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"There he is!" calls out Philippe to his crew. "Le corbeau! Get 'im!!"
Try as he might not to sound desperate, he rather is. For weeks now they've been plagued by that blasted boy and his venipede: first muscling into their turf, then refusing to buy into their protection racket, and now deftly evading all attempts at retaliation. Even with Philippe's gang numbering a dozen strong, and the boss himself being more than a few weight classes above the kid. Every encounter that fails to end with the sound thrashing of le corbeau only compounds their humiliation more and more—and this one turns out to be the most painful black eye of all.
Two guys get decisively walloped after separate scuffles with him, paying dearly for forgetting his southpaw advantage. Another two are burned and feathered from getting caught in a flock of fletchling, agitated with flawless timing by a venipede screech. No fewer than three mobsters try to grab the kid at the same time and end up colliding with each other like something out of a cartoon. A girl thinks she has him when she takes hold of his tie, only to be left boggling at a detached clip-on until struck by a shaken soda can. And a horrible ladder incident both knocks out Philippe's skarmory and gives the man himself a nasty tumble right onto his rear, capping off this perfect storm of a chase.
Even when the stragglers of the band catch up, there is no salvaging this. They see what's happened to the others, and they see their supposed quarries perched atop a brick wall, backlit by the setting sun, and they know it's futile to keep the hunt going any longer.
Le corbeau especially knows it. He sweeps his keen eyes over the sorry scene below himself, and he does something Philippe has never seen him do before: he laughs. Teeth bared and eyes glaring, he lets out an acrid, crowing laugh that echoes off the buildings and rips through the vacant lot. His venipede joins in, buzzing at a frequency that takes on a mocking edge. It cuts like talons, stings like venom—yet there is nothing the pursuers can do in their defense.
Philippe cannot be allowed so much as the dignity of enduring it standing up; his sore rump objects at the mere prospect of leaving the ground. Once again his temper flares at the boy. It is less an eruption and more a death rattle.
"Who—" What he means to say is something like who do you think you are; what actually leaves his mouth is, "Who are you?!"
"I am," is the response, all cocksure swagger, "as you say: the raven. Corbeau."
In sulking silence Philippe stares at him, then the ground. He'd only started calling the kid that for his preferred color of clothing, as well as the shine of his dark hair. As things went on, it did seem to suit him more and more. His appearance would without fail indicate an ill omen for Philippe and his cronies, never mind that they bring it upon themselves. And he is clever, far too clever, running circles around them so fast that he nearly seems to fly.
Did Philippe, by some grand coincidence, correctly guess his name? Or... has he taken it for himself as a badge of honor?
Whatever the case, le corbeau decides this little game to be over. He spits onto the earth below and takes his leave with his pokémon, walking along the wall top with hands in his pockets like it's nothing.
The spell over the mob broken at last, one of the latecomers circles into Philippe's view, scowling down at an easier target for blame. "You've made a real hash of it this time, Philippe. Can't even catch some bratty preteen whose voice just started to break—"
"I'm fifteen, stupid," snarls le corbeau over his shoulder.
They all meet his withering gaze for a second or two before he jumps down to the other side of the wall. The thug returns his sneer to Philippe long enough for his parting words. "Like that's so much better. We're done here."
Footsteps grow numerous, then distant. Philippe remains seated on the ground, alone with his regrets.
...Except four of his grunts have stuck around, unwilling to leave him despite it all. Even in the fading sunlight the commiseration in their eyes is unmistakable. One comes closer to offer her hands and pull him up to his feet.
"Let's go, Boss," she says. As though he were still worthy of the title.
Their minds made up, they track him down one more time.
The search leads them into an abandoned warehouse, where Corbeau stands out in the open. Alone, save for his partner venipede watching his back as usual. This time it need not alert him: he is already looking up from his clipboard at the unexpected guests. In an instant he appraises them—unarmed and unaccompanied by pokémon; less than half their usual numbers; neither attempting at stealth nor coming in loud—and he must deem himself in no imminent danger. (It may also help that he happens to be right next to an open crate of hammers.)
"Downsized a fair bit, have we," is Corbeau's blasé reception, piercing the building's still, musty air. His eyes flick back to the clipboard. "What do you want now."
Philippe glances about himself at the grunts flanking him, a silent request for confirmation; they all nod towards him in turn. After such a shameful loss not one among them would dare go crawling back to Mr. Lysandre for more assistance. What he'd already given them was squandered so foolishly, and they all agree he is someone whose patience ought not to be tested. If they are determined to stick together like they always have, then this is the only way forward.
"We would like," says Philippe, calm and hopefully inviting, "for you to join us."
Corbeau is unmoved. He flips over a page in an audible show of disdain. "'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em,' eh? I'm afraid you idiots have got it all backwards—"
"No, no. I'm sorry; I misspoke. What I meant was, we want you to lead us."
That gets his attention again, eyebrows raised in visible surprise—a novel expression to see on him. "Ah. I see..." But in a flash it resolves into a much more familiar sardonic smile. "Very devious of you, this change of tactics. A fine trick to finally have me within arm's reach! Once I've let my guard down you'll surely—"
"Mons—Monsieur Corbeau, please!" Philippe calls out, talking over him; Corbeau falls silent, clearly annoyed, but perhaps placated enough by the honorific to hear out the man if nothing else. "We come to you in sincerity, truly. You've proven your mettle to us time and time again. No matter how outnumbered, you always found a way to leave us all in the dust, soaring far above our heads. As their leader I've done nothing but fail my loyal subordinates over and over. But you... your talents would tell a far different story." To show his deference Philippe bends down on one knee; the others follow his lead and genuflect likewise. "So take my place, and wield the Rust Gang as you see fit."
In response Corbeau wrinkles his nose at them—though his rebuke is simply, "Stop that; the floor is filthy," as he gestures sharply for them to stand back up. Once done he continues, "All right, fine. If you want me to boss you around so bad then you can start by taking care of some jobs for me. I'm sure a band of scoundrels such as yourselves won't mind getting their hands a little dirty."
Philippe grins and cracks his knuckles. "Just say the word."
"Well, well." Mr. Corbeau's voice announces his presence in the way his naturally muted foot-falls do not. "Seems you might be good for something after all."
"Boss," Philippe says, turning around while trying not to betray too much of his shock, "you were watching me?" This time he adopts more of a squatting stance, hands resting on both knees. It almost brings him to eye level with Mr. Corbeau, who seems to approve of this one, or at least doesn't object.
"Just to make sure you really could do as I asked. I almost didn't make it in time, you know. You took care of it real quick."
Philippe straightens up in his pride. "But of course! With my strength, pushing that car out of the mud was easy!"
"Easy. Yes."
The words have a quiet yet distinct fizzle to them. Not unlike the extinguishing of a lit cigarette, embers hissing as they are smothered into ash. Coupled with that distant, unimpressed look in Mr. Corbeau's eyes, he might as well have put it out right on Philippe's shirt.
But the question of what he found so disappointing must be tabled for now, as Mr. Corbeau keeps talking. "Your name is Philippe?"
"That's right, sir." At least the boss knows his name; must've overheard it at some point.
"Philippe, tell me. What did you make of that client, hm? Why do you think he needed assistance?"
"Uh..." This is not the direction Philippe expected this to head in. "Well—his vehicle was stuck... He couldn't get it out by himself, and neither of his pokémon were big enough to help," he says with a shrug. Painfully obvious as it is, he has no idea how else to answer.
"Yes, yes, but where was he trying to go? Who would've missed him if he wasn't there? And what would've happened in his absence?"
"I, mm, it did not cross my mind to ask. And he surely would've considered such queries invasive anyway..."
"Oh, relax, I'm just talking rhetorical-like," Mr. Corbeau says, snappish as ever—though he also holds out a placating hand, the first friendly gesture he's directed at Philippe. "Look, this is what I'm trying to get at: nobody—is—alone. Not you, not me, not your underlings. Not this client or any others. Not the Champion, of anywhere. Not even the biggest, most reclusive 引きこもり in the world. You know why that is?"
"Hiki—?" Philippe has begun to ask, unfamiliar with the concept, but he sets that aside once the question is posed. "Ah, is it because of our pokémon?"
"Oh sure, that helps. But it's 'cause we're all... reliant on each other. Interdependent, that's the word. We have to be, if we ever wanna get any accursed thing done." Mr. Corbeau arcs a hand broadly around the view of the street, Prism Tower standing tall in the distance. "None of us coulda built any part of this city by ourselves. Don't matter if you're the strongest, or the cleverest, or whatever; at the end of the day, we're all we got. So we lend each other a hand wherever we can... and that's the only way this grimy ol' planet keeps on spinnin'." He looks up at Philippe, small and young and sharp and serious. "That's what Rust is about, from now on. Understand?"
Philippe cannot rightly say that he does. Though he can sense the correctness of Mr. Corbeau's statements on a surface level, it is entirely something else to take them to heart. To live by a new philosophy he had no occasion to consider before. The idea that there might be more to life than strength, that there are matters to concern oneself with beyond one's own hide... and that he could do great things, even become something great as part of a team...
That last part, he once believed he understood, the way he took charge of his little pack of hooligans. But now... it dawns upon him that in the coming days, his eyes may be truly opened for the first time.
Mr. Corbeau doesn't wait for a response—or maybe Philippe's expression is answer enough. "Well. I'm sure you will. If you insist on throwing in with somebody like me." Coming from one so quick to voice his displeasure, maybe there's a bit of approval in there after all. And, really... it's his choice too, just as much as it is Philippe's. A choice he makes when he jerks his head towards their next destination, beckoning the man to follow. "Come on then. Let's check on the rest of our lot. One of 'em better have that replacement tie for me..."
"Right behind you, Boss," Philippe is honored to say.