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

This was fucking hard.

Not the way he dismantled former colleagues with brutal efficiency. His gun made do with its meager reserves, and put them within an inch of their lives. Might’ve nicked an artery or three along the way, but that wasn’t his problem. That was Mr. Hotshot’s problem (more like Mr. Hotknife, cause he’s fucking stupid).

Nor was it hard because of the Pokémon. Champ bodied Bisharp, took Drifblim from the sky, and rocked the world of two perfectly round Politoed. Lights looked at his pal with envy, for it was much easier to deal with a Pokémon nonlethally. Hell, that was the entire basis of Pokémon battles. Fuckers had it easy.

That’s what made his brow slick with sweat and his eyes constantly on the prowl for Mr. Hotknife. He heard the way the other man dealt with his side of the problem. He sounded brutally efficient, but not enough to actually finish the job. Like… a defective Rocket. Damn, did this guy take jujitsu classes? Maybe he could get some pointers from the other guy.

But as they finally joined together, backs against one another, Lights panted hard. Even if he’d done relatively little physical activity, the mere intensity of it all left him breathless. Alpha must’ve fucked off too, because he didn’t hear his stupid ass above the trees. He holstered his gun and hunched over, hands on knees.

The first break today.

“You… probably did fine too. I guess,” he said. Lights couldn’t let him feel too confident. It’d go to his head.

But his head also said he would let Lights follow along to Slateport for the defector program. He let out a massive sigh of relief at the news. “Thank fuck for that. Ain't lookin' to rot in a cell for the rest of my days.”

Lights took Caleb’s hand and gave him a singular handshake. “C– Lights. Call me Lights.”

Couldn’t let his name slip. That’d spell death. Wait. No, that was in Rocket. He wasn’t Rocket anymore. But… he wasn’t League yet either.

“Guess... you're in charge now.”

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL: 269
PKijY0rf

“Don’t–huh?! Are you fucking nuts?”

And yet Caleb was too fast and determined to stick around and explain himself. Of course not. Cause apparently most League people didn’t really value their lives. Took some pretty big balls to charge into a group of armed Rockets, though, and Lights wasn’t about to get one upped by this loser.

Guess it was the least he could do, to not shoot them in the face or heart. But if they bled out, that couldn’t be on him.

“I guess we fuckin’ fight, Champ!”

“Machoke!”

“Now ain’t the time for dat, Champ! Break their legs or some–”

He heard the whistle of a Rocky Blast, a payload that’d tear him to ribbons. The defector scrambled away from the cover, and ran forward. He didn’t, and couldn’t, see just how obliterated that solid tree was now. But he could only imagine the millions of pieces it’d just been turned into by the collision of massive boulders.

Lights ran forward, pistol raised but not too raised. Didn’t want to get chewed out by Mr. Hotshot.

He saw the first enemy, barrel raised directly for his own chest. Before they could figure out how to work the trigger, two clean shots rang out. A desperate scream of agony rang out as they crumpled to the ground.

“Over there, he’s–”

Another gunshot, another scream. Champ rushed forward to met the charge of an Escavilier. He went straight between the lances that tried to skewer him and pulled back a muscly arm. The knight then slammed its Iron Head into his chest.

Not enough to knock him down. Much like a shotgun, it shot forward and slammed into the bug’s helmet in the form of a Dynamic Punch. It flew back and slammed into a tree, then slumped to the ground defeated.

Together, the pair, alongside Caleb, dominated the Rockets.

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL:
glHvxKGD

“Yea, I’ve been runnin’ around down here, fighting for my damned life, just for shits and giggles. What do you think, dumbass?”

Lights shook his head. Not packing heat, asking stupid questions, not going for the kill on those that’d shoot them both dead in a heartbeat. Arceus, no wonder the League had been eating shit for the last half-decade. They were trying to get themselves killed.

But he’d just thrown out his lot with the crazed lunatics armed with enough guns to make a shooting range blush. So.

"What's all this then," Someone called from above. Their voice was constantly in motion, somewhere above the trees. “The defector got himself some backup, heh? Well, ain’t this a surprise!”

Who cared? No one, that was who. “Ain’t nobody got to get hurt, Alpha! Just leave, and you can keep your sorry fuckin face in one piece!”

“Bosses, orders, mutt! You fucks get in there and snuff that Lights already!”

Movement. Neither of the groups held any advantage in the darkness, but they held the superior numbers advantage. No doubts or questions about it. Someone right next to the one with the burning pants deployed a water type, a Politoed, and shot out water at high speed. They were doused, and soon the shots of water went higher. Straight for the Zoroark-H.

Lights peeked around the makeshift cover and groaned. “Can’t see shit. You seriously just a pretty face? Nows the time to show me a pair of wings under your jacket.”

Footsteps got closer, both human and Pokemon-sized. A small army, ready to murder, maim, and kill. A Machoke emerged from Lights’ poke ball and crouched alongside the other two men. 

---

Caleb Harcourt
TOTAL: 213
Mj9tLJBg

“Fuckin’ hell,” Lights groaned aloud. Of fuckin’ course the forest led to a dead end. Why wouldn’t it? Y’know, he always wondered if he’d die by someone telling him to ‘face the wall’ and then promptly emptying an entire machine gun clip into his back and spinal cord. How silly it looked on TV.

How situationally comedic. Maybe it was the mask– look the part, act the part, be the part. Good to know his last ten minutes of life was a comedy routine at the stand-up club. The only difference was he pissed off a criminal organization instead of some loser office workers.

Oh, and there was a guy there too. Lights looked backward, towards the small horde that poured through the trees like Krabby when you lifted their rock. He double-checked to make sure he–

“What the fuck?!” Lights raised his pistol at the stranger. Who the fuck was this? How the hell’d he get there?! He had to ignore so many of his natural instincts to not immediately put two new holes in his skull. Ones that’d kept him alive until now.

But… he didn’t have any immediate weapons. No guns. So… likely not a Rocket here to blow his brains out? Like the people behind him tried to do?

Parts of the rocky cliff exploded as gunfire rang out once more. “Fuck, down! Get down, you fucking idiot!”

Lights barely managed to get him and the stranger out of immediate danger, but it didn’t prevent rock bits from pelting them on the way down or as they huddled behind a tree. Not a very thick tree, but any port in a storm.

“Are you trying to fucking die?!” He peered out from behind cover. Fuck, they were a lot closer than he thought. He took aim (thank fuck) and put a round down range. One of the encroaching Rockets crumpled over, which made the rest slow their roll and take their own cover.

“You packin’?” He asked. Better, if he’s down here. Fourteen rounds might not cut it.

---

Caleb Harcourt

He's had lots of practice running. Baseball, crime, morning runs, whenever someone caught him eating their lunch out of the submarine fridge-- and thank fuck for that. If he'd given in to those cravings for chocolate and tubs of ice cream, like some of the other sad sacks, he'd surely be dead by now. Hell, he probably would've died a year or so back. He lept over branches, slid under fallen logs, and all without shortness of breath.

And even with all that endurance and stamina, those Rocket fucks were still on his ass. Just his fuckin' luck that he'd chosen, somehow, the worst time to go rogue. He made all those cheating husbands on TV and online 'websites' look like amateurs. In their defense, those latter ones were. Supposedly. 

That's why he not only heard the distant footsteps echo behind him, just a few dozen meters back, he also got to feel wood splinters explode into his face every ten seconds. Blood trickled down his skin like shower water, but he kept on onnin'. No time to stop and aim; he took several pot shots behind him. Their echoes rang out into the air, stabs into the peaceful serenity that was the Giant Chasm.

"GIVE IT UP, LIGHTS! IF YOU DO, I MIGHT KILL YOU QUICKLY!" A voice called out from above. Fuckin' Alpha. He should've shot that fucker first, and with an entire magazine. Hell, that would've been 'karmic absolution' enough. And the red on the edges of his eyes agree, so he aimed up and fired another volley into the greenery. 

CLICK! CLICK!

Fuck. He couldn't keep that up. The empty mag slammed into a bush on the way down, and he slammed in the last one. And then, he donned his mask. A little awkward to put on during a deadly chase, but oh well. If he's gonna die here, might as well look the part of a clown. 

"FUCK OFF, ALPHA!"

'Lights' kept on onnin'. Sweat poured down his brow and invaded his scrapes. He sucked in, but didn't stop. Arceus, the one time he just wanted to not do some bad in his life-- couldn't the Big Guy cut him some slack for a fuckin' chance?!

---

Caleb Harcourt

EXCURSION SIGN-UP

ADVENTURE IS OUT THERE!

WHICH EXCURSION?: e.g. GC EXCURSION A
PARTICIPATING CHARACTERS: coal doe , Caleb Harcourt