It wasn’t just a hammer, but he was just a grunt.

It always came down to position. Grigori did not have sway. No rank to pull. He was at the bottom of the totem pole and there was no way out. To move up was to kill his soul, and to leave was to kill his physical body. To hunker down meant he rotted away. But he would never leave and did not want to move up.

He languished. But sometimes, no progress was better than negative progress.

Grigori raised an eyebrow at Caleb’s knife while it descended. “I am given the information needed for my work– I am certain you aren’t privy to every little minute detail of your faction either.”

Those who were did not sneak aboard random Rocket vessels in search of whatever information they could find. They were kept in safe places, tucked into corners so that no one may find them. Not sent to die behind enemy lines.

“You…” Grigori’s hammer wavered. Amnesty? An out?

"... are foolish." Absurd. He could not take it. He had sworn an oath: Rocket forever. Even if he disagreed with much of what they did, he was here. Stuck, but never with an inkling of freedom on his mind.

“Save your false hopes for someone worth them,” he said. He took one step forward, and so too did Brick. Together, they narrowed the gap– but only by the single step. He did not rush forth like a bloodthirsty criminal. Men like this deserved slight mercies. Only slight.

“Kanto calls. Raise your blade and fight.”

---

Caleb Harcourt

10 MP For Posting in Prelude
50 MP for having your character reflect on why they're fighting/reflect on their loyalties
130 MP Total

It was more from the motions that he knew how to fix the weapon, rather than any actual knowledge on it. Grigori grabbed the weapon with both hands. Bolts, slides, and everything started to fall apart. Little by little. Soon, the weapon was totally torn apart. The original form was little more than a memory.

How coincidental.

“You can not deal with Mr. Quinn,” Grigori said. His focus went entirely on the little parts, which he critically inspected. There were dozens, but he had the entire day to do it. “And Mr. Harcourt will go to Mr. Quinn, or Ms. Fiorelli, if he thinks it necessary. If he does not pull his new rank on you.”

“We are in wartime, and the general’s will is only succeeded by the King that grants them rank.”

Slowly yet surely, the parts were discarded. Put off to the side when he found them satisfactory. “If you do not trust me, then trust history. It will speak of similar scenarios. The small fish never came out on top. Not here, and especially not Kanto.”

He did not talk about Kanto. Not without reason. This was not one of them.

“Things would be much simpler if June did not refuse help, but you are right. We must use the hand we are dealt…”

“And there is one card we– you, can play,” Grigori held out the part in his hands for Howard to see. One of the inside parts was slightly bent, almost impossible to notice. But it did. Grigori discarded it, and procured a new part.

Then he started to put the gun together. “You are my boss, and may command me as you see fit. I will not act of my own free will, but you can force my hand, so to speak. And it does not involve me taking Regieleki.”

---

howard slayte

Grigori lets out all the tenseness in his soul as the explosion rocked the ocean, rather than Dewford. How fortunate they were, not to be witnesses to one of the most lethal attacks in all of Hoenn. In All of Hoenn and Kanto. Perhaps, even the world.

Yet he does not smile. Not even when Shred commanded to retreat, nor when the sheriff asked Shred to do so much (why did he know Shred 's true name?), but his shoulders sagged micrometers. Stress left his bones as the life of a dying one.

Much like Howard. He looked eerily familiar. The grunt had to turn his gaze away, lest his mind be consumed by the awful past. Even as he returned to life, as he attempted to wheel Shred’s tired, permanently mangled body to walter delmar ’s ship, it was simply too much to bear. The night had depleted all of his energy, physical and mental.

Grigori was not the hero. Howard was. For that, he must be thankful that the town still stood. Even if its flesh had been rendered and bones broken, the frame still stood. And from that, they could rebuild. “Understood, Mr. Dread.”

Someone else would have to help the younger admin. His arm kept the older beast stable while they limped towards the ship. Towards tomorrow.

“You did good, Mr. Shred,” he whispered. He pulled the man ever tighter. Even as they clashed, and their ideals differed, they both could see the importance of their retreat. Nobody had the strength to attempt a backstab. It was a tense, yet mutually understood situation. “Keep, your head, high.”

The future only held greater difficulties. To lose hope and strength now was to accept defeat and willingly bring death upon oneself. Grigori knew it first hand. 

Kanto had been much the same.

---

Tl;dr
 - Damn what an event
 - Mr. Shred you're so cool for not wanting Greg to kill another dozen people
 - Carries him back to the ship
 - Tells him to keep his head high because if he can't now, then he's omega fucked in the future (pretend I don't know what Ouroborus is Clueless)

Grigori let the quiet thrum of raw potential energy speak for itself. Watched the intruder draw their weapon, its soft draw an indication of what it was.

“A knife? Is that all they could afford to arm you with?”

From his own belt came a hammer. Made of pure metal, one that Aurelie Lefevre knew as well. Less from direct make, but more of association and profession. She’d ensured it stayed in prime shape for combat. Once a simple tool for mochi, found in the swamp caves with the Megalopolans. Now a force of destruction.

Neither of them could let go of the past, it seemed. Instead, they kept it around and wondered why connections kept arising from seemingly nowhere.

“It does not matter,” he answered. “Do you seriously think a grunt like me would be told of such information?”

A bright flash erupted into the room, and a Poke Ball produced a Pokémon. A rival to the Zoroark emerged, tall and proud and hard to miss. Almost in direct competition to the sly weasel was a Druddigon. Brick stared down the dark creature but did not yet move from beside the grunt.

“But you, on the other hand…” he tilted his head slightly. A predator who sized up the prey before the hunt. “You likely know many things… Hm. I think I can make you a tempting offer, one that you can’t refuse.”

“Stand. Down. Interrogation is a mercy,” he pointed the hammer straight at the red-painted figure. “Death is the sentence otherwise. Those are my orders, and your options. Choose wisely.”

Even after Kanto, and even after Dewford, the mask slipped on all too easily. Old habits died hard, and ghosts even harder. But what never went away was the idea. Unkillable, that one. It stuck around and clung and never let go. But its influence could be lessened. Subdued. The Grigori from then would've wasted no time and aimed to kill immediately.

Now, he waited patiently. Hopefully. This did not have to end with blood on his hands.

---

Caleb Harcourt

10 MP for post in Prelude
70 MP Total

Grigori Sokolov had faced his past for so long, it ought to be easy to channel the version of himself capable of going to war.

But it wasn’t.

Doubts wracked his mind, and for the first time in… ever, was another feeling. One best locked up and hidden, never to emerge, for it spelled death for whomever dared voice it to a superior: discontent. He did not want to be here. The wrinkles on his face and weariness in his bones had never felt as prominent as they were.

Below the depths of the deck. He waited with unsteady breaths and tired eyes. How many would fall today? How many by his hand?

What would june sleigh decide? These thoughts kept his mind away from reality, of choppy waves and a terrible god that desired destroy all that stood in its path. Perhaps that is what his mind should focus on. Defense. A first for the veteran. Most of the time, he was deployed to murder, maim, and kill all who stood against Rocket.

He still was. But now, there was the idea of ‘self-defense’. It was anything but, yet the flimsy reminder helped keep his arms steady against his chair. He sat alone, at the bottom of the stairs. He was the last line of defense for their cargo. It buzzed dangerously but a few meters below, another reminder.

They were expendable. If the opportunity arose, then the sea would be their graves. It was all he deserved.

Unfortunately, he could hear the creak of a door above. Above the drum of the waves, he could hear the footsteps. Careful, cautious, each punctuated near-silent creak a bombshell on his ears. If it were a Rocket member, they would not bother with attempted silence. Alternatives fell to one answer.

An intruder. It was only a matter of time. Yet when the minute creaks finished and all fell still… there was no one there. Invisibility? Likely. Meant his foe was a capable one, with powerful tools on their side. Whatever would he do?

Suddenly, the world exploded in red. Paint, like the kind that adorned the ship they sat on. It coated the walls, the ceiling, and everything in between. A bucket clattered to the floor, and the remnants of its contents dribbled onto the planks. The disguised fisherman rose.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you any further.”

---

Caleb Harcourt

10 MP for Posting in Prelude
50 MP for 50 MP have your character self-doubt or cast doubt on another's confidence/allegiances/beliefs, etc.

60 MP Total

Such was the beauty of philosophy and all of her branches: there existed numerous, perhaps endless, views and approaches to designs and the world around them. Sometimes, they even defied expectations. Cemented the idea that assumptions were never to be trusted whole-heartedly.

They could be wrong. Such was the curious case of Grigori Sokolov.

They could also be slain, buried, and forgotten to the ages. Such was also the case of Grigori Sokolov– if he wasn’t careful with his thoughts. Some things were better left assumed, ideas let to run rampant than to be culled by the careful hand of facts and logic.

“So I’ve heard and surmised, Mr. Bee” Grigori said. He took ample time to follow Barnaby to the chair, yet he sat down once he reached ‘his’ spot. It felt odd and taboo, in a way. One so mighty as Moltres-Galar, its power granted to a single soul– only to be utilized for a comfortable chair.

But the view was peaceful. A city, nestled in nature and brimming with potential. Littleroot was a perfect place to retire. If only he could. Instead, he must make himself ready with the idea of war for a second time.

“I would agree with your estimation,” he said. He kept his back planted firmly to the rest, his neck straight and posture perfect. “It is a war on two fronts. One, we can make and lose ground with. The other– only spells our demise.”

But all he offered to the promise of a secret was a slight twist of his head and two perfectly capable eyes locked onto Barnaby’s own. Secrets could build as much as they could destroy. It was better to let the scenario play out than to rush to promises.

---

BARNABY FINCH

Grigori took the Poke ball with a confident hand. Chandelure? Perfect for the job. “Understood, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Then I’ll begin,” he said. The van door clicked opened, and hot air rushed to fill the space. The grunt hopped out of the vehicle and shut the door gently, as to not make much noise. From there, he snaked his way alongside the vehicle to the back side.

From the back, he stole two moderately sized red gas cans. Their liquid contents sloshed as he softly closed that door as well. Then, he was properly off. The alleyway continued on for a short bit until it opened into a small, secluded, yet open space. Similar openings branched off onto more open street, but his target was in the center of it all.

A dimly lit neon sign punctuated the dark space. It cut through the black and his senses, blinding to his freshly adjusted eyes. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow as he gently tried to open the door. It wasn’t from the heat.

No dice. He set down a canister and pressed a button on his earpiece, “Mr. Harcourt. Back door is locked. Deploying countermeasure.”

Overcommunication beat no communication. One of his Poke balls clicked open and released a Mimikyu onto the filthy street. Her head bobbled awkwardly to the sides as it looked to her owner eagerly. “Unlock the door, please.”

Her neck bent to ninety degree angles as she furiously nodded, and then a shadowy tendril emerged from underneath the cloth head. Bright red lit its path up to and inside the frame. Tumblers churned and pins shifted.

“Did you secure blueprints? I’ll need directions to the records room,” he asked. Unfortunately, even if the Poke Center proved to be as small as his living quarters, he found it hard to navigate out of a paper bag. Let alone a building as potentially complex as a Pokémon Hospital. It was impressive that he didn't try to break into the wrong building, all things considered.

---

Zev Harcourt

“She does not want to be involved in either side,” Grigori agreed. It was visible from a mile away, how she ignored the clutches of the League and skirted around Rocket alike. Close enough to be offered work, but never close enough to be caught in their web. Even the Rangers failed to sway her further towards their ‘noble’ cause.

“Unfortunately… that will not be possible forever,” Grigori lead them back into the main aisle. If they stayed in there forever, with one person and one half-corpse, they’d get unwanted attention. Especially when they recognized how decrepit Howard looked. He made Shred look somewhat normal.

“As conflicts rise, and our sides mobilize, it will not be long before her position on the fence is ousted,” he pushed open the door to the armory, and then took a sharp right. Past the few grunts who aimed down a range with firearms of various sizes and black sheens, or with meaty blades at their hips. “Whether she wants it or not.”

Grigori nodded silently at the on-standby instructor, and then shoved Howard into the closest seat. Maintenance. Various weapons of various conditions sat on a workbench and awaited much needed attention.

“Mr. Harcourt and Mr. Quinn will forcibly remove her from the white list. Any attempts to deny them will end in death at best. I will be tasked with an attempted recruitment or assassination, whichever they think better,” he took his own seat next to Mr. Fox. They were towards the back, and the air conditioning rained down on them with viciously cold air.

---

howard slayte

Grigori followed closely behind Shred and let the man take the lead. He had only offered a raised eyebrow to the beast's tired agreeance, but he was not going to complain. Anything to keep his fists clean for another hour. As long as they got the information, then all would be well.

Shred took the chair, and the grunt hovered behind his shoulder like a Chatot. He did his best to hide the surprise and disbelief while Shred offered a flat out bribe, but kept his poker face intact. Two days? That wasn’t normal– or healthy. No wonder he looked so ragged. More than usual, rather.

“Because you will talk,” Grigori answered swiftly. If Shred was exhausted, then he could do a little talking himself. He couldn't just be a stone wall, stalwart and strong in the face of the enemy. “Perhaps not now, or in an hour, or two hours…”

“But this kindness is a mercy, one you will be lucky to see again,” he said. Shred could go from zero to a million in three seconds. He’d seen it first hand, and it was never pretty. “And statistics put our interrogations at roughly ninety-five percent effective.”

“The other five percent die before they talk.”

Silence punctuated the threat, and he put a hand onto Shred’s shoulder. “I can promise the promise is genuine, as far as I’m aware. Take it while it still stands.”

He squeezed. If the man wished to add on or try an entirely different method, then now was the time. Furthermore... he didn't know what else to say. The rest of the ideas that entered his mind swiftly flew into the mental trash bin. Too cheesy, or too brutal. The prisoner would surely shut up and keep his head down.

---

Shred

Maybe he’d been wrong about the nose thing. An incorrect and vaguely rude assumption. Nonetheless, he nodded along and started to walk the way of Mossdeep. They had a deep sea means of travel, right? Hopefully the path didn’t become flooded with water. He couldn’t save everyone from drowning.

“Then it sounds like Mossdeep is in our future.”

--

Grigori’s fisherman hat felt ironically out of place as they emerged from the trail. Somehow, he was the only one to actually get wet. Everyone else looked perfectly fine. He twisted the fabric carefully to get out as much water as possible. Something told him he’d have to suffer with the wet clothes. At least it was warm outside.

“Excellent work, if I say so myself,” he slapped the hat back atop his disguised head, and the shiny lures jangled around in the summer sun. “Does anyone know the best way forward? I can’t recall if they had any orders for us after this…”

He knew about the press conference. june sleigh had mentioned it in passing, a week or so ago. She had sounded rather pissed to be going, but it’d be the perfect place to get convenient intel if the League slipped. But they wouldn’t– it was for the public, after all. They’d be lucky to hear a vague idea of plans.

“Has anyone ever been to the Observatory?” He turned back to his companions. However, his eyes fell back onto Parker. “I hear the star is beautiful at this time of day. Takes up your entire view.”

It’d be nice to salvage any inkling of a social reputation.

---

parker jones

Grigori barely held his ground. His feet skidded across the stone and the force of the initial explosion pushed heavily against his chest. Physically, he held one arm to cover his eyes and the other for self-balance. Despite the odds, he stayed upright and steady. A wall against the storm.

Mentally, he soared. Past Howard, past Dewford, across the country. Even with the dangerous energy that inhibited his judgment, made him want to be the hero he secretly desired to be…

He could not. Should not. He was the last one to raise a fist and stand against the oppressive forces at play. It was not his place. His position forbade it, and the weight of his sins kept him from acting. There needed to be a much stronger man in hierarchy and responsibility.

And that man came from the last one he expected. Howard charged forth, his possessions abandoned to Shred. It wasn’t long before chaos exploded again, as Pokémon dynamaxed and a ship docked rapidly to save as many souls as possible. Ooze offered to help those brave enough to charge.

His feet ran in a different direction. Straight to Shred. Heavy armored hands tried to pull the man out of the mud and debris and towards the ship. It wouldn’t stay forever.

“Mr. Dread! We must leave, or the explosion…”

They were kindred spirits, in a sense. They had a penchant for knowing just how bad things could be. They’d be atomized from the Regice’s explosion. Nothing but ash, if they were lucky.

Howard would have to be fine. If not, then… he was simply reaping what he’d sown. Everyone did. When was his turn?

“Mr. Dread, please! This is something only he can do! All we can do is hope and wait. Don't let it be all for naught."

---

Tl;dr
 - Doesn't get blown away physically
 - Mentally, now doesn't want to be here anymore and wants to call mom to pick him up
 - Not his place to fix the problem and save the town, but Howard is!
 - Tries to get Shred to run away with him, knowing that Howard must do what he is for his own self
 - Scizor does... who knows?