His eyes fell onto the document. The fresh signature that now rested on the bottom was as beautiful and insidious as the woman who put it there. She played with him even now, as she granted his initial request. The entire reason he risked the den of Pyroars. A cruel joke, confirmed as she taunted her.

Grigori snatched the lone paper, the request for leave from the Anger Management program, and tore it clean in two. Its rip filled the quiet left by Elisabeth, and he balled up the two halves shortly after.

“I’m glad I came here after all, Ms. Fiorelli,” he shoved them into his pocket and grabbed his file. “You showed me something very valuable: that I was wrong to make such bold assumptions.”

Since he still held onto that dangerous, unrightful grudge, he still needed to be in Anger Management. Even if Fiorelli claimed and acted upon the opposite, he would not allow her to feel like the boss here. He had entered the den and played her game, and that was on him.

But to leave would be to deny her the satisfaction. Disobedience. The kind he claimed to have fixed. How wrong of him– but not a lie. Just acting on false information. “I appreciate your time, and thank you for your advice on the matter. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get back to work.”

Grigori started to leave the office, his back as straight as an arrow. Some part of him hoped for her to respond, to act, to get mad, to get angry. But the other part valued his well-being and intact limbs.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

“Mr. Howard, have you ever tried to herd a Skitty? As someone who had to try in the last few months, you can’t.”

Of course Grigori knew of her behavior. He’d been the one to try to talk her out of the island initially. And then, when she insisted on a repeat of the ‘work herself to death’ thing for the holidays, he advised against it. Neither time did it work.

And those were just the relevant moments.

The grunt pushed off Howard’s tight hands and paced to the other side of the cramped metallic box. Unbelievable. “So you were aware of how hard it is to direct her, you gave her an empty threat. Don’t you think she’ll catch on eventually? Hoenn isn’t as big as you think.”

“You two will run into each other again,” he said as he turned back around. “And when you fail to act on it, she’ll start to catch on. So, once again, why aim for Scorched Earth when it won’t even last the year? The simple truth would have the same outcome, but there's still a chance for your relationship to be salvaged.”

Arceus above, it was like the man threw a Molotov on the ground and started to blindly run away. For all he knew, it could’ve fallen straight into the water and fizzled out. He had guaranteed nothing– yet he spoke in nothing but. Something wasn’t adding up. How could a man be so confident in something so uncertain?

---

howard slayte

Grigori looked to the open door, then back to Howard. He squinted, then stepped over to the control panel and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors slid back shut and the whine of the motor once more filled the air.

“I’m not letting you run from me, Mr. Howard.”

“I don’t even know where to start with you,” a scowl emerged. He’d gone over a surprising amount of material in such a succinct amount of words. It felt like an impenetrable wall of content that was supposed to collapse in on the grunt and crush him beneath its reasoning.

“How about this,” he leaned back against the wall, “Why do you keep thinking that your relationship was best to end like this. This–this–’Scorched Earth’ approach. Even if– and that’s very big if– your relationship never recovered after you told her, then would that seriously be worse than whatever the hell you did?”

Ultimately, without knowledge of how their conversation went, this wasn’t even a guaranteed end. Knowing June, she was probably more pissed that Howard had hurt Matchstick than herself. Inseparable, they were. It’d been an especially sore point whenever he visited them in the weeks after their departure from the island.

“What, did you threaten her? That’s the only thing I can think of that’d lead to this. And I don’t know if she told you, but that’s not an issue anymore. The League barred June from pulling her little stunt again. They didn’t appreciate a civilian on the front lines.”

A relief, to be frank. It meant that the factional conflict wasn’t going to be a problem, so long as Rocket didn’t directly attack her. Less he had to worry about. Fewer chances for the grunt to act up and cause more problems. Get himself on more shit-lists.

“Rocket would have to deliberately go out of their way for some nobody-delivery girl,” he crossed his arms. “One you’ve put on the whitelist.”

---

howard slayte

Looked like Grigori had missed something rather important, somewhere along the way. Hell, he still didn’t even know the full details. All he knew was that Shred Zeppelin had suffered a great blow. Death, if the rumors were true. Grigori held the bundle of flowers in his hand as he wandered through the medical ward.

He didn’t think the man would appreciate the bundle of yellow daffodils. But perhaps he would enjoy the tequila shooter hidden within the stems. The idea wasn’t his, but he hated to admit that it’d be something the man might appreciate. Not like the grunt himself had to down it.

After his meeting with Fiorelli, he renewed his resolve to never touch liquor.

But this wasn’t about him, and he finally reached the room that held Shred hostage. Gently, he knocked and pushed the door open a smidge. Enough to see the bed, where the man would hopefully be. Covered head to toe in white bandages. It hurt to see a lot more than he thought it would.

“Mr. Shred… it’s me. Grigori. Long time no see,” he pushed himself inside the room one step. Enough to retreat if given the need. “May I come in?”

---

Shred

How could Howard be so blind? So ignorant? Grigori looked down to the floor, defeated. “Mr. Howard, Rocket only takes when you let it. It requires a failure on the part of oneself to happen.”

Some people joined willingly. Others, they would never be able to convince. It was those in the middle, on the fence, or vaguely interested, that were the prime pickings. Fulfill a specific need, or convince them that they need Rocket in some way, and they’re one step away from being recruited. They preyed on the vulnerable in droves. The needy. Money was always an easy one. From there, they kept taking whenever allowed to fully convert.

But to put the blame solely on Grigori’s shoulders? A step further. “I did not tell you to burn or ‘exchange emotions’. I told you that you need to apologize for something you were clearly bent over yourself for. Because that’s what people who are guilty do, when they want to try and fix things.”

Nothing made sense anymore, as the elevator’s drone filled the small space. The grunt racked his head, desperate for some explanation, some meaning behind all of this. There were clear leaps in logic that fell short of a proper conclusion. What part of the equation did he or Howard clearly miss?

A dangerous thought stabbed him in the brain, and his mind cracked. The dots connected, back to where it all began. There weren’t wrong, misjudged leaps: this entire journey was doomed from the start. Slowly, his wide eyes met Howard’s. Grigori’s right eye twitched.

“You’re running away,” he whispered. Of course– how could Grigori himself be so blind? Oh, he was right to be worried from the start. If it weren't for the circumstances, he'd give the man a pat on the back and a gold star. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach.

“You are running away again, but not just that– you’re burning the bridge June would use to chase after you.” Isolating himself from the problem by making sure she could never catch up. So she never had a reason to want to.

---

howard slayte

His blood ran cold. So she saw that too. Saw that dark moment. She understood. As he raised his head up off the floor, he saw something sinister. Elisabeth looked absolutely radiant. Even though he’d done a pretty number on her, the damage fixed itself right before his eyes.

Grigori’s moment of weakness had literally fuelled the Underboss back to full health. It also gave her the inspiration for her next loaded question. The nail in the coffin for this meeting.

Catch-22. To blame the poison was logical. Sensical. However, it meant he ultimately couldn’t control himself– a perfectly valid reason to keep him in anger management. Yet if he didn’t, then it was also perfectly clear he was still prone to bouts of violence. So, he should go back to anger management classes.

But in the face of such a reality, he would not bend. This would not be the end. It couldn’t. As she rose and tried to push him down, he would be defiance incarnate. He repositioned himself to be sitting, but not to show weakness. He looked anything but as he looked towards the sky, towards Elisabeth.

“No.”

“I will overcome this,” he said, their gazes locked. Elisabeth to dignity as Grigori to determination. “If not now, then in a week. A month. A year, ten years, however long it takes.”

“I know you will not sign off on my request,” he pushed himself off the ground, dusted himself off, and reached over her desk for his file. “But I will prove to you that my past grudges are only a temporary setback. I am more than a man of violence. You have my word on that.”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Burned away to cinders? Grigori’s pupils dilated as Howard told him the vague, symbolic details of his encounter with June. What did he mean by impossible to recover?

What had he done?

“Mr. Howard, you’re concerning me,” The grunt let go of Howard and fell back into the elevator wall. Like a lost puppy, unsure of where it was or who this ‘stranger’ was. “I’m sorry for how I approached the subject. I wanted you to apologize to June for what you did because that’s what friends do. They’re honest about their mistakes.”

“And they forgive each other.”

Sure, not right that second. Or maybe a month, or two, or three, or seven, or years. Sometimes, some things were unforgivable. Grigori’s situation firmly fell into the last camp, but that was irrelevant. Howard’s situation might’ve led to him and June never talking again.

But to never tell her was a death sentence. Because if she ever found out, there would be no ‘maybes’ about it. It was one thing to make a mistake; it was another thing entirely to sweep it under the rug and hope they never feel it beneath their feet.

“I wanted you to do it for everyone’s sake. Mine, June’s– but your own was the most important. Otherwise, it would be an empty apology."

Desire to make amends had to come from within. Did Howard that have in mind when he told her? Why shouldn't she 'interfere' with 'us' anymore? It sounded like he did it for the sake of Team Rocket instead.

---

howard slayte

Instinct gave Grigori pause. Even if the voice felt entirely out of place, the command and authority behind it gave Howard enough time to send the elevator between the ground and second floor. What was going on with the man?

Oh. “I-I see, Mr. Howard.”

But something was off. For starters, he expected Howard to be an absolute mess. Crying, sniveling, with teary eyes and a runny nose. Instead, he looked… something else entirely. Calm? At ease? And why did he smile as he warned him of the danger that lay ahead? June wouldn’t throw something at him at this point.

But the way he looked up at him, as if he held some trump card in his hand, waiting for Grigori to foolishly blunder his curated hand. The grunt understood that their last meeting at Howard’s apartment had ended rather poorly, but… was this the type of man to hold a grudge for that long?

Of course. History was second nature.

“Well, I feel… happy for you,” he answered truthfully. It did little to calm his nerves, as he was still oblivious to June’s condition. “I apologize for how harshly I pushed you, those months ago. It’s just… it’s important to hold on to those types of relationships for as long as you can.”

If only he knew.

“But, Mr. Howard, this isn’t about me. Are… are you okay?” he said. Something was wrong-he could feel it in his bones. Maybe the archeologist was in shock, or simply too stimulated to understand how to feel. Grigori grabbed the man by the shoulders and started to massage them, "It's okay, Mr. Howard, everything will be alright."

---

howard slayte

Elisabeth reached Grigori’s side with little problem. The needle sank into his neck, one of the few spots of exposed skin on his entire body. Not even the plunger descending earned a reaction from him.

It was the sensation of relief, the sense that things would be alright– that’s when the twine snapped in two. In those final moments underneath the whims of the poison, his arm whipped back. His face wasn’t his own, but one possessed by a demon.

Grunt Grigori Sokolov decked Underboss Elisabeth Fiorelli.

If it weren’t for the fact that it was her face that he swung for, it might’ve been much more impressive. His punches were rarely pulled– one of the few things he did well for Team Rocket. But it also meant that it’d hurt a lot. Maybe not as bad as the Nihilego Poison. Maybe.

Perhaps worst of all is the intense emotion behind the blow. Like a physical manifestation of his rage, his grudge, sent straight into her neurons.

For an infinitesimal moment, she’s not in her office. She’s in some garage, where a car hangs suspended in the air. There’s another person in front of her: tall, lanky, dressed in oil-stained overalls, and defenseless. An arm much similar to Grigori’s swings forward, straight into that person’s face as well. They fly back into a toolbox, and the sound of clattering wrenches fills the void of the space.

“You ABANDONED me, Gabriel!”

That’s all she sees before it ends. A glimpse into the head of the one who clocked her lights.

Said person had fallen to the ground, face down and with his arms extended towards her. Grigori still panted into the ground, still unsure of what was going on. Where was going on. His heartbeat settled, no longer a sonic boom in his head. Why does his fist hurt? Did something happen?

“Ms… Fiorelli. Did you see that… as well?”

His largest mistake. His unforgivable sin.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

How desperate he was to plead his case, his words, what he meant by his promise. Of course words, by themselves, meant little. Everyone knew that. It was the weight behind them, the trustworthiness of his character that made them have actual meaning. A promise forged in iron.

But that unflinching gaze, the lack of anything else… that spoke volumes to Grigori: Cillian would not humor his thoughts or philosophy. Unfortunate.

But he does not lay down on the ground and show his belly like a Fidough. The grunt meets Cillian’s eyes with his own, his full of determination. “It will not happen again. No ‘ifs’ about it.”

The action Cillian desired was meaningless– how did one show the lack of action to another? Did the Underboss expect him to write a report every time he restrained himself from further causing problems? Record an audio log of his inner thoughts when he wanted to punch someone in the face and the steps he took to keep himself from doing so?

“And even if it does happen again,” Grigori balled his hands tight in his lap, “then it will be fixed before you learn about the situation.”

Cillian would receive the report of his prompt and swift execution. Crisis averted, problem solved, no need for a second meeting. He'd get to rest easy and continue on with is life as if nothing ever happened.

---

Cillian Quinn

Howard had seen many angles of Grigori Sokolov. Calm and collected, in pain both physically and mentally, sad, tired. Peaceful, like the time in the wild Power Plant when he accepted death. Anger, when he threw his door off its hinges. But there was one thing he hadn’t seen yet. An even rarer emotion than rage.

Grigori greeted him with a fearful, panicked expression as he quickly tried to move past Howard. “Please, excuse me–”

“Oh, Mr. Howard, thank goodness you’re here,” he hugged the man with his classic bear hug. How oppressive it felt, how tight his arms wrapped around his body and threatened to choke the air from his lungs. He pushed his cowboy hat off his head inadvertently. “What happened? Is she fine? Has she woken up yet?”

“What floor was she on?” The grunt let go and reached for the elevator buttons. There were so many to choose from, but apprehension stopped him in his tracks. “Mr. Howard, quickly, what floor?”

His fingers hovered over the control panel, ready to slam whichever one corresponded to June’s room. A dozen thoughts raced inside his head all at once, and none of them coherent. Arceus, is this how June felt all the time? This was agony. How did he make them calm down? The answer was obvious, but it required him to get this elevator moving. 

---

howard slayte

The invisible weight faded off his shoulders, and Grigori nodded to Jayden. "Thank you, Mr. Cross. I'll be heading home, then."

Another long day on the Team Rocket Submarine. This could've been such an uneventful day, the kind he cherished with all of his heart. Ones where he put in his necessary hours, went home, and either went to bed or utilized the last few hours to work in one of his hobbies. Perhaps he even lounged at his kitchen table and let his Pokemon roam around. Cream and Sugar always got up to adorable hijinks.

But today, he would be studying the map of the submarine, packaging Moby Dick, and coming up with a creative list of excuses that didn't break his personal tenet to never lie. All because he'd been unlucky enough to run into an admin that shared hobbies with him.

The problem of his bosses, those that made him shudder with their feats-- still being human. "I will bring it to you tomorrow, then."

Such was life.

---

jayden cross

Grigori followed Jayden into the electrical station, cautiously stepping into the room. Last thing he wanted to do was break something rather important– or expensive. “Is that so.”

Arceus. Just perfect. This was going as smoothly as the skin on his Druddigon. While it was nice to know more men break the stereotypical molds set on them by society, did it need to be with Jayden of all people? Now it was almost impossible to deny the man company. Especially if the activity could be… fun.

As the Eelektrik shocked the generator to life, and the audible flicker of lights caught Grigori’s attention, the grunt nodded. “I’ll be sure to remember it for the next time we meet. Its themes are quite imaginative, despite its simple premise.”

He would’ve offered to power up the generator for the admin, but his electric type would’ve sucked any potential energy out of the submarine like a vampire. Cable had no desire to power things up, yet loved the prospect of powering things down. Quite unfortunate.

“At least our journey was… mostly uneventful,” Grigori commented. Not a monster in sight– a predictable one, rather. “No surprises to distract us. So long as it wasn’t a problem with breakers or what-not, Mr. Cross, then the problem has been rectified.”

The question to leave danced on his tongue, but he suppressed the desire to ask immediately. Instead, he stood there with his hands behind his back and his gaze affixed on the admin. Dismissal would have to fall on the admin. It was only right, since he had asked for help from the very start.

---

jayden cross