Botan concurs firmly.

"Before a date," Yoshiro emphasizes each syllable in a low, dangerous timbre, but nonetheless hooks the collar of her shirt with her fingertips, pulling it over her head to toss that over to Chiyo as well. The replacement is a... sequined tank top, all brilliant orange with black stripes in a way that somehow still manages to clash horribly with the existing, and obvious Arcanine tattoos that cover most of her exposed skin.

"I bought popcorn," she elaborates as if this were an important fact, pulling on the offered, hideous shirt, "I paid extra for the channel with all those shitty Johto melodramas. If I'm late..." She pats down her pocket at Chiyo's insistence, handing over her phone, wallet, keys, and perhaps most reluctantly... her pokemon, all of which are secured in a lockbox for her.

"We'll send her a picture of your whole David Zangoose moment, don't bitch," Chiyo assures as she reaches out to straighten the shirt, pausing at the look on Yoshiro's face and clearing her throat softly.

"What our associate meant to say, is we'll make sure you aren't late. But we also don't have much time, and if you can keep the crowd distracted, we can work on getting..." Botan cuts off suddenly at the entrance of the rather oily-looking announcer, an insincere smile upon his features as he hedges, "That thing you wanted."

She almost doesn't catch what Chiyo is on about with the announcer, who nods in the affirmative, before she's adorned in an orange ski-mask and shoved toward the door with the sage advice of, "It's tapout only - don't kill anyone and put on a good show so we can catch up with our contact. Go get 'em, tiger."

"You have to be fucking kidding me," is all she has the time to murmur before she's ushered through the door and into the spotlight, a loud click heard behind her as the exit is latched.

Blinking back a bit of moisture at the sudden brightness, her gaze solidifies on the...what exactly the fuck is going on here? Is this kid dressed in a cape and a...realization hits her like a lightning bolt.

"AND NOW FOR HIS OPPONENT, GIVE IT UP FORRRR....ARCANINE-OUT-OF-NINE."

Yeah, she's going to skin them both.

Beau Fontaine

☉

With a delighted figure eight, the first loop around the Roselia, and the second around Yoshiro, whose shoulder she soon alights upon, the little Cutiefly rubs its gossamer wings together, shedding little silver flecks upon the yakuza's collar. A faint sound of amusement escapes Yoshiro by contrast, clearly in high spirits as they make their way up to the Lilligant.

A polite, if entirely formal bow offered to the flower pokemon, Yoshiro accepts the box graciously before praising her companion. "That's at least one flower, Anzu. Do you think you can earn another?"

Plodding from near the woman's collar to the edge of her shoulder, Anzu lifts one spindly leg to a fuzzy crown, peering first in one direction and then the other before hopping definitively to the left, a bit too far it seems, as she nearly plummets only to be caught in Yoshiro's palm.

"Left it is, then," Yoshiro affirms with a nod, apparently entertained by the insect's antics as they move down the looping path to the left.

nzEXZk25

+ Path to the Left

☉

Her movements fluid as she continues along the path, occasionally doing a hop-skip step to throw Hoshiko off her game, as if they were children playing and not a yakuza or the pokemon most oft used to reduce grown men to tears, Yoshiro nonetheless nods her agreement with Georgette Bluebottle , advising, "We are lucky to have them, I often think."

"Size doesn't have that much to do with it," she confirms, almost tripping when the Zorua darts for her shoelaces and she compensates in order to avoid stepping on the fox's tail, a breathless little laugh escaping her when she finds her footing. "They all have their own talents. Torao is a bruiser. Tatsuo is - quite literally - bulletproof. Hoshiko has an innate knack for...helping to untangle truths, when we detain someone."

As if in response to the ruckus with the Morgrem, the nearby grass starts to blacken and wilt, a hint of smoke rising from therein as the armoured form of a Turtonator makes it's presence known. When the Zorua blinks up at her as if in question, Yoshiro gestures toward it and intones amusedly, "Go deal with it, then."

The fox pokemon slinks into the grass at that, clearly having hatched a Nasty Plot. And while she is, indeed, much smaller than the pokemon in the weeds, over time, she proves much faster and cunning, darting in and out in quick movements to tire out the slower, more armoured foe. When it seems to slow significantly, Yoshiro hurls a pokeball out toward it for good measure.

"Friendly wager?" she inquires of Georgette afterwards, the corner of her lips curling faintly. "We see at least...six more of the Impidimp line before we make it back to town."

Georgette Bluebottle

☉

The fabric of the chair is scratchy, threadbare, cheap. The room is dimly lit, and the bottles of liquor that line the shelf behind the desk are dusty, ill-kept. It, despite the prominent place behind the elaborately-carved doors, does not appear that the Yamanaka are doing quite so well as they would like her to think. But that seems typical of Hoenn, thus far, in that Shioda Yoshiro has never felt quite so much like a Sharpedo in too small a pond as she does here, sitting in this dismal excuse for an office with Yamanaka Renzo.

Yamanaka Renzo, who does not seem to have an inkling of how far out of his depth he actually is yet, his sweaty hands braced upon his stained desk as he leans over it, elaborating loudly and in surprisingly graphic detail just exactly how she can fuck off. Yoshiro blinks slowly in response, her expression carefully even even as he concludes his tirade with: "This isn't Johto, bitch, and you aren't Shioda Hinat-"

"I would recommend, little brother," she interjects smoothly at that, appreciating for a moment how the hint of red in his countenance increases at her purposeful use of a lesser rank, climbing rapidly toward his hairline. "That you reconsider mention of my late father. But no, as you so eloquently put it - I am not Hinata. For one, I share very little of his-"

Ding.

Leniency. She was going to say leniency, as she slowly rose from her seat, sliding her untouched beverage back toward him atop the desk in a rebuke of ceremonial hospitality. But that was before the sudden sound of a Gurdrr notification chimed in the immediate vicinity, and she starts with, "Honestly, Botan? Now is the time?"

Are you seriously chasing di- " A flurry of motion, after which she and Yamanaka alike are left looking at...is it Kurtis? Kris? Klaus, she corrects mentally. What is he doing here?

"Well this is a surprise," comes a coy comment from Takiji.

"Who the fuck is this?" Renzo intones far more bluntly, gesturing toward the other man, who most certainly wasn't looking for the bathroom. Yoshiro wishes that she knew, blinks several times in rapid succession as she recalls the details of their previous encounter, the chief of which is embarrassment and the secondary of which is the faint, lingering needling of jealousy.

first date, is he cute y/n???

There is a part of Yoshiro that is very aware that she doesn't have any good reason to be jealous, especially considering that - No. Absolutely not. Now is not the time. Not the time at all. A hint of colour arisen to the shell of her ears nonetheless, she focuses her introspection on something other than Amber Lenoir , clearing her throat as she opts instead for damage control, asserting smoothly, "Junto. I asked you to wait in the car, didn't I?"

And then, as if to neatly put a pin in the Yamanaka discussion, slides her phone from a pocket to scroll down the screen several times, inspecting the lack of anything on it for several seconds before she intones, "Ah, I see. I had my phone on silent."

Just in time for her favorite model-slash-actress to call, and her phone to decidedly NOT be on silent.

Baby, can't you see I'm calling?
A guy like you should wear a warning
It's dangerous, I'm falling
There's no escape, I can't wait
I need a hit, baby, give me it
You're dangerous, I'm loving it

Is that Britney fucking Spearow? Who the fuck changed- If it were not such an inopportune moment, the way that the head of the Shioda crime syndicate turns to stare incredulously at her personal security would almost be comical. So would the way that Chiyo is currently trying not to laugh.

With a tight-lipped smile, Yoshiro taps out a quick 'at work, are you okay?' and slips her phone back into her pocket, asserting to the Yamanaka brothers, "We'll have to pick this up at a later date. Excuse me, gentlemen."

It seems for a moment that this will all dissipate into nothing, Chiyo and Botan - the latter albeit sheepishly - moving to usher klaus anchoret out of the room to safety, while Takiji exhales in an audible sound of relief as the tension seems to de-escalate.

Renzo however, appears to have a different idea after the unlikely series of events, at least if the clutch of pokeballs spinning to a stop at their feet are any indication. In the resultant flash of light, the older man ducks behind his desk to hit something, presumably a silent alarm.

When exactly did this spiral completely out of control, Yoshiro has just enough time to think before they come face to face with two Drowzee and a Hypno, the sound of booted feet already heard in the hallway outside.

klaus anchoret

☉

It is second nature for Shioda Yoshiro to watch Elisabeth Fiorelli from above the rim of her teacup, the darkness of her eyes calculating as she takes that first, welcome sip of gyokuro. It always reminds her of home, a taste that calls to mind the sweet, tall grass that stirred in the wind near the river. That summons back a semblance of so much porcelain shattered over old, blood-soaked tatami, noibat wings all whispered velvet in the charred rafters.

"If you find that you enjoy it, I could send you the name of our supplier," Yoshiro muses in a low timbre, a lingering echo of late summer, of long-off violence balanced on the watered steel of her cadence. Gaze meeting Elisabeth's, she confirms, "And yes, my discretion is implied."

Yoshiro clears her throat softly as she sets her teacup down on the table between them, little more than a soft click. Never shifts her eyes, even as she inhales a slow breath that carries with it the scent of freshly steeped tea, of charcoal burning beneath the kettle, a hint of smoke on the cool, fresh air.

Elisabeth Fiorelli is cool and composed. What she recognizes in the crystalline blue of those eyes is this. That it would take far more than her to shake that composure. That Elisabeth Fiorelli is far more than the florist, or the widow, or all the demure weakness in Langevin's tapes. And isn't that a curious thing?

What have you known that is worse than me? is a question that rises unbidden in the base of her skull, one that the Shioda oyabun does not voice. What, that brought you into the Arcanine's den unafraid?

There is a part of her, and she knows that it is Shioda Yoshiro looking back upon Shioda Junya, that sees Elisabeth Fiorelli distinctly now, has a measure of her clear from the Elisabeth Bortiforte on that footage, and understands an indescribable thing. One that she could never put to words, but has her respect nonetheless, a feat in itself.

"We share an unfortunate and personal interest in Simon Langevin," is what she says instead, directly. It is where the pretenses between them begin to fall. "Bastidion Protections was entrusted to keep something of mine safe, and elected to endanger it for profit. You can imagine that I took that quite personally."

"Simon and I have already had our discussion, and he is...largely unharmed," Yoshiro confirms in a smooth cadence, lifting her cup to swirl the dregs of her tea. As she lifts it to take another sip, she blinks once, twice, at the sudden - albeit very soft - plonk of a very small, very pink Cutiefly into it from....was she somewhere on her person? Did she drift in from outside? Has she been in the teahouse this whole time?

"Hello, Anzu."

Summarily setting the cup back down onto the tea table, Yoshiro uses a long-handled spoon to fish the tiny insect out of her matcha and onto a napkin, the conversation diverted for an instant as she chides gently, "There isn't any honey in it, and you can't swim."

Then, to Elisabeth, "Don't mind her."

As casually as anything, the yakuza uses the small square of cloth to lift the little insect, carefully using her thumbs to rather tenderly dry it without harming it as she continues, "I'll be frank. I was hopeful you may be able to connect me with some discrete contacts in Kalos. You are, of course, welcome to decline. We will fulfil our original arrangement, inclusive of any necessary transport, holding, or disposal of Mr. Langevin at your discretion."

A soft, indignant buzz sounds from the folds of the fabric in Yoshiro's hands, requiring a resultant hush, before the newly-dried Cutiefly, looking a bit like a pink dandelion puff, is released onto the tea-table. It toddles across slowly, shaking its little legs like a wet dog, before starting to angle toward Elisabeth and presumably her cup.

"But if you accept, Shioda would...I would owe you a favour, Miss Fiorelli. And I can assure that I don't take such obligations lightly," Yoshiro offers in a clear timbre, lifting her dark eyes from the ambling Cutiefly to meet the florist's, the meaning behind them heavy, serious. "In the meantime..."

What she sets on the table carries perhaps more weight than her gaze or even her meaning, a neatly taped bundle of discs - each scripted with a date, location, and persons present.

"It was found in Langevin's effects. Consider it a gesture of goodwill."

The Bortiforte Industries insignia is left glaring up from the table between them.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

Shioda Yoshiro will never be over the stark dichotomy of The Fixer 's appearance and mannerisms, a fact that not-too-secretly amuses her. The cheeriest and most dependable man she knows, she muses as he and the Abra wave, but also undoubtedly the best gun for hire. Her brows lift subtly at the mention of Georgette Bluebottle , her mind still attempting to wrap around the fact that the ice trainer and Amber Lenoir know each other, and why Georgette doesn't know that-

She doesn't particularly care for the bitter sensation that prickles in her veins right now. Jealousy is not an emotion she is overfamiliar with, and she doesn't know what rankles worse, that she's experiencing it - or that it is Georgette Bluebottle of all people who is evoking it.

"We've known each other since we were children," Yoshiro intones smoothly, attempting to iron out the hint of sharpness at the corners of her words. "Back in Johto. I didn't realize you were acquainted, either."

This doesn't bode well.

"Georgette Bluebottle," she nonetheless informs the armoured man beside them, politely introducing them both. "Georgette, this is Fixer. An old friend of mine."

There are not truly any words for how excruciatingly slowly Shioda Yoshiro blinks at the arrival of a man in full draconid cosplay, clearly uncertain what to think even once he has finished with his monologue. What exactly have you roped me into, Lenoir? is all that she can think, even as she reaches for her belt, unclipping one of the pokeballs there and sending it spinning to a stop with a well-practiced toss.

The brilliant flash of life from therein precedes the arrival of the Doduo it contained, one pair of beady black eyes fixated intensely on the costumed cosplayer, while the other head turns abruptly, looking at Yoshiro as if for confirmation.

She lifts her chin in brief nod of acknowledgement, assuring in a smooth cadence, "You have this, Mio."

With a decisive peep of affirmation, the bird pokemon focuses forward, seeming to bicker betwixt its heads for a few seconds before it puffs up impressively, all its downy feathers lending it a resemblance to a misplaced dandelion blown about by the wind. Diminutive wings beat as fast as they can, it begins to drift gently just above the trembling earth.

+ Using DODUO, Flying/Normal Type.

☉

The thrum of the bass is a heartbeat, a lifeline, a facet of this life with which Shioda Yoshiro is intimately familiar. She can feel it reverberate beneath her boots the instant they hit the still-damp asphalt, the instant that she moves, sleek and cat-like from the back of the glossy, black towncar still flecked with remnants of the late evening rain. And while she cannot quite place the band, the song, the track that pulses through night air that tastes like ozone and thunder, the literal storm preceding the metaphorical one, it makes no difference.

The Espneon is just another club. Just another neon-bright and crisp dark contrast, another scene in another city, on another continent. And while her business may have evolved to meet the needs of Hoenn, beneath all the veneer and polish, it is no different than it was in Johto. It is no different than Shioda Yoshiro in the emperor's footsteps, if not his clothes, all traditional tattoos and black eyeliner beneath the flash of the strobe as Chiyo and Botan make a path, keep the jostling dancers from moving too close on either side.

Hoshiko twines between her feet with every step, halting only once when an overzealous dancer nearly spills their drink upon her tail, the Zorua puffing up for only a moment before the intrepid party-goer clutches their head, their scream of TORMENT lost in the noise as the bass in the next track abruptly drops and a group of dancers cheers. It doesn't take the Zorua long to catch up, however, slipping around them and into the hallway that leads to the VIP area.

A discrete hand-off of neatly folded bills earns her the most direct route to her impromptu meeting. One that - judging by the look on the Yamanaka brother she actually comes across in the hall - their family head would have liked to have more warning on than he was about to get, likely preferring to avoid her in person or this soon.

"Shioda Oyabun," Yamanaka Takiji's hands wring subtly on his fan, his countenance carefully blanking as he notices the way her dark eyes slip to his pallid knuckles and then back up to meet his own. He has a choice to make, they both know that, and he chooses correctly. "Renzo must be expecting you. This way." And then, his fan flicked back open and used, "I trust you are acclimating well to Hoenn?"

"Little brother," it rolls off her tongue in the traditional way, smooth as watered steel. "I find Slateport to be...disorganized, but yes. It has potential."

They do not share blood, only honorifics. May come to spill it, however, if the whole of this ordeal transpires as poorly as she suspects it might. But Takiji is not her problem, leads on, and they keep pace to make their way down, down, down the stairwell at the end of the corridor and into the proverbial belly of the beast, the heart of the Yamanaka operation beneath the Espneon, sheltered behind doors carved in motifs of Drowzee and Hypno.

"Renzo!"

Renzo does not appear happy to see her, but the, she supposes, she wouldn't either. He looks even less pleased to see his brother beside her, chatting idly about the state of the Slateport club scene and their recent shipment of Galarian Slowbro.

In Renzo's newly occupied office not a few minutes later, she suspects he is far less appreciative when she ends their terse back and forth with.

"It's very simple. You can bend the knee, or I can bend it for you."

On any other day, perhaps Botan's scrolling on his phone would be inconsequential, though he at least has the good graces to look up at her statement. Or Takiji's, really, but that's them for you.

klaus anchoret + Mission - Come out of your shell.

☉

It seemed a strange way to pass the afternoon, but Anzu was insistent, as she was wont to be. The little Cutiefly drifted and bumbled through the air, occasionally doing a circuit of Yoshiro's head, or alighting upon the yakuza's person to perch for a time. But there was a certain excitement, a certain desire to leave the walk and head toward the impressive maze in the distance, and she was not adverse to indulging her Pokémon when able.

What struck her first was the drop in temperature, the way that the hedges rose high enough to bathe portions of the maze in shadow. The scent of greenery on the air, of good, dark earth, of something softly floral as the Cutiefly flitted from bloom to bloom, collecting sips of nectar as she went.

"Don't wander far, Anzu," Yoshiro mused in contemplation, in no hurry as they came to the first fork in the path. Surprisingly, she wasn't not enjoying herself. It reminded her of an escape room the team had done in Johto once, though without Botan having a panic attack due to claustrophobia and throwing up in the lockbox. If it weren't for the fact that it was Elisabeth Fiorelli 's grounds, or that Anzu herself was a touch sensitive to it, she might have lit a cigarette.

But no. Not here.

"Well?" Yoshiro inquired as the Cutiefly drifted back, making an impromptu stop on the tip of her nose and nearly missing the landing. Scrunching her nose faintly at the feel of numerous, tiny taps to it as the Cutiefly looked first he one way and then the other, then rubbed its wings together excitedly, Yoshiro teased with a genuine affection, "You decide. If you choose right, perhaps we can stop at Fiorelli's on our way back and pick out a flower for you, whichever sort you like."



At the mention of a flower, the Cutiefly seems all but beside itself with excitement, inching further up her nose to implore her with wide, dark eyes. It seems to fret impossibly over the outcome in so much as the little insect can, before finally taking wing, leading the intrepid duo off on the path to the right.

jfRnSgZg

+ Path to the Right

☉

"You were very lucky," Yoshiro intones with a subtle incredulity, perhaps a touch of respect in her timbre as she observes the Froslass, as if taking the measure of that past situation. With a smooth roll of her shoulders as if to loosen them as they pass by a slowly lumbering Stonjourner, she confides, "My father always considered that there were no greater honor than to be chosen by one's pokemon, over the reverse. That she would defend you from a Tauros is impressive."

Amusement soon touches her features as she steers Hoshiko away from the tall grass with the side of her boot, several repetitions of the action completed before the Zorua nips at her laces and consigns itself to walking on the path.

"Hoshiko is..." Yoshiro seems to mull over her choice of words carefully before settling on. "Adept in many facets of my line of work, but also...rather enthusiastic? We strike a good balance when she has ample outlets for that."

Georgette Bluebottle

☉