It had been a while since Alison had seen someone so starstruck. So nervous to be around someone. Even longer since it had been someone meeting her.

As he spoke, flustered and stuttering, Alison felt a bout of anxiety rise in her chest. On one hand, she wanted to retreat, feeling unfamiliar in this once familiar territory. But in the other, she wanted nothing more than to bask in it. To be reminded of who she really was. Of everything she had achieved. To be celebrated again.

With a subtle breath, she allowed herself the latter.

“Please don’t apologise, it’s okay, you’re good” She reassured him, keeping direct eye contact – listening, “I’ve been in your position myself a few times. It’s scary as hell.”

She held out her hand as he offered it, well-polished and soft.

“It’s lovely to meet you Sevastian,” she said, polite and genuine, “One of the biggest? That means a lot for you to say, wow.

"Sometimes I forget my career can be more than just a spectacle to watch on the sidelines. I never realised it could inspire as much as entertain.”

Her eyes trailed over to the bustle of the photoshoot, the staff with headphones around their neck scrunching their eyebrows in confusion at Sevastian’s sudden departure, hands by the mouths to try and get him to hear them. Her lips lifted into a small smile, envious.

Envious?

“Seems that inspiration really got you somewhere. Quite popular, aren’t you?” she mused, “Big shoot today?”

sevastian beau

☉

And just like that, she turned cold, unable to stop her reaction.

“Like I just said,” Alison bit back, subtle but venomous, “I was a performer. I never got to where I wanted to, so I joined Team Rocket. There’s nothing else to it. I don’t think I need to go through every one of my short comings. Why do you need to know the gruesome details of my life?”

Her push back was controlled, but her mask wavered, her soft features beginning to slowly morph into a scowl. Had this all been a ruse?

“Did you only meet me here to interrogate me?” she wondered aloud callously.

Grigori Sokolov

☉

Her agility?

Alison tried not to noticeably grimace, looking between the panels beneath the voltorb as her fears were confirmed with each blink. Crap. This was going to blemish her skin. She should have worn longer sleeves.

Walking up closer to the course, she retied her shoe laces, threw her hair back in a pony tail, and let out a deep breath. Even if she didn’t want to do this, she had a feeling Theo wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“So, jumping from one panel to the other. I assume, preferably without the the voltorb exploding?” She asked in clarification, a final attempt to stall. Pushing down every ounce of anxiety, she knelt into a starting position as if to sprint.

“Tell me when to begin.”

THEO BECKETT

☉

Alison’s face was one of disgust as she sat next to Howard in the stationary car on a bend in Mauville City. She had been silent for what felt like an eon, watching the half-eaten sandwich flail in his hand, small crumbs dusting her once spotless leather jeans, as he explained their mission. Her eyes flicked back and forth from the crumbs to his face, her gaze dragging up and down his complexion as her eyebrows furrowed harshly. Judgement evident on her face, his snide comment felt pale in comparison to what she was looking at.

He wanted a Rocket Beast? Join the club.

“Right,” she said, having barely listened to a word he had said. She peered over in the direction of the sandwich, the little light of the jewellery store making the rings in the window twinkle. Mm. Not a bad mission for a magpie like her. The diamonds looked enticing.

Zipping her jacket up, she fiddled with her hair and quickly reapplied her lipstick in the sun-visor mirror. Popping her lips, she then turned back to Howard.

“Three questions. One: am I allowed to keep any of the jewellery? Two: how are we getting past the guards? And three, please stop flinging that sandwich around. It looks awful and it's getting bloody everywhere!”

howard slayte

☉

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” she said sincerely, watching him under her lashes as she tried to hide the shock. Since joining Rocket, she had begun to believe the camaraderie shown to her had been a fallacy. A foy to get her in their clutches. Even though she was here for her own personal reasons, regardless of any kindness shown by others, she had hoped there would be good people here. Someone who cared. Looking at Grigori, albeit sceptical, she was a comforted to know he might be one of them. “I’ll be sure to inform you if I break a nail.”

A ghost of a smile came over her face, both in amusement and unease at his question.

“Pageantry is definitely a word for it”, she mused, leaning back in her chair as she glanced at the sky. “But yes, I compete – I used to compete in the Pokémon Showcases in Kalos. I have done since I was young – my mother used to do it. I’ve won everything you can think of.” Alison ran her fingers through her hair in thought, moving it over her shoulder with a swish. Her smile faltered as quickly as it came. “Well, everything but Kalos Queen.”

Her demeanour darkened considerably as she paused, her gaze transfixed on the latte in front of her. Furious. Memories of years of failure despite her regional success flooded her vision, the silver instead of the gold, the bitter talks in the cemetery over her mother’s grave, the fire that engulfed the theatre…

Taking a breath, she moved her eyes back to Grigori, able to escape the flashback that had begun to shroud her vision. Evident sadness clouded her eyes, a thousand unspoken words swimming within them. Then she smiled, a perfectly perfected façade, as if nothing had happened.

“I changed field because the Pokémon Contest scene can be hard, let’s put it that way. Plus, I’m getting older. People won’t want to see me in the scene for much longer. The young will always be the most dazzling, after all.” Alison picked up her latte, taking a long drink before continuing. She settled the mug down with a clink. “So, I switched things up. I saw Rocket was – hiring and joined. That’s it.” Her lie felt obvious. “I thought someone might as well make use of my theatrical skills while I still have them.”

Grigori Sokolov

☉

Arms crossed, Alison stood next to THEO BECKETT with a questioning disposition. She wouldn’t deny that his presence was chilling. She had read about his endeavours, the cold-blooded history that ran through his veins like poisoned ink. She had been sceptical of the rumours at first, as always with gossip, but with him now towering over her, ominous and stoic, her perspective was quickly revised.

“Right,” she said steadily, shrugging off her coat to reveal a black pirouette skort and scoop necked sports top. Style first, as always, even in the presence of an underboss.

She stared at the volterb lined in front of her, sparking as if to imminently SELF-DESTRUCT. Surveying the scene, she pursed her lips with unease. Surely not? She snuck a quick look at him through her peripheral vision.

“What is this exactly?” she said, hopeful it wasn’t what she thought.

THEO BECKETT

☉

Heels clicking on the cobblestone, Alison glided through the busy street of Lilycove City, her golden locks flowing in the breeze. It was a beautiful early evening, the sun casting a warm, orange glow across the bustling street and its rooftops. Wearing a simple but stunning canary yellow chiffon two-piece top and skirt, shades, and a vintage pearl necklace, Alison weaved in and out of individuals in a desperate attempt to get to the local convenience store before it shut.

Most often then not, she was adorned head to toe in colours; strapped into bodice dresses and veiled by overtly flamboyant hats, every outing was often a dead giveaway of her career, of who she was. Normally, she would bask in it, happy to present her loved persona to those around her. Signing photos, posing into cameras. But today she had gone for something more subtle, hoping for nothing more than an unnoticed pitstop to grab some ingredients she’d forgotten for her stew.

It was ironic, really.

A hand grabbed her shoulder, causing Alison’s head to whirl in surprise.

Heart thudding in her chest, she took in the figure behind her. Crap! He’d scared the life out of her. She tried to determine if she was in danger, if this was some kind of ambush or a mugging, all the while trying to compose herself. Her eyes danced over him frantically, looking for some kind of weapon, some motive to hurt her. Nothing. She paused, taking in his countenance: handsome, fashionable, tall – wait, fashionable? A flash from one of the cameras drew her attention to the large set that had been compiled across the street, the wires sprawling out onto the pathway as various models giggled between each other and photographers cursed under their breaths.

Ah. Now she understood.

Lowering her head, her eyes looked over her shades and searched his face for familiarity. Did she know this man? She couldn’t say that a name came to mind. But from his stunned disposition, his shaken voice, his outlandish action to gain her attention, there was no denying he knew who she was.

She prayed it was for the right reasons.

”I’m sorry,” she laughed, her uncertainty masked easily with a heart-stopping smile as she pushed her glasses on top of her head, “You gave me quite a start just then. I'm Alison Everly .” She paused with effect. “Wrong person? Or… is that who you were hoping for?”

She already knew the answer.

sevastian beau

☉

Alison loved the spotlight. They way golden, artificial lights would flicker and dance over her skin. She’d grin widely as the audience cheered and screamed, bowing a perfectly low bow, and blowing kisses to the fans who would swoon in admiration. She was an experience, an innate entertainer, a star. Charismatic and charming.

But behind the curtain was when you would realise it was all an act. Her truth, one-on-one, could be a lot quieter.

She had been following silently for a few minutes before he motioned to a small table to sit. Alison had been caught off guard when she received the invitation to meet with Grigori Sokolov . Despite her years of media training, and interviews after interviews, more intimate conversations always made her nervous. She didn’t always like people seeing behind the façade she had perfectly constructed. She didn't like not having a preconceived script to read from.

She tried to grab any thread of courage to present the persona so many people would recognise. A semblance of confidence; a guise that could hide the reality of her exponential sadness. She had to ensure he knew she could do this. That, even despite the bruises she had so far acquired, she was strong enough to be a part of Team Rocket.

But in the aftermath of the incident, the mask felt cracked.

“That’s okay,” she responded breezily, her lips tugging up ever so slightly as his frothy coffee marked his nose, “You saved me from going on an extravagant shopping spree, anyway.”

She watched him; his carefree posture, his tall figure, the neat dress-suit, searching for a sign of a motive. Perhaps she had nothing to be afraid of with him, but her guard stayed sturdy.

“I can’t say that battling is my forte with a background like mine, but it’s been – good,” she said, coating her uneasiness and obvious lie with a bright smile, “Even with its difficulty, I’m not one to keep myself from a reward to cheer myself up.” She paused briefly to take a sip of her un-sugared latte. “It will all be worth it in the end, anyway, I’m sure…”

Grigori Sokolov

☉

Leaning her chin on to the top of their shoulder, she closed her eyes and inhaled. She had missed this. The familiar curve of their back, that overwhelming aroma of luxurious perfume, their soft fingers singing comfort against her skin.

“You know me,” she hummed in response, “I practically bathe in it.”. She was unsurprised by his acute recognition of it, that keen eye for detail and memory was one Alison had always admired. Plus, Clair de Lune was her favourite. It was almost an inside joke between the pair, Alison having been notorious for carrying it around like a sacred ointment, spraying it in every backstage dressing room and showering herself with it before every performance. It was like a part of her skin, something that reaffirmed to everyone she was Alison Everly .

Pulling back, her eyes flited over his blouse and miniskirt, over the slender arms and legs so many photographers scrambled to picture. Tiny. Tall. Perfect. Gorgeous. It was no wonder Vogue loved them. They looked so striking it was almost cruel. She firmly believed they could make any outfit look good, garish or not, and she trusted his advice for fashion with her life because of it.

Still, that didn’t stop her heart from lurching seeing the bouffant gown be pulled out once more.

”You must be so well travelled now. Fashion really can take you everywhere – wait,” Her eyebrows lifted, “Mila? mila alexopoulos ?” An image of a multi-coloured haired lady flashed across her vision. She’d know that fashionista anywhere. “Of course, Mila is iconic. I wore one of her dresses to a contest a year or so ago – fit like a glove. But – Shit, Ambrose, what an opportunity! You’ll bring her designs to another level. Is this for a runway, or a magazine cover?”

Alison’s attention drew momentarily to the flustered attendant behind them, watching as her hands struggled to pick up clothing falling from her arms. “I see you’re having a mare with your shopping as well?”

ambrose orion

☉

Red? Black... blue? No. Green? – oh. God no. Not green.

A long mirror framed the silhouette of a tall, blonde performer, her curled hair bouncing as dresses upon dresses flung back and forth across her body. No style seemed fitting, no colour seemed impactful, no material felt right. It was a disaster. What was the general aesthetic of Team Rocket anyway?

While it would be customary for newer recruits to train rigorously in preparation for their first mission, sweating and struggling in harsh conditions, Alison had felt another task was more pressing.

After all, even when doing crime, you need to look good.

Hanging back up the failed pick with a sigh, she meandered through the store quietly. Her fingers brushed along the fabrics, some soft, some rough, before stopping at a satin black bouffant gown. Inspecting it with an up and down of her eyes, she pulled the piece across her body, tilting her head in the mirror with pursed lips. Not bad. She flipped the price tag. Her nose scrunched. That was going to have to be a no…

Feeling beaten, Alison moved to return it to its hanger. She still had other stores she could try, at least. Before she let go of the satin, a voice across the room made her pause.

She blinked, her eyes searching, before a familiar braid of hair swung into view. Recognition dawned on her, and a smile pulled up her lips. A part of her soul suddenly warmed.

“Ambrose?” hanging up the dress, she turned to move toward him, hoping to initiate a hug, “Wow! It's so nice to see you – it’s been so long. You live in Hoenn now, too?”

ambrose orion

☉