“Sherbet.”

Genny was either incredibly stupid or incredibly naive—or both. Some people didn’t deserve second chances. He had it down to a science, all the conditions clearly labeled inside his head and the rule book mentally written. At some point, the Amnesty program wasn’t an option.

And at another, execution was about the best sentence some people deserved. Granted, the latter pool was almost exclusively the head honchos and a few particular outliers.

But some things are just… unforgivable. Hell, even he had doubts about his own ‘innocence’ sometimes. Like that one guy in Ka–

“Please, I’m fuckin’ starving,” he quickly said. In an almost exaggerated manner, he switched the massive spreadsheet for a web browser and typed in ‘delivery nearby’. “I thought I was gonna have to settle for whatever was left in the fridge.”

Probably Caleb Harcourt ’s food. Man could learn to cook a bit better. But that was cold, and a microwave could only resurrect slop so well. His mouth salivated at the thought of a pizza. Warm cheese, hot sauce, greasy hamburger and onion…

To die for– FUCK. “There’s a pizza place down the street, sushi– no, that place sucks– uh, subterranean, Kalosian…”

“Does your boy toy like fishin’? Could he get me a lisence-- discreetly?”

Worst she could say is no.

---

Genevieve Cromwell

“No the fuck I don’t, and no the fuck I’m not.”

Just not in the traditional sense, but he’d have eyes on him everywhere. All the defectors would. Lights not being in cuffs was a formality, nothing more. It didn’t take a genius to know that. He’d have a curfew. Limited purchasing power. Frequent check-ups. Wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted to wipe his ass.

And for options… yea, he wanted to rot in a cell. Totally. Throw it all away to get assassinated in prison or forgotten to a cruel system. Cause that was an option, and the only other one.

A very fucking stupid one.

But, at the end of the day, he had to listen. See the semblance of reason. Determination in Caleb’s eyes, even as he tried to feed him more bullshit. He had no right to make the promises he did– but what was he going to do about it? Disagree? Say he was going to be forgotten or taken care of?

Almost as stupid as foregoing clemency. That’s why, finally, he sighed and nodded his head. Slightly, but definitively. “Okay.”

“Alright then.” Fuck, did he really need to throw in that sappy shit? It sounded stupid as hell. Thank Arceus the mask hid his violent cringe, or else things would’ve gotten more awkward. Instead, he grabbed a pen and clicked it open. "Give it here. Let's get this over with, Caleb."

"Surprised we don't have to slit our palms open and do a handshake, though."

---

Caleb Harcourt

“Lilycove, eh? I’d stay there, if I was you,” Lights took another sip of his good enough beer. “Fishin’, the pier, sea right there– what’s more to want?”

Baseball, obviously. But unfortunately, not everyone liked that. So, he had to hold his tongue on that and her visible dislike of the beer. People these days, always wanted to expensive shit. It wasn’t about the beer, it was about the people you drank it with. And what better company than Lights?

Scratch that out. Nix it from the record.

At the mention of the reform program, his hand stopped for a mere fraction of a second. Whatever he was typing ceased, then continued on moments later. Barely noticeable yet significant enough to warrant something at all. Explanation, answer, joke-- but not awkward silence. Or an angry remark.

Keep it cool, Lights. You asked for this to happen. Can’t get mad at her for it.

“Yep,” he said through gritted teeth. “Started back in… March, or something. Hard to remember. Mr. Hotknife– Caleb Harcourt , was– is, my mentor. For better or worse.”

“It’s… nice. I guess. Beats the alternative, am I right?” He chuckled lightly. Cringely. It wasn’t funny, but maybe if he pretended it was, then it would be.

It didn’t work, and it faded until the dull hum of a distant A/C unit drowned it out. Nice, Lights. Not everyone could do social suicide quite like yourself. Should get a medal for the with which you do it.

---

Genevieve Cromwell

“Sorry, my… me literally killing four other Rockets and putting a target on my fucking back doesn’t speak loud enough?”

Some part of Lights begged to drop the matter. It was just a figure of speech, nothing more. Something to build into the next thing. Mr. Hotknife had a weird way of saying things, no reason to pick it apart. Tear into the meat until nothing but bones and marrow were left. Until every stone was unturned.

But two things stood in the way of that: his temper, and the– well, meat of the matter.

That’s why he slammed his feet back onto the carpet, shot forward, and slammed his fist into the desk. “I ain’t askin’ for a medal or a ceremony, I’m askin’ for a damn chance– you think I’ll go turncoat twice?!”

“Of course I’m takin’ the fuckin’ job– but don’t think for a god damn second that I’m glazin’ past what the fuck you just said,” he yelled. Of fucking course. Even the one guy who offered to guide him in the right direction still had the gun to his head. Ready to pull the trigger the second things got bad.

The second he thought Lights was a ‘liability’. A bad example. Whatever the fuck he wanted to call it. Even if he meant in the eyes of the League, he was a part of the League. This wasn’t a hardware store, where the cashier told you the warranty the store offered was a scam.

Like Caleb even said: this wasn’t a game. This was life and death. Literally. He should know that.

“Don’t pitch this like a fuckin’ option,” Lights said as he leaned back in the chair. He followed it with a scoff. “Sell it to me straight. Tell me how fucked I am.”

"And don't call me by my name. I don't like it."

---

Caleb Harcourt

This fucking sucked. Like, omega fucking sucked. Past him was a fucking idiot, and never should've offered to do a double-shift on the beach. Especially since it was now summer, it was three p.m, and there weren't even any hot babes out on the sand. If he'd known he was going to an uninhabited part of the shore he'd be at home, precious beer in hand and the A/C on full blast.

But nooooo. He had to be a good guy. Honorable citizen, hard at work to prove himself to society. It more felt like a show for all the Wingull and Pelipper that kept a careful eye on him, as he bent down to pick up every little piece of plastic or scrap in sight. Sweat poured off his body like a river, and his masked soaked it up like a sponge.

"Two more hours, two more hours," he muttered as he procured a water bottle out of his pocket. Its straw poked through the discreet hole in the mask, and he sucked the succulent juice of the water bottle fruit like a dying man. Cause he was, cause it was very hot. At least they let him wear the swim trunks and wife-beater.

The second he finished, he was jumping into the sea and drowning himself.

"Life sure is a beach-- hehe," he chuckled to himself as the seven-hundredth water bottle entered the massive black trash bag. "Beach. Bitch. Fuck."

This was how people died of heat stroke. 

---

Eris Halla

“Damn,” Lights said. Even the actual Rangers people gave more than half a fuck about had back logs? What the hell were the big bosses doing? Better not be wasting funds on parties and liquor and escorts and shit. He’d pop a gasket– and some heads.

Lights put his drink on the desk and cracked his knuckles. “Sure, but it's your loss– not sure if you heard, but I made the two-person job a one-person job because the two people were actually zero people.”

One who actually knew what and how to get the job done, and one who actively cost him time. Equal sum game.

But as soon as he shook Genny’s hand, he returned his focus to the monumental task at hand: paperwork. Reports needed to be filed, requests processed, and transactions updated. Grunt work for a former grunt man. Except this was also the perfect line of work for normal entry-level rangers. Some things never changed, he guessed.

And for subclass ‘citizens’ like him, he should probably be happy for the opportunity at all. But the mask hid his permanent scowl perfectly, and words were easy enough to fake.

“So... what city is 'yours' then? And how does a guy like me make an application for one," he asked. "Might have to get my foot in the door for one of those early, so I'm not in the back of the line when I graduate."

---

Genevieve Cromwell

Despite the scary clown mask and aura of murderous intent from the man who was Lights, it was almost comedic in the way he physically recoiled as the cans hit the side of the table. He jumped out of his chair and immediately reached for his knife, “Who the fu–”

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” his nerves relaxed as fast as they tensed, and the knife softly slid back into its sheath. “You scared the shit outta me. Don’t do that.”

He slammed his hand on the keyboard, and the music stopped immediately. “Wait, no, don’t say that,” he muttered to himself, “Let me, uh– sorry. Didn’t realize there were other people in here.”

There was one universal truth to the world, this land, that he had learned early on and would never, ever lose. It’s why his hand took one of the offered beers without so much as a thanks or a comment on the brand: Free beer was the best beer, and was never to be turned down. The tab busted open the can, and frothy white sloshed out.

Besides, this beer was good. Good enough, anyway.

And from his desk, a straw emerged. Shoved into the top, and he stuck the other end through a slit in the mask. “Don’t need the help– unless you’re a wizard in Sheets. Or know how to make a years worth of backlog disappear.”

“Name’s Lights,” he held out a hand. 

---

Genevieve Cromwell

"You sure, Lights?"

"Yea, yea, save yourselves the trouble. Not like all of us gotta suffer a long night-- 'sides, not like this'll take me too long. Promise."

"Well... if you say so..."

"I do. Now get outta my face. Please."

"Alright, alright! Point taken," they said. While he focused his attention at the paperwork in front of him, the door closed with a gentle click. Footsteps receded, until there wasn't a single sound to be heard. Nothing but the buzz of insects outside and the A/C, whenever it decided to work. Still, he gave it a few more seconds before he--

"Fucking hell," he groaned and leaned backed. That bastard couldn't navigate the damn mazes they put on the kids menus at Applinbees if their life depended on it. He'd rather suffer the long, agonizing work that'd keep him here another four hours than have to hope they didn't reset all the microscopic progress they made with the click of a button.

But Lights also knew that there were another few insane people still in the Ranger HQ. Security, likely. For the likes of him. Meant he couldn't even take off his mask, which soaked in sweat like his liver soaked up beer. With one long, agonizing sigh, he shoved his face into the computer screen and began to fill in the necessary information for each case.

If he'd known the defector program was half actual work and half desk-jockey, he'd stayed at Rocket.

Not actually, but-- "Fuck. Talkin' to myself again. Need some noise..."

A few searches later, Imagine Drampas began to play over the shitty computer speakers. Beat the awful silence or his own voice. Even if the clock said six, it'd be an eternity if he droned on.

---

Genevieve Cromwell

“What’s there to say?” Lights entered the room behind Caleb, and half-dropped-half-threw his meager bag of belongings next to the chair. He flopped down into the comfy seat and threw his feet up and around, to rest on the lip of the desk. At least his high-tops looked clean, like he’d just polished them after a basketball game at the gym.

“Knew I couldn’t just run off. Figured I’d do some good for the League by takin’ out the trash. They were scum, probably ten times worse than I ever was,” he explained. “Should’ve been five, if anything, but I fucked up my priorities.”

“And for why… y’know can’t put my finger on it,” he leaned back and rested his head on his arms, “if I had to say, probably the women. A lot hotter on the yellow side. Beer’s better too. Though, Rocket did have some damn good baseball players, so that held me back for quite a while...”

His voice reeked of sarcasm, yet despite the clown mask, it felt anything but comedic. Lights chuckled at the thought, “Say, scale of one to ten, how much does the clown mask improve my answers?”

---

Caleb Harcourt

Lights rolled his hidden eyes and cursed underneath the safety of his mask. Not fucking Mr. Hotknife. One half of him berated himself for expecting literally anything else. Of course this guy was gonna offer to house him. Fellow defectors, shared a moment, the whole nine yards. There wasn’t any other feasible outcome.

The other half knew it was for the best, as much as it made him want to bash his own skull in with a rock. “Gee, wonder why a fellow defector would want to house a current defector. Surely there are no ulterior motives here. Keep me honest, hey Mr. Hotknife?”

“Not gonna go back. Not now, not never,” he said with a fire in his voice, as he entered the proper Ranger HQ, “Even if I wanted to. You know how we first met, when I was running for my damn life? Didn’t happen cause I stole someone’s sandwich from the fridge, and their friends got pissed.”

“Killed four of my group,” he whispered. Not out of desire to keep that hidden, but to not alarm the staff. “Cold blood. I go back, they’ll do everyone a favor and send me on a deep dive with concrete shoes.”

A lose-lose situation for him. Submit, or forfeit his life. Only this time, submitting didn’t mean he lost moral or ethical obligations. It was better this way. Meant he had no choice, he had to stay honest like a good little noodle. Roll over, play fetch, don’t piss on the carpet, whatever the League, and Caleb, asked.

Didn’t mean he had to like it. That’s why he shoved a fist into his pocket and let Caleb show the way again, further into the building. At least the ranger couldn’t see Lights’ scowl.

---

Caleb Harcourt
I DAMN YOU TO POST PRISON!!!!!!!!!!!

"And you better not tell my real name to anyone else," Lights stuck a finger in Caleb's direction as they walked out of the main ranger HQ. Slateport wasn't his mug of beer, but not like he had a real say in the matter right now. Even if he was officially a part of the defector program, he was still, by definition, a wanted criminal. A felon.

Just meant he got community service instead of jail time. Oh, and a pair of eyes on his back wherever he went. That's why he kept his mask on, which his fingers wormed under to scratch his chin. "Or I'll..."

He stopped abruptly, and his duffle bag nearly crumpled his back knee. Fuck. What could he even do? Rocket, despite being very evil and obviously bad, let you thraten your fellow grunt without so much as a second glance from higher ups (if you could justify it). Gave them a certain weight. Nice when you dished 'em out to the young ones and terrifying when they got sent your way.

Yet another tool taken from his toolbox. "I'll... come up with something."

"Something perfectly legal and not at all physically violent," he said with a slightly raised head. As if he wanted someone else to hear it. Because he did. Because he didn't want to get pulled from the program for even a single half-thought out threat. Everyone so far had made that perfectly clear, to a point where he wanted to gouge their eyes out for how often they repeated it.

Arceus, just let him pull some Glameow's out of a tree, or pick up trash in the park, or whatever. None of this paperwork bullshit. Lame as hell.

"So, where's the place I'm stayin' again?" He swung his bag up and over his shoulder, careful not to dome himself with the wooden bat that jutted awkwardly out. One of the few things he managed to salvage before he went rogue. "Do I got to share a room with someone?"

---

Caleb Harcourt