[fanfic] The Harder They Come - Act II (Part 1/?)
Return to Act 1 (Part 2).
Act II (Part One)
The Pokémon League rules the airwaves.
From a young age, children are exposed to the high-octane world of battling. They are made to watch with wide eyes as the creatures tear each other apart, directed by children not much older than themselves, children whose dulled eyes are focused on nothing but the fame that comes with victory. This makes the glory and the renown all that much more attainable to the children, and soon studies show that one out of every four children begin to dream of leading fire-breathing monsters into battle.
Standards of public decency, however, mandate that the battles be carefully edited so that there is no sign of actual bloodshed. It keeps worried parents from questioning the system too much, and ensures that the precious one of every four aren't scared off from pursuing what the League wants them to.
(Because once battles were waged with guns and bullets, by real live people that would run onto battlefields for the glory of their nations. There were cannons that roared and tore through the hulls of enemy ships, hopeless battles fought over the smallest of island territories. There were bombs that fell from the sky on clear days and reduced entire regions to wastelands -
But that was in another era).
The wool is pulled over the world's eyes so meticulously that, when ten-year-olds partner up with their first pokémon and begin traveling, the sight of their partner's blood staining a gym floor is harrowing. So harrowing that many of them cry all the way back home.
It's genius, really.
The Pit is a tool Team Rocket uses to reverse this effect.
It's purely recreational. In fact, the higher-ups make a show of discouraging it, chewing out the new recruits when they show up late to roll call half-asleep, having wasted their downtime battling in the Pit for hours on end. This does nothing to discourage them from continuing this practice, however, especially since those very same higher-ups sometimes grace the stands, watching with eagle-eyed scrutiny, searching for 'the one to watch,' the ones who'll go far in this place.
But it's just not the opportunity for promotion that makes the Pit so popular. While on duty, Team Rocket members are run like the armies of old. Orders are followed to the letter; operatives are expected to perform their duties flawlessly. Missions that involve more than two operatives are uncommon (especially in these days of gathering intelligence and setting the stage for what is to come), but teamwork is stressed just as much as obedience and efficiency are.
The thing is that the environment isn't always encouraging of camaraderie.
Team Rocket is cutthroat.
Promotions are scarce, and since promotion means higher pay, members usually stop at nothing to prove themselves, even stabbing a fellow operative in the back to get it. Here, grudges are unavoidable. Under the old leadership, the Rockets tended to fight among themselves more than they fought against the police. While this guaranteed that only the best and brightest made it to the top, it also ensured that sometimes those best and brightest found themselves in command of a group of men and women that they'd betrayed. Insubordination and poor teamwork were commonplace in those days, so many an operative was lost to the police because their grunts refused to watch their backs.
The Pit was but one of the many things Giovanni introduced to the organization upon his rise to power. One of HQ's four training gyms had been converted into an arena that was, quite conspicuously, never used for official business. It wasn't long before the grunts started using it as a place to settle their grudges without fear of reproach. There were fistfights and bouts of hand-to-hand combat, but pokémon battling was by far the most common of spectacles to be seen there. The Boss turned a blind eye (in fact, he was rumored to visit the place himself some nights) so the Pit thrived. Illicit betting rings sprung up around unofficial tournaments and title matches, the crowds screaming for its favorites and those they felt were in the right in the dispute that had brought the combatants there.
And so a new culture was spawned. Team Rocket was simultaneously provided with nightly entertainment, a method of desensitizing new recruits to the violence of pokémon battling, a level playing field where admins and grunts alike could settle their differences, and a way for hopefuls to prove themselves worthy of promotion.
It was an act of genius, really.
Green and Red had visited the Pit on their third night of wandering the halls of Rocket HQ. They had somehow weaseled their way in past a broad-shouldered bouncer and into the dimly lit stands while the man was distracted by a brawl that had broken out between two particularly embittered grunts. The screams of the crowd had left their ears ringing and the sight of the battle going on in the battlefield below had left them wide-eyed and speechless.
The bloody battles had left both boys deathly silent at first, both of them closing their eyes tight whenever a particularly gruesome move hit. They had battled already themselves, but those battles had not been anywhere near as violent as the Pit's battles.
Red was much too sensitive to analyze the gruesome matches beyond face value. No matter how hard he scrunched his eyes shut or covered his ears, he could not avoid hearing the yelps and screeches of the injured pokémon. They haunted his dreams and made his sleep so fitful that not even sleeping with Pikachu and Eevee could chase the nightmares away.
Green stopped looking away after the fourth match he watched. It made him think of Archer and their battles, of how Eevee and Pikachu never bled and were always able to fight the next day.
He was going easy on us.
His victory against Archer meant nothing-the man had just been playing with them.
The realization left a bitter taste on his tongue, and left his throat dry with vitriol and an unquenchable thirst to prove himself.
It took Green three nights of watching from the stands before he gathered up the nerve to make the long line to participate in one of the battles, leaving Red behind in the stands. The other boy's eyes had gone wide and he had reached out for him despite his cold shoulder. Green had just pulled away, offering Red a smirk that made him look much more confident than he actually was (in truth, he was terrified).
He had endured the jeers and taunts from the grunts for what seemed like hours. The men and women (some not much older than him) had laughed at him mockingly in the dingy fluorescent lights.
"You sure you shouldn't be in bed, kid?" a man with a scar cutting across his eye sneered.
Green had just grit his teeth and stayed silent.
The closer and closer he got to being next, the louder his heartbeat became. Its beating became so loud that it eventually drowned out the pulsating thrum of the crowd. He jammed his hand into his pocket grabbed Eevee's poké ball in an effort to reassure himself, running a sweaty finger over its scratched up surface in time with the vibrations that pulsed through the cement under his feet.
When he was next, a razor-thin woman with pink hair, who was arbitrarily put in charge of letting people through to the arena, had regarded him skeptically.
"What're you? Another Black Tulip?"
Green hadn't understood, so he had shaken his head. "I'm Green," he had croaked over the lump in his throat.
The woman had just scowled, looking over her shoulder when the crowd gave a particularly loud roar. One of the competitor's zubat's attacks had missed its opponent's ekans and hit the other trainer instead. When she turned back, there was an amused gleam in her eyes.
"The Green Tulip? That's a little copycat, don't you think?"
"It's Green," he repeated. "Just Green."
The woman had rolled her eyes and turned back to the battle. "Whatever you say, kid. You're up next."
And then it was his turn all too soon, and he was pushed into the arena and the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Out there, the thrum had become a single roar, deafening and unintelligible. Green had stood there, eyes wide, as the sounds had washed over him like a torrential downpour of humanity. He almost froze up, but at the sound of the crowd's mocking laughter, he had forced himself to walk over to his box, limbs stiff and uncooperative.
"A kid? C'mon! And here I was hoping that I'd actually be challenged, tonight!" his opponent had shouted.
It was the scarred man from earlier. In response, the crowd's laughter had grown ever more pervasive.
Green was surprised at just how calm, how clear, his voice sounded when he shouted back at his opponent.
"This'll be the kid that kicks your ass!"
The words had torn themselves out of his throat before he could stop himself, but even when he registered the dangerous tightening of his opponent's jaw, he could not bring himself to regret it. The shift in the crowd was audible almost immediately - the laughter had become more amused than mocking. They were laughing with him and at the scarred man; Green had made them laugh.
In that moment, he knew that he had to keep them on their side.
The terms, determined on a whim by the half-drunk referee of the night, were slated as a one-on-one pokémon battle. Despite his clear state of inebriation, the ref had gone on to specify that attacks against the trainers themselves were not allowed in this battle, sending an exaggeratedly mock-gracious look at Green.
Plucking Eevee's poké ball from his pocket and holding it at the ready, he willed himself to win and prove all these idiots wrong.
He was gonna be strong, important. The Boss himself had said so.
He had looked up at the crowd of people clustered around the door, narrowing his eyes and searching for a familiar face. It was impossible to make any distinctions. The only light was coming from the open door of the entrance, and all he could see were the silhouettes of a few people in the doorway.
He had forced his eyes back on his opponent when the referee gave a shout of "ready?". The man was smirking self-assuredly. When he noticed that Green's eyes were on him again, he stuck his thumb out and drew it slowly over his neck, sticking his tongue out in his best imitation of a corpse. Green ignored him. He was thinking of Red and how his eyes better be on him, of how great it would be if the Boss could get a video of this battle, too.
"Start!"
Expecting the scarred man to do the same, Green threw his poké ball into the ring. Eevee appeared in a flash of light. She had looked around with her bushy tail hanging between her legs and her ears flattened against her skull, visibly intimidated by the cheers and taunts of the crowd. Green realized that his opponent had not called his pokémon out yet.
The man pulled a poké ball from his belt and threw it into the ring. When the light faded, the burly form of a machop was revealed.
It was then that Green realized what the man had done. He had waited for him to call out Eevee so that he could choose the pokémon that had the best advantage against her.
The noise of the crowd fell away, and all Green could hear was his own heartbeat. He looked like a fool, he realized with a gut-wrenching pang. If the Boss was watching -
"Let's finish this twerp quick! Low kick!"
His blood ran cold as the machop charged at Eevee. Giving a cry of alarm, she turned to him and looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. When it broke into a slide a few feet away from her, its leg extended, Green finally found it within himself to speak.
"Jump!" he shouted.
Weeks of dodging the attacks of much stronger pokémon had paid off. Just as the low kick was about to hit, Eevee bent her legs and jumped up and over her opponent, avoiding the attack by mere seconds.
Machop had rammed its thick fingers into the floor to right itself, but by that time, Eevee was ready to attack.
"Tackle!" Green ordered.
"Karate chop!" came his opponent's response.
When Eevee rammed headfirst into the machop, the fighting type had winced, but managed to land a downward chop against his attacker's back. Eevee crumpled, collapsing onto the arena floor with a cry.
The crowd flared up in a hungry roar.
His opponent raised his arms in victory, and his machop mirrored him, beckoning the crowd for more applause.
"So much for 'kicking my ass,' huh?" the man sneered. It was directed more at the audience than Green.
"Get up!" Green hissed. His skin had gone completely white, his stubby nails stabbing into the calloused skin of his palms hard enough to draw blood.
Eevee, eyes scrunched closed against the pain, showed no sign of responding.
The ref had been about to step in and declare the match over when the chant began. It started off so garbled that Green could not understand what it was they were saying, but it soon grew progressively louder and more intense.
"Finish him, finish him, finish him!" the crowd was screaming bloodthirstily. The ref had just shrugged, cowed, and returned to sipping from amber-colored bottle, leaning back against the side of the ring apathetically.
"I can't hear you!" his opponent said, lifting his arm to cup around his ear.
"Finish him! Finish him! Finish hi-i-i-m!"
He could not lose. Not ever again.
"Eevee! Get up!"
"Well, if you insist…" his opponent said, making a show of conceding to the crowd's wishes. "Machop! Karate chop, one more time!"
"Eevee!"
The machop lifted its arm showily, brought it down so blindingly fast it was a gray blur…
Eevee reared backwards, her paw curling back and swiping against the floor. The machop let out a cry as the sand she had kicked assaulted its retinas. It drew its hand out of its attack to cover its eyes, blinded.
Green did not waste a second.
"Bite its neck!"
Eevee lunged with a snarl, sharp teeth digging into the soft skin of her opponent's throat. Letting out a gurgling screech, the machop fell backward under Eevee's weight. Its thick, corded arms flailed, struggling for purchase on its assailant and failing.
The scarred man's orders were halting and panicked - he was in trouble and he knew it.
The roar of the crowd was louder than any Green had ever heard in his three days of watching battles. It was simultaneously shocked and outraged, impressed and incredulous. Neither cheer nor taunt, it rose around the boy like a column of flames.
"Finish him, finish him, finish him, finish him!" the crowd crowed, their voices frenzied and manic to Green's ears.
Green did not need to be asked twice.
Smirking, he pointed at the machop.
"Bite again! Deeper this time!"
The machop's screech of anguish was even louder than the last time. A sickly crimson gleamed dully on Eevee's teeth, flashing at the crowd each time she reared her head back to attack again.
Green made her attack until the crowd was sated. There were pools of red coating the arena floor, her fur, and the machop's corded flesh. He did not let her stop until the collective scream was the only sound ringing in his ears, over and over again, deafeningly, maddeningly, and all for him.
- . . . -
The Pit quickly becomes his favorite haunt after that.
He battles each and every night against whoever wants to fight him. Grunts, operatives, even an admin once; it does not matter. He wins each time he steps into the ring no matter who his opponent is. Eevee grows quicker and deadlier with each victory. Soon opponents can barely land a hit on her before she takes them out with a decisive bite to their throats. It becomes his signature move, but no matter how much his opponents expected it, they could do nothing to avoid it.
It is not long before Eevee's jaws grow so strong that she becomes able to tear an opponent's throat out.
(Green only busts that one out when the crowd gets particularly restless.)
He had not really expected Red to be impressed, but it seems that everyone but the other boy was impressed by his nightly performances. Red seems even more intent on avoiding having to speak with him these days, though he still follows him around silently. It's almost like he is some kind of shadow. It pisses Green off, sometimes (most of the time).
The respect he gets from everyone else almost makes up for it though. Whenever he walks into the mess, the room goes silent. It is not long before a group of grunts - new recruits, by the looks of it - start joining them, agreeing with everything Green says and laughing at every joke he makes. They are not much older than them - Jose, the oldest among them, is only fifteen. He joined the Rockets after his father was arrested in Saffron for killing a Jenny.
"She wouldn't let'm conduct his business in peace, y'know?" Jose tells them once around a mouth full of sloppy joes. "So he strangled the bitch to make 'er stop."
He says this proudly, just like when he tells them about the things he has done himself. He is usually pleasant to be around, and despite the age difference, he always defers to whatever Green says.
Green had only just turned nine, so Jose's stories about the girls he's 'banged' (or plans to over snide elbowing with the older boys whenever a particularly 'hot' girl walks by) are still a bit repulsive to him, but he soaks up the stories about the Boss and Team Rocket, even if most of them are bound to be false.
Green is starting to learn that every rumor has a kernel of truth in it. Knowledge is power, and even knowing about a bizarre rumor about someone is preferable to not knowing anything about him.
But Jose's eyes always get narrowed and angry whenever someone brings up the police or, gods forbid, the League.
"The fucking Unovan bastards think they can run how we live," Rick, a twelve-year-old from the slums of Celadon, says. Jose is too apoplectic to speak, so Rick had gladly offered his two-cents. "Even after they dropped the bombs on us."
"The bombs?" Green asks.
"The a-bombs," Blake supplies. At Green's blank, slightly impatient stare, he goes on to explain. "They were used against us in the Great War to force us to surrender to Unova. It's because of the bombs that we were forced to accept the League as our government."
Green had heard of the Great War of course, but he did not know the specifics. The old man used to blather on and on about it over dinner sometimes (whenever he deigned to show up), but Daisy used to shut him up quickly with pointed stares at Green.
Still, Green knows that it's better to pretend to know something even when you don't to save face (knowledge is power, the Boss tells him), so he just nods along with the others.
- . . . -
The Boss calls Green into his office sometimes.
It doesn't happen often enough to make it a routine, but they have met enough for Green to notice things about the man - the strength of his jaw, the distinguished line of his dark suits, the attention he pays to each and every detail of the papers he reads. He takes note of his mannerisms, his immaculate appearance (clean shaven, hair gelled back without a strand out of place, the insignia of the organization emblazoned over his heart).
The Boss usually just stays quiet and looks over the day's reports while Green boasts about his exploits in the Pit, but Green knows that the man is listening to him. He had not known just how good it felt to have someone listen to him like that. It made him feel important, especially since the Boss was such a busy man.
Green soaks in everything he can about the man, and despite the fact that he is never taught, he learns more from the Boss during one of his visits than he had from the old man in all the years he had lived in his house.
The lesson he wants to learn today, however, can only be taught verbally.
"Tell me about the Great War," Green says.
The Boss looks up at him, dark eyes shining dully with curiosity.
"What makes you ask about that?"
The man's inquisitive stare prompts Green to fidget uncomfortably in his seat. Uselessly, he shrugs. The Boss regards him for a few moments longer before turning his eyes back to the stack of reports on his desk.
"The Great War was fought between the forces of this country and the Unova League."
"I know that," Green replies somewhat childishly. "I'm not stupid."
The Boss chuckles, but does not look up from his paperwork. Putting the tip of his pen to the paper, he signs in an elegant, decisive flourish.
"I never said you were, my boy."
Deliberately, the Boss shuffles the papers into a stack, caps his pen, sets it down atop the stack, and settles his eyes on Green.
"In 1941, the Unova League declared war on our country."
"Why?"
"We were an ambitious nation, Green. We would stop at nothing to claim what we felt we were entitled to. So we went to war to claim those things. We attacked many other countries with our military, and in but a few years most of the hemisphere was under our control."
"Kanto's pokémon were that strong?" Green asks, mouth hanging open in awe.
The Boss smiles ruefully. "Back then we didn't rely on pokémon to fight our battles for us like we do now. We used weapons - guns, planes, ships - people did the fighting, not pokémon. And it wasn't just Kanto. In those days, the regions were all one nation - an empire."
Those words - guns, war, empire- they are unfamiliar to Green's ears. They settle in his mind heavily, replete with some kind of archaic power that he cannot even begin to comprehend.
"What happened to us?"
A frown pulls the corners of the older man's lips downwards, and his eyes darken. "Unova won the war."
"The a-bombs…" Green mutters.
"Indeed," the Boss says. He sounds impressed. "Though the Unovans don't call them that anymore. They prefer the term 'weapons of mass destruction,'" he snorts. "I suppose that's a valid name for those things-just two of them reduced Orre to a barren wasteland."
This too is far beyond Green's comprehension. His world-this new world that the Great War had left in its wake-consists of pokémon battles. Only pokémon could cause destruction on anything approaching that scale, and even then, an entire region? A dragonite's hyper beam or a rampaging gyarados could destroy a small city, tops.
"The war ended in 1945, but the nation's trials were just beginning," the Boss continues. His tone is flat. "Unova didn't want us to be an empire. They were threatened by the idea of our nation possessing the power it once had. So they took away our weapons, our planes, and our ships. They did away with the infrastructure and businesses that had made us an industrial power and left our already devastated economy in shambles. To do all this, they subordinated our government to one of their own creation - the Pokémon League."
Green says nothing; he can't say anything. His mind is frozen, the word he thought he knew had just been turned on its head and he did not know what to make of it.
"Perhaps it's time you went to sleep," the man says wearily. He rubs at his eyes tiredly. Suddenly, he looks much older than he ever did. "We can continue this conversation at a later date."
Green nods, uncharacteristically silent. Shakily, he gets to his feet and leaves the room.
The Boss turns his attention back to his papers. Picking up his pen and setting the point to paper, he signs hastily. Ink droplets mar the sheet, blotting out some of the words.
He signs the next paper, his mouth set in a firm line.
Soon, he reassures himself. Soon.
- . . . -
The sun hangs high in the sky, bright and gleaming like a guillotine, when the helicopter reaches the mainland.
Built for stealth on private contract, the helicopter is one of its kind. It is a nondescript vehicle - there are no blazing insignias inscribed onto its flanks, and its jet-black paint does not glint in the sunlight. Its appearance belies its capabilities, however. Built completely from carbon composites, it is invisible to radar. Its rotor turns quickly and efficiently yet quietly, and it is outfitted with max repel dispensers to keep any errant flying pokémon from creating any unfortunate accidents. Beneath its broad snout, concealed in a small compartment, is a device unseen in Kanto since the war decades past.
The League does not yet possess the technology to create such a craft, nor will they have the means to do so for several years. It is one of Silph Co.'s many innovations - the cutting edge of technology available solely to those who have the money to fund its development. And so it had been - billions of laundered yen channeled covertly through the wires from offshore bank accounts and straight into Silph's Research & Development budget.
Usually it is reserved for the personal use of the Rocket Boss. Currently, however, it is being used to ferry one of Team Rocket's most valuable assets from the Rocket Boss's private villa back to Rocket HQ.
Or at least she had been the organization's 'most valuable asset' few months ago. Now, severed from the heavy load that had weighed her down for months, she is nothing but an operative again - a highly valued operative, but an operative nonetheless.
Tapping her newly manicured crimson nails against the leather of the seat, the woman lets her eyes flit towards the girl sitting beside her.
If appearances were to be believed, the little girl is just a precious little thing - blonde hair hanging in tresses down to her shoulders, her smile so sweet it could melt even the hardest of men. The Rocket uniform looks wrong on her. Surely an innocent little girl couldn't be a member of a criminal organization like Team Rocket. Why, she's only eight-years-old!
Deceptive little brat, the woman thinks venomously. Her full lips, painted a rich ruby red, curl in distaste. Oh yes, she knows better than to trust appearances.
Though air-condition and outfitted to be as luxurious as possible, the compartment feels unbearably stuffy to the woman. After being stuck with the brat for the past few months, she is all too eager to be rid of her. Why the Boss would feel it necessary to send her of all people she would never know, but she planned on sweetly voicing her annoyance at his little spy as soon as she could.
Finally, the helicopter reaches its destination. At the sight of the sprawling city below them, the blonde girl lets out a little sigh; the woman just rolls her eyes. It's not like Celadon is much to look at these days, she thinks, eying the smog around the chopper with distaste.
"We are now beginning our descent," the pilot's voice says into their headsets.
Located underneath one of Celadon City's foremost tourist attractions, HQ is but a ten-minute walk away from the Diet of Kanto and the prime minister's residence. As magnificent as the old buildings look, the threat they pose to the organization is moot. All the power lies in the hands of the League now. A bunch of bloated, old marionettes pose no threat to Team Rocket.
On the contrary, it is the councilors and ministers (traitors) that should fear the organization.
The helicopter circles a few times among the smog and clouds, unseen, before starting to descend toward the helipad seated atop the building. She almost wishes that it were nighttime - the neon lights of the building always look pretty when they're lit against the rest of the skyline's murky fluorescence.
Home.
When she looks out the window, she immediately begins looking for the familiar form of the Boss, only to find that he is not there. Hissing a bit under her breath, she runs her hands hurriedly down her skirt, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles there.
The girl seems to notice and giggles. It sounds dissonant in the woman's ears, and her lips thin in anger.
When the helicopter sets down, she whips off the safety belts and tears open the door. The voice of the pilot cries out protestingly in her ear before she throws off the headset. She storms her way off the craft, the heels of her boots clacking against the ground and the wind from the chopper whipping her hair into a frenzy.
She is greeted by a familiar face - dark blue hair barely being whipped about in the wind, eyes crinkled into the beginnings of an exasperated smile.
"I see that your leave of absence hasn't calmed you any," Archer says as she clacks her way past him and the saluting grunts and maintenance crew to make her way into the roof access. The man follows her into the ornate hallway, keeping her pace effortlessly.
"Don't try me, Apollo," she hisses. "I am not in the mood for your sarcasm."
Archer chuckles at the use of his codename, but lets it drop.
"The Boss sends his apologies for not being able to meet you. He is currently involved in an important briefing."
Jabbing her index finger at the down button on the elevator panel, she turns to glare at the man, eyes narrow and dangerous. Archer grins; her glare had always reminded him of an arbok's infuriated stare (right before it's sliced in two).
"How convenient," she seethes.
Archer raises an eyebrow. "Now careful, Athena," he chides. "You may have been out of the game for a while, but you would do well to remember that the walls have ears here. There are lots of overeager operatives just dying to take your place."
"How could I forget?" she mutters as the elevator doors slide open with a ding.
They step inside, Archer stepping towards the control panel and 'Athena' turning toward the reflective surface of the elevator to inspect her appearance. As she primps her hair, disarrayed by her stunt earlier on the roof, Archer presses his hand onto the area of the panel above the buttons.
"Identity recognized - Administrator Archer."
She raises a thin eyebrow at him through her reflection.
"Basement level four," Archer intones before turning toward his female companion with a quirk of one of his eyebrows. "Yes?"
"Administrator Archer? That's new." She cannot quite keep the envy out of her voice. Or eyes, for that matter.
"Yes, well," Archer says, adjusting the collar of his uniform - admin-level black, she notices, "we've been busy while you were gone."
Her frustration only grows when a small foot sticks itself in between the doors before they slide closed again, forcing them to open. The blonde girl walks in, a frown on her face.
"You almost forgot me," she says, dark eyes glinting mischievously at the sight of the woman's face. "But don't worry, Ariana. I forgive you. The doctor said it might take a little while for you to get over the 'separation anxiety.' She did say you might be a little forgetful at first…"
Despite himself, Archer chortles.
"Why you little b-"
"Welcome back, Domino," Archer interrupts her, sending a warning glance her way. "Did you enjoy your vacation?"
The blonde girl - Domino - rocks back on her heels, eyes intent on the numbers above the door as they light up. "It was boring," she says. "All we did was sit around all day doing nothing."
That, at least, is something they can agree upon.
Maternity leave had not been good to Ariana. The months of being confined to her bed (on the Boss's orders, no less) had done nothing but sharpen her agitation and impatience into something volatile. She had spent the last trimester barking orders at the maids and snapping at that insipid doctor who had limited her diet and suggested bed rest to the Boss in the first place. Team Rocket's goddess Athena was not meant to be kept locked inside some room, waiting for months on the whims of an unborn infant. She had never rocked baby dolls to sleep when she was a little girl; she had been the ill tempered child detached their heads and flung them across the room instead. Understandably, her maternal instincts, the so-called 'joy' the nurses nervously said she would come to feel, did not come.
When the baby finally came - announced by a shock of red hair and an ear-splitting wail, Ariana had held a quivering cigarette to her pale lips. The fact that her agitation had become sharp enough to slash at her psyche was excused as her eagerness to be back at Rocket HQ and by the Boss's side - where she belonged.
Unconsciously, Ariana runs a hand over the flat planes of her stomach. It is taut and firm again (she had spent the rest of that blasted maternity leave working off all the pregnancy weight), but she doesn't feel a trill of self-satisfaction at her accomplishments. A lot of women never manage to work the extra pounds off, but then again, Ariana isn't an ordinary woman.
It must be those unsightly stretch marks. Yes, that's it.
If Archer notices her expression, he doesn't comment. Domino, thankfully, is too entertained by the lights to pay any attention to her.
The elevator is efficient, but that does nothing to soothe Ariana's impatience. In half a minute's time, it descends past the ground floor. The lights stop moving at that, remaining fixed on the 'G.'
Ariana is the first one out when the doors open, stomping past Archer and the girl.
It's foolish, but relief washes over to her to find that the halls haven't changed. They're the same. Just like she remembered them. She inhales deeply through her nose, smelling what she identifies as the smell of home.
"Welcome home, Athena," Archer says, stepping up beside her quietly.
"It's good to be back," Ariana agrees.
Domino ambles past them, heading down the hallway that leads to the Boss's hallway.
"Stop it right there, brat," Ariana says maliciously. She grabs the girl by the collar of her uniform. "The Boss doesn't have time to meet with you."
The girl glares. "The Boss told me to report to him when I got here."
"I'm afraid Ariana's right," Archer says, false sympathy clouding his voice. "The Boss asked not to be disturbed by anyone."
"Then why is she heading over there?"
Ariana narrows her eyes at the girl. "Because I'm an actual Team Rocket operative, not a stray the Boss decided to take pity on and take in."
The girl turns away and mutters something that sounds like, "bitch."
Ariana is livid.
"What did you-"
"I can assure you that Ariana will not be disturbing him either," Archer interrupts diplomatically. "I'm sure you can meet with him later to discuss the details of your… report."
Domino sighs dramatically before half-turning and, with surprising alacrity, slapping Ariana's hand off her shirt. The woman draws her hand back, red eyes flashing in outrage. She steps forward to grab at the little brat again, but Domino is already walking off, leaving Ariana to seethe.
"That girl," she hisses, rubbing at her pale hand. "Someone needs to put her in her place."
Archer frowns and shakes his head. "Perhaps. But it isn't going to be one of us. Remember your place."
"Of course," she spits. "Just because the Boss treats her like his own she thinks -"
"But those days are numbered, aren't they?" Archer asks rhetorically, and his eyes take on a fervent look. "Tell me. How's the heir?"
Ariana turns so that Archer cannot see her face.
"It's just three-months-old. All it does is eat, crap, sleep and cry," she winces at the memory of the boy's blood-curdling wail. "The set of lungs on that kid… its screaming almost drove me crazy."
"Well, aren't you the poster child for motherhood?"
"Can it."
His curiosity sated, Archer changes the subject.
"You know… I was fairly amused when the Boss saddled you with the responsibility of training her, but now I know from experience that it isn't very comical at all…"
It takes Ariana a moment to process the implications of his statement, but when she looks over at him, expecting a joke, she finds that his eyes have darkened, his hand rubbing at his forearm unconsciously.
"What do you mean?"
"I now have two young children under my… tutelage."
Ariana would - and by all rights should - laugh at her comrade's misfortune, but the news of the Boss taking in two new strays is anything but encouraging. The first time had seemed harmless enough, but then that adorable little orphan girl with the face of an angel had grown into a venerable con artist with possessive and jealous streaks that rivaled Ariana's…. And, well, the higher-ups of the organization had forgotten all about the benefits of the occasional benevolent act. Domino walks around Rocket HQ like she owns the place, treating grunts and admins with the a haughty manner befitting a princess. The fact that Giovanni seldom reprimands her for her disrespect only contributes to the admins and executives' chagrin; in fact, she is often encouraged by the Boss to assert herself. It did not help any that most of the new recruits thought that Domino was the Boss's daughter either, though it was understandable - the girl certainly acts like it (and the Boss certainly dotes enough on her for it to be true).
The last thing Rocket HQ needs is another Domino, let alone two more of her.
Archer goes on to explain how the children, two boys this time, were able to catch the Boss's eye. She is not expecting what she hears.
"Oak?" she repeats incredulously. "You mean the Oak?"
He nods.
"The very same," he confirms. "The Boss was hoping to use the boy to blackmail Oak into providing some assistance to a few of R&D's top secret projects, but their disappearance generated an excessive amount of media attention and police involvement. At that point, the risks in blackmailing the old man far outweighed the potential benefits."
"Well obviously," Ariana says, lowering her voice as a few grunts walk past them. "Anyone with half a brain could have told you that the disappearance of an Oak, any Oak, would have the press drooling."
"They were kidnapped under the Boss's orders, Ariana. You would do well to remember that before you criticize the way things turned out."
She bows her head remorsefully under Archer's reproachful stare, but when he looks away she rolls her eyes. Archer's jaw is tense, his posture rigid. He always gets like that at the slightest trace of an insult to the Boss's name. Ariana changes tactics. She smiles and leans forward, the fabric with the red 'R' on it stretching over her ample breasts.
"You're going to break them, aren't you?" she asks, dropping her tone a few octaves so that it is more a purr, rippling and velvety to his ears. She runs a single crimson nail against his chest, feeling the tense muscles beneath the fabric of his uniform.
Archer narrows his eyes, but she can tell that he is amused. "Careful, Athena," he whispers, teeth flashing in warning. "Remember who you belong to."
The woman leans in, undeterred. She bares her teeth in a smile.
"I belong to no one, Archer."
This is a well-worn game that the two of them play. Seduction is a skill that all agents should be well versed in, as there are some targets that cannot be reached with brute force or cunning alone.
Ariana is many things, but she is a lady above all else. It becomes apparent in the way she walks, the clothes she puts on (all red - the color of passion, of power, of lust), how she gives you a demure smile with her full ruby lips. She is a dangerous woman, irresistible to men who cannot resist the thrill of poison rushing into their veins.
The Boss is one such man, and perhaps he is the only one that can bend her will to his own.
(A memory:
"Team Rocket and I require an heir."
"I refuse to recognize any other leader but you, sir."
"Your loyalty is but one of the many qualities I have come to admire about you, Ariana, but we must be realistic. I will not live forever. After I'm gone, someone will have to take the reins of this organization."
"
I had assumed that - that you had taken in Domino for that purpose, sir."
"Domino? No. The organization would never acknowledge Domino as its leader. If I did name her as my successor, she would be deposed quickly. No, no. Domino is talented, but I recognize that she is meant to work in the field, not to command. If the organization were ever to acknowledge a new leader, it would have to be a child of mine… which is why I have called you here, Ariana."
"Sir?"
"You are an exemplary agent and possess many of the qualities all members of Team Rocket should aspire to. I would be very pleased if you would consider being the mother of Team Rocket's heir."
"Anything for you, sir."
She never wanted to be a mother, but for him, she would do anything).
And then there is Archer, who refuses to play her game, to let her sink her fangs into the musky skin of his neck. His power over her comes not from immunity to her poison, but his refusal to partake in it. Ariana is a woman who always gets what she wants, and for Archer to refuse her, well… it only makes the long, drawn-out chase all the more thrilling.
"These boys," Archer begins, voice flat even as Ariana's nails scrape their way along his jawline, "are quite resilient. The Oak boy has made quite a name for himself in the Pit over the past few weeks."
With some pressure applied, her nails begin to dig into his skin. Archer doesn't flinch, but something lights up in his eyes.
Masochists, Ariana thinks, are always the easiest to crack. The way they go crazy over a little pain is really quite endearing, and their thirst for it is something Ariana is all too willing to slake. Just draw a little blood, unbutton their tight collars, and -
The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway makes Ariana pull back, albeit reluctantly. She sticks her bottom lip out in a pout, leaning against the wall and watching him with half-lidded eyes. Archer keeps his eyes on her while he smoothes down the creases in his uniform and adjusts its collar before the passing grunts can round the corner and catch him looking so disheveled.
The leftover lines of red across his jaw are something he can't just smooth away. Ariana takes much more satisfaction in that than she should.
"I really did miss you, Archer." She laughs when the grunts have passed, pausing to salute crisply and gaze at Ariana in something she likes to think is awe. "I've been out of the game for far too long."
"Your absence contributed to our cause in a way that I never could," Archer reminds her tacitly, azure eyes resting on her stomach. Frowning, Ariana drapes a hand across it, covering it from his gaze. Archer's eyes meet her own, and there is something almost like tenderness hanging there. "Does our future leader have a name?"
Ariana turns away and begins making her way to the Boss's office.
Those damn stretch marks again…
"Silver."
She says this without looking back, but the Rocket Admin catches the tone in her voice - the dissonant undercurrent of melancholy.
His laugh chases her down the hallway, muting the sound of her heels against the tile. "Remember - it was an honor!"
Her hand, still resting against her stomach, begins to quiver.
Scowling, she forces her hand to move at her side in time with her footsteps, the sway of her hips.
An honor, Ariana thinks dubiously, right.
Go to Act II (Part 2)