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One moment the office was deathly quiet, the occupants letting their recently acquired intelligence slowly sink in.
Then it just wasn’t. The air abruptly shifted as the leader of the Rust Syndicate stood so swiftly he knocked over his chair.
“That fucking woman! A menace to society, she is.” Corbeau snarled, sweeping a carefully placed stack of reports on his desk to the floor. They cascaded across the tiles with a pitiful clatter.
The grunt in front of him, some pale-faced new-blood, cowered at the sudden switch. All the poor boy had done was deliver the damned report... Unluckily for him.
“I’m sorry... Boss, we c–couldn’t do nothin’. She’s just—” The boy stammered, as the Syndicate boss picked up a glass to drink, only to find it empty. Corbeau threw it into a nearby statue instead. It shattered on impact, and the grunt curled into himself further.
He grinned at the rather pathetic display, before turning to find another thing to smash.
“How dare she do this!”
Rage came easy to Corbeau, he was a man with a short fuse. It surged forth, burning bright like a flare blitz, loud and destructive. He lashed out and broke things, he shouted and snarled– spitting venom almost as potent as his own signature Pokémon’s. A former rival once described him as feral as a Primeape... They were right, of course, but they never got the chance to insult him again.
“I would suggest you leave, Timothy, immediately.” Philippe's gravelly tone addressed the now trembling boy, as he quickly approached him – likely to shield them if Corbeau threw something else.
“Y–yessir, Mr Steel. Leavin’, right now, sir.” The grunt bowed low and scampered just as Corbeau found something else to smash into a million pieces. The noise it made against the tile, a beautifully loud crash, caused a rumble of laughter in his throat.
The searing heat felt good in his veins, the poisonous churning in his stomach only served to spur him on, and Corbeau let it all pour forth– No matter the consequences. He’d taken a particular sadistic joy at the flinches of the poor grunt, he always did... The terror in their eyes. Friend and foe alike feared when he ceded control to his anger. However inadvisable as it was.
He stalked over to an antique vase, wondering just how lovely it would be scattered across his floor. How the flecks of chalky white and deep purple against the midnight black would be an art piece in of itself.
“I wouldn’t advise it, boss. You like that vase.” Philippe chimed from across the room, startling him out of his revere. He blinked, shaking away the smoke-like haze that had settled around him, turning to the man in question.
His second-in-command stood amidst the destruction completely unfazed, his grey eyes simply surveying the damage. The man was right. Of course, he was. It's a beautiful piece. Corbeau would hate to actually break it.
Instead, he kicked at the ground with a growled: “I hate her.”
"I know, sir."
Soon enough the rage dwindled to from a wildfire to cinders...
“Yes... It was pain to secure, if I'm remembering correctly.” He forced out as he turned his back to the offending object, moving out of swinging range.
His rage was never a slow smoulder like a will-o-wisp, chipping away bit by bit until he broke. No, Corbeau's outbursts were explosive, hot and harsh but gone just as quick as they came. Leaving only ashes, fear and regret in their wake.
“Exactly, sir. All the way from Sinnoh that one.”
It didn’t take much: an incompetent peon, an unruly client, a bad day in the office, Jacinthe... And Corbeau let loose upon anyone in sight. Often Philippe was the actual one to witness his fury, as he had just done, usually having herded the true focus of his anger out of the room before Syndicate boss did something heinous with his loss of control. He had considered throwing the glass at the poor boy’s head, if for a brief second. Intrusive thoughts, destructive thoughts, plagued him in those moments.
Each time, his second-in-command weathered the flames with ease, as sturdy as a rock type—his sturdy rock—Philippe’s expression steely, uncaring if likely a bit unamused by the somewhat frequent displays. Over the years, the towering man learnt tricks to direct or suppress the fire inside Corbeau until a safer moment. Even going so far as to restrain him once or twice. It had probably saved a few lives, if he’s being honest. Philippe was the only man that had ever managed to calm his rage... And the one person the Syndicate boss would never truly unleash it upon.
Philippe called him an old soul that was easily irritated; simply standing to the side and rolling his eyes during the tirades, but continued to clean up Corbeau’s messes no matter what was thrown—sometimes quite literally—his way. Then, he would wait by his boss' side until he centred himself once again.
Now, Corbeau glanced around at the scattered glass and papers that Philippe had started to gather up again.
“Ah, I did er–more than I expected.” He would not admit his slight shame at losing control so easily, and in front of others than Philippe, no less.
The taller man merely shrugged a shoulder as he looked over the pages he picked up.
“I should... Apologise to–what was his name?”
In the aftermath, as the flames died down amidst broken things and cowering looks, he would apologise to those he had wronged—eventually—for he was not completely above ego and pride.
“Timothy, boss. Been scouting around her territory for last month. He’s a good kid, loyal.”
“I see, send him a care package or somethin’. And remind me next time I see him.”
“Good call, shall I get someone in to clean this or do you want me to take care of it?”
“I apologise, Philippe, but could you? I’d rather not see anyone else right now... Need time to think.” He grumbled, sending a single piece of glass skittering across the floor. A headache was forming behind his eyes just to top it all off.
“No problem, boss. Go sit down, have a minute to yourself.” Philippe suggested in a tone that only Corbeau knew wasn’t a suggestion. It meant comply or be made to comply.
“Understood.” He threw himself into a nearby couch with groan, removing his glasses and sinking into the plush cushions. Simply listening to his closest subordinate clean around the room.
He pondered just how many times he came to this point...
Corbeau had been an angry child; angry at the imperfect world, the cruel people within it, the situations he was forced into, and the city he was bound– It made him vicious and spiteful at an age children should believe in the goodness of those around them. And an inferno was lit in his heart and it fuelled him for so, so long. Despite the later kindness he was shown by Lysandre and others, hints to that fire and rage still lingered to this day.
Though he dismayed at the fact, Corbeau was rather an emotional person, his masks cracked much quicker than they should... And as stupid as it was he wore his vicious heart on his sleeve. He was meant to be this cold, hardened and unfeeling leader of the Rust Syndicate, but appeared no better than a rampaging Tauros at times. A few good prods and his temper flared.
It didn’t help that he wasn't a patient man by nature, though life forced him to take the role of a cunning and patient creature. Neither did he suffer fools lightly... Even when the majority of his clientele filled that category. Morons, the lot of them.
“I’m here if you need me, boss.” Philippe called as he proceeded to clear up the mess Corbeau should be sorting out himself. Yet, that support meant everything to him.
There were some that remarked that his personality sometimes clashed with the world he’d sunk into. That he was in the wrong line of work. Regardless of the supposed failings and clashes, he got results... His rage produced fear, and intimidation and threats were an easy way to get what he and the city needed.
Despite it all, he still managed to form the Rust Syndicate and help the city that he learned to love throughout his teens and young adult life. With Philippe by his side to calm his inner wildfire, they had only grown.
Maybe his quick temper and pernickety personality made things harder at times. He’d certainly scared off more than a few new grunts and potential clientele over the years.
And yet, Corbeau wouldn’t be where he stood today without those early flickers of flame. Perhaps he should have specialised in fire types instead... But a majestic Pyroar or ferocious Charizard really wasn't his style. And they'd be a danger to his precious Scolipede as well, he couldn't have that.
He glanced over to his second-in-command, towering and immoveable against Corbeau’s more volatile nature. A contrast, but a positive one.
With a sigh, he let the final cinders instead of him go out, knowing they would just as easily reignite again in the future.
As the rage... It felt euphoric surging in his veins.
His own personal poison.
In comparison, Philippe was slow to rise to anything, he had complete control over his outward emotions—or at least over the mask he wore. His eyes were as cool as the typing he preferred most, his expressions not so carved in stone but hammered in steel.
“Boss, may I have the evening off? I have something I need to take care of...” Philippe interrupted the companionable silence that had settled between the two.
“Of course, Philippe. Do you need backup? Should I be concerned?” He queried, glancing over the rim of his glasses with a questioning gaze. Corbeau had been waiting for the request, having noticed the small shifts in his demeanour after reading a message on his Rotom phone a few hours before. Hardly noticeable changes but still there, to the trained eye.
“’Course not, boss. Just a little errand.” He muttered back, still reading over the report in his hand. Faked indifference, that Corbeau knew. Those grey eyes showed so little unless you knew what to look for. A slight twitch, a mere stiffness to his posture, words formed around the clench of teeth. All pointing to a creeping and slow rage curling around him, an icy wind brewing.
Once anger truly took root in Philippe, those it targeted would have to contend with a unending wrath the likes only a mega-evolved Pokémon could bring.
He did not shout, he moved with purpose, methodical and sustained for far longer than Corbeau’s more volatile cruelty... Philippe was far more precise, and violent, in his rage.
If Corbeau was a wildfire, then Philippe was a blizzard.
However, very few things made his second-in-command turn to anger... To make him snap completely was an actual challenge.
You could threaten, insult and demean the towering man and barely get a raised brow in response, and even violence against his own person only produced a suitable counter but little more than that.
To melt the ice in his heart and steel armour he donned, the attack needed to be directed elsewhere.
Yet, if that disrespect and danger was targeted towards those under his protection - his underlings, the Syndicate itself or it’s leadership... Well, Philippe didn’t need to be a fierce battler or an intimidating presence to break a person’s spirit. Nor did he need the destructive, searing rage that consumed his boss.
Corbeau had witnessed his second-in-command break a client’s hand with not so much as a blink. The man in question had over the course of a meeting continuously slandered the Syndicate and finally it’s leader - Corbeau himself. Philippe had said not a word as he’d crossed the room from his spot as silent bodyguard, taken the empty glass that had been in their visitor’s hand as if to refill it. Instead, he proceeded to slam it into their disrespectful guest’s fingers until it shattered both the bones beneath and the glass structure itself– appearing unconcerned that shards also embedded into his own skin, nor how his and his victim’s blood had smeared across his clothes.
“Respect goes a long way... Maybe remember that next time.” Was all he’d said, voice barely above whisper, before returning to his spot with the same stony-faced coldness as before. Yet, that silent rage continued to radiate off the man many hours afterwards.
He could feel that coming violence now, building steadily, a oncoming storm. A blizzard. For as easily as Philippe gave his loyalty and submission to Corbeau... Even he was occasionally weary when his second-in-command showed his true rage.
“Let me know should anything go awry.” He said instead.
His subordinate glanced up with a raised brow at his not so sudden interest. “Sure, boss. It won’t, but I’ll keep my phone on me for if you need something.”
“Give ‘em hell then, Philippe.”
“I plan on it, boss.” That vicious grin told Corbeau everything he needed.
Since Philippe’s employment, that anger had only been turned towards Corbeau once. Early on, a short time after Corbeau had usurped the older man. When they were still on edge around one another, boss and henchman in name only... And constantly at each others throats, like a Seviper and Zangoose respectively.
He couldn’t even remember what he had done to invoke that wrath anymore, he'd likely thrown his newfound power and weight around, but the way the towering man had turned to him as if his body was robotic, controlled and steady and at a speed very few realised Philippe possessed. A large hand had ceased him around the throat, crushing his airway before he even knew what was happening, and lifted him off the ground with ease. Those greying eyes regarded him as though he were nothing, an obstacle to remove, a problem to solve, certainly not a person.
Where Corbeau’s rage burned hot and erratic, Philippe’s was frigid and clinical.
In the unyielding grip, unable to do anything but struggle to breathe, a young Corbeau finally realised why Philippe ran his own gang for as long as he had.
As he choked, he’d been drawn close so they were eye to eye, and Philippe muttered his threat into the small space between them.
“I’ve placed my complete faith and support in you, boss... Don’t make me regret that choice. We’re not battling now, I can crush your throat before you’ll even call out your Whirlipede, little Crow.”
Too soon he’d been dropped back onto his feet, given a mercy many others would not have been granted. And as he gasped in stuttered breaths with wide eyes, those same violent hands straightened up his collar and smoothed down his tie, going so far to pluck off a piece of lint from his lapel before Philippe retreated like nothing had happened... Letting the man process all that had occurred alone.
There had never been a repeat of that incident, and now many years since that encounter, Corbeau believed the man that stood beside him everyday wouldn’t even consider such an action. He was the incarnation of loyalty. He was Corbeau’s competent second-in-command, his closest confidant, perhaps even his only friend. He and Phillippe were the Rust Syndicate. The organisation could have never come to this point without them both.
“I’m heading out now, sir. I’ll text when I am done with them.” The cold steel in his voice would make anyone else shiver.
“See that you do. Goodnight, Philippe.” He watched as the man strode into the elevator, clicked his knuckles, throwing a malicious smile at Corbeau as the doors closed.
Two hours later, Corbeau’s phone bleeped with a message containing a single word:
Sorted.
And the Syndicate boss almost pitied whomever had seen Philippe's rage first-hand.