Grigori waved goodbye to Eleanor, her Skitty safe in her arms. It had been quite a relief to find the cute Pokémon relatively safe and sound. Sure, a little fluffed up from Castform’s Hurricane, but nothing horrible. The little grey orb floated happily next to Grigori, its chimes following the girl as she left the area.

“All’s well that ends well…” he let his arm fall back down to his side. This was certainly a nice change of pace. Despite the awful things he’d done earlier to that stranger, this might help counteract that… he sighed.

Fat chance in hell. A drop in the ocean; broken bones did not begin to mend themselves because he helped a girl find her precious Pokémon. There is still a mountain of regret on his shoulders, and a single pebble being tossed to the side made negligible difference. He looked to the Castform, unsure on what to say.

“Cast!” The creature danced around Grigori. Oblivious to the conflicts that waged inside his head. Instead, all it could do is summon a miniature rainstorm. As the water droplets fell to the ground, the light refracted off of it to form a rainbow.

“Hmm,” a smile broke out on his lips. No, those thoughts were those of defeat. Every journey began with a step. Every mountain moved piece by piece. “Let’s go home, Esteemed Castie.”

---

eleanor blair teska

If there was even one thing that kept this interaction with an Underboss from being at all similar to Elisabeth Fiorelli , it was the fact that he didn’t beat around the bush. Cillian wasn’t akin to a Pyroar, but a Machamp.

Even as it threatened to grind him into a pulp, it beat the terror and the poisoning from his last meeting.

“With all due respect, Mr. Quinn,” Grigori sat back in the chair, “such is the nature of an interaction with Mr. Harcourt.”

“But I digress. To recall the meeting: A few months back, right after the war with the League on that island, I heard my friend had gotten hurt. Some hired League courier, attacked by Zev. He failed to stop them from delivering whatever was in their possession, but murdered one of their Pokemon and left. In a fit of blind rage, I approach him at the gym and make demands well outside my jurisdiction and imply the beast is incompetent.”

“It didn’t escalate beyond insults, and eventually I stormed off,” he concluded. Not as detailed as it could’ve been, but he wasn’t a writer. Someone more skilled with words and descriptions could’ve spun their wheels for half an hour.

Cillian likely would’ve shoved them into a locker.

"I hope my side lines up with Mr. Harcourt's report."

---

Cillian Quinn

Things only went further downhill as Elisabeth congratulated the grunt on his correct answer. Even as his body continued to fight and fail in the wake of the toxin, Grigori could rest easy as he knew how the substance corroded his senses.

He kept his eyes firmly shut, but that did little as he now could see things in the pitch black. Shapes, figures, things that shouldn’t nor couldn’t be. A face he knew all too well, and how its lifeless eyes gazed at him. How it pierced his soul.

His breathing became labored quickly, and how it was all the man could do as he gripped the desk tight and press his face into its body. The voices only got progressively louder, and their call all the more enticing. Control slipped, yet he tried his best to keep even a fingertip of power on his actions. 

He was a man of his word. He had told Elisabeth that he was over his anger issues. Between death and to go back on his word, the former was much kinder. Without his word, he was nothing. 

Even as the sweet whispers sang into his mind, how her blood would paint the floors rather well. How howard slayte and Shred were plotting his downfall, that Elisabeth was his superior in every conceivable notion, that Gabe would’ve killed him first if he hadn’t acted, how–

“rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr–”

Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstop--

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

This was no longer Grigori’s story. His heart was too busy trying to keep beating when every single cell in his body desired to give in and collapse under the weight of the poisonous gas. No, this story now belonged to Lenny.

And Lenny wasn’t about to let Chester steal its money and live to tell the tale. The coins that flew from its body bounced all over the room, but it had little effect on Lenny. All it did was serve to make him absolutely pissed off.

Its eyebrows squinted, and it too started to spin. “Oh yea, Chester?! Oh yea, Donald?! I’m makin’ sure all y’all sleep with the fishes by the end of the night!”

Lenny too Made it Rain. If the ratio of air-to-poison-to-coin wasn’t unbalanced as was, it only got worse as Lenny sent another smattering of coins all over the place. He concentrated his spread right towards Chester, which bounced off of its perfect body to little effect.

But the snail was right behind Chester, from Lenny’s position. And the accuracy left something to be desired, as a few stray coins flew right past the sibling and straight towards Wo-Chien.

---

howard slayte Shred Elisabeth Fiorelli

Grigori didn’t know what to expect. Shred wanted to feel free regardless of circumstance, and Howard sounded like a man one step away from defection. Not to mention his own secrets and problems, thing kept locked up tight and out of sight. Each of them had their own perspectives, and how different they all approached this problem.



But for him to simply walk away… that certainly came from left field. Grigori reached out a hand, as if to pull him back by force, but stopped himself. He only took one step before he let his arm sink back down and watched Shred’s back get further away. That look on his face…



Contempt. Disappointment. One he’d seen in plenty of his old friends and companions. One he’d surely see again.



“Well, I apologize for how things went,” Grigori rubbed Sugar’s head, and she purred fiercely into his neck. “If I had known, I would’ve brought a cake to salvage the situation.”



“But... Mr. Howard,” Grigori turned to his friend, worry flush in his face, “are you aware of your words? How dangerous they are? The other beasts and underbosses would not take your declaration as anything less than treason.”

Past experience told him this. Of another group of friends, tired of it all, that left Rocket secretly. They never lasted long. Unless you were... Grigori clutched his other fist tight and shoved it in his pocket. Not now. Now wasn't the time for that.

---

howard slayte Shred

Grigori shrugged. “I enjoy working out and spending time in the park, watching the Pokémon scurry about. Even better if there are Fairy-types. I’ve picked up baking as well. People tell me my cakes are quite scrumptious.”

Jayden seemed the type to exercise. However, that’s about all the grunt could assume the man did for hobbies. Of course, the fact that he himself did any of them was proof Jayden could just as interested. But the hope was that he didn’t. The less reason for them to meet up, the better.

“I finished a book just the other day,” he said. “It was about a sailor hunting the biggest Wailord imaginable. Quite inspiring.”

“That’s about it. Any of those spark interest?” He looked around the hallway. There was a directional sign on one of the walls: electrical. Perfect. They must be close now. Grigori motioned to the sign, as well as the direction they needed to follow. He would continue to follow the man from behind, duty bound to finish what had been started.

“Electrical systems are something I’m not interested in, though. How about yourself? Figure yourself an aspiring electrician?”

---

jayden cross

Grigori pulled out and set his own card on the table. He took her business card and gave it a quick lookover. Monday Amsel? He wondered if she intentionally chose the name or if the way it sounded was entirely coincidental. Either way, he put the business card away and nodded to her.

“And you as well. You’ll be the first name I think of if the need arises.”

Unfortunately, it would likely not. That incident was done and gone, and almost everything to say about it has been done so already. He’d given his side of the story to Howard, and that had been published ages ago. There was little left to discover, and even less to discuss what occurred that specific night.

But… she was right, in a way. This would have a lasting impact on the region as a whole, whether they liked it not. Either they were real and back, or fake and a new problem emerged from the dream mist. Neither were great things to have on the horizon.Maybe they could talk about that, though. Or something else.

That’d be nice.

---

Lulu Flint

The more the seconds passed, the worse it got. Grigori could feel his body both reject and be consumed by the dose of poison. The room tilted, churned, and changed into different forms, all within seconds. He could feel his heartbeat get louder and louder until it rivaled a roaring crowd in a stadium.

‘You failed the test’, some portion of his mind said. Not his own. ‘She knew you would come from the start. This was planned. You walked right into her trap, and you are paying the price. She holds your life in your hands.’

‘Kill her, Grigori. If you do, then you’ll be free of her control. Stab her with that pen on the desk, until she begs for mercy, and you’ll be yourself again.’

'It's what you're good at-- the only thing you're good at. Good for. A machine, meant to turn the living into dead. Machines don't talk, Grigori. This is just the process to reset your code. If you fall, you'll get right back up again. '

The grunt could not tune them out, but they did not control his mind. They were bystanders, nothing more. Dark nothings that only lead to death and destruction. If he could survive the meeting in the Cave of Origin, then this should be nothing.

But his body did not agree. He fell to one knee, hands flat on the desk. Deep, heavy breaths rocked his body, which looked weak and pathetic in this sorry state. A husk that the skeleton could no longer afford to support. His skin started to turn pale white, like the snow that covered the earth.
“Under… the weather,” he grunted. “Unsurprised to know you possess such–augh– dangerous poison. Neurotoxic, I presume?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

As Grigori walked over to the chair, he briefly examined Cillian. Tired, Exhausted. This was clearly not something he was thrilled to do, yet for an entirely different reason.

His level of anxiety shot into the atmosphere.

“Poorly,” he said. “A disagreement sprouted from… personal matters, to say the least. I’m unsure how much he’s told you.”

At the end of the day, Zev being incompetent at the job that sprouted their impromptu meeting was positive in every single way. june sleigh was still alive, if worse for wear, and the beast got to feel like he accomplished something. Grigori didn’t have to try and kill the man, either, so that was good too.

The only loser was Cillian, who now had to clean up the mess. “I apologize that my rash decision-making caused this meeting. I take full responsibility.”

Accept defeat, take whatever Cillian decided to throw his way, hope he could still walk out of the office, and stay away from the upper management. As much as he could, with Shred ’s and howard slayte ’s promotions, anyway.

---

Cillian Quinn

Elisabeth’s idea of interesting included torture. Perfect.

This was a mistake. It was a mistake for Grigori to come here. It was a mistake for him to take the wine glass in his hand. It was a mistake for him to not immediately put it on her desk, apologize for wasting her time, and accept the assassination attempt on him later that evening for comedic levels of disobedience.

Instead, he stood there motionless for a few tense moments, unsure on which part of this he hated more. Was it the Nihilego poison, the alcohol, or the feeling that this was once again a test?

The first one needed no explanation: the documentation of the vicious, awful poison was known enough to make most grunts quiver in fear. However, his doubts immediately formed when the wine bottle came into view. Awful, pungent, repulsive, detestable. Memories of his childhood flashed in his head, all of which unpleasant. Of her. Of Him.

There’s a reason he detested it as a whole. If she knew, she either didn’t make any comments on purpose or accident. Given the circumstances, odds were split right down the middle.

Yet a doubt clung inside his head. Did she expect blind faith and obedience, or some level of critical thinking skills? This was cult-like behavior from the Underboss, a kind absent from Team Rocket. They were an organization, an arguable ruling body which looked to expand its territory. Not a group of nut jobs which looked to get as many people as possible to do a suicide pact.

Ultimately, he needed to make a decision. And ultimately, his initial decision of words meant he must partake. His word was all he had, and he had given his word. To go back on it was not an option.

“As you wish, Ms. Fiorelli,” he did a short, mock toast. His lips formed a hard line. The deep red color only made his stomach queasy, but he raised the glass to his lips and took one single, solitary, punctual gulp. As soon as the disgusting liquid entered his throat, he stepped around Elisabeth and set the glass on her desk.

“As requested, I’ve drank.”

A cough escaped his lips immediately after. The corners of the room moved ever so slightly, and tension started to build in the back of his skull. He blinked rapidly, completely caught off guard. This was a faster acting poison, it seemed. No wonder the other grunts seldom brought it up without a healthy dose of terror.

“Do you believe me now?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Somehow, some way, Elisabeth continued to surprise him. The tone in her voice, her word choice, her cadance. The way she stood a few inches shorter, yet towered over the grunt. There was clear-as-day writing on the wall, and yet Grigori still managed to miss it from behind all the flowers.

Not that he had been terribly far off the mark– but in a way that caused him to clench his hands from behind his back.

“If I may be as bold as to make an assumption,” he stood in the most proper salute the woman had ever seen in her entire life, eyes now focused on the back wall instead of her, “you would like me to prove it for you?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli