Chapter Text
“Humans are not infallible gods, perfection is unobtainable. A meaningless endeavour.
“Everyone's got flaws. Everyone's got vices. Things not so beautiful. Even him. Even me.
“Being perfect isn’t part of the human experience. We’re ugly and wrong and hateful... Ugh, Filthy. Poisonous. Cruel!”
“Boss...?”
“...But there are times, when we're the opposite. Of all people, he should’ve known that. There’s beauty in that.
“Eliminating all those people would not get rid of the errant humanity inside of us. Even the most so-called beautiful and pure-of-heart person can have something ugly inside of them.
“Lysandre... Did you always have this ugliness in your heart?”
“Listen to me, sir.”
“I thought you were better than this...
“I should’ve known that—”
“—Boss, this isn’t helping.”
“Why didn’t I notice something?! Why...? Did he—”
“—Just stop doing this to yourself.”
“Lysandre... Why? I don’t understand!”
“Corbeau, you gotta stop!"
“I...can’t.”
A younger Corbeau and Philippe share the stilted conversation in the wake of the Ultimate weapon disaster... Corbeau's words spoken in a voice so cold and bitter and betrayed– tinged with a wild desperation. The Rust Syndicate boss sat with his head heavy in his hands, re-watching his mentor’s final speech again and again and again through the cracks between his fingers until every word was seared into his memory. Inked into his skin.
Imprinted onto his very soul.
The blue light of the Holo-Caster flickered in the dim room, casting long mournful shadows as it played endlessly... At least until it was confiscated.
Corbeau still remembered the speech word-for-word, that Philippe knew. He carried it with him even now... Years later.
But on that day, Philippe witnessed a very different side to his boss.
With the fourth cigarette of the hour stuck between his fingers, a half-drunken bottle of Galarian scotch by his side, and his usually sharp golden stare hazy with the effects of addiction and grief... Corbeau emulated his words that night, likely to spite the dead man he’d once looked up to as a shining example of goodness in the world. The image now-tainted, many a kind memory questioned and picked apart until nothing of that goodness remained.
Philippe could have done the same, but managed to find some small strength to avoid the spiral. However, he was a few years older, a few years wiser than his counterpart. Having experienced betrayal and grief before, maybe not by a mentor-turned-genocidal maniac but a betrayal was a betrayal.
A blade in the back hurt regardless of if it was your first or fifth.
Despite Philippe's many dealings with Lysandre in both his Brotherhood and Syndicate days, they were never fast friends, professional and transactional only. He'd been perfectly fine with that arrangement. Corbeau had been the one close to the dead man. Seeing him as an example to follow, a role-model.
Now a failure. Egoistical, genocidal, deluded.
Now it was a ritual that Corbeau forced himself to repeat on the anniversary of the firing of that great and terrible weapon. Where he descends into a dangerous tail-spin around the time every year, where vices and self-destruction were the only things he relied upon. The only things he lets shoulder his many burdens, no matter how others try to reach him. No matter how much Philippe tries.
And he does try so damned hard.
Each hand offered snapped at with venomous fangs.
Each kindly word sneered at with malice.
Were this any other man, Philippe may not be so forgiving.
But this is Corbeau - his boss, his confidant and honestly, his closest friend at this point.
Still, he remembers times when they weren't as close:
“And just where have you been, boss?” He muttered in the shadow of the doorway Corbeau stumbled up to, his stride edged with a limp and unsteady.
Corbeau startled for the briefest second, before he rights himself, straightening and brushing a hand down his crinkled shirt... Like he could hide the state he was in. He glared back with clouded eyes, his usual intimidating presence dulled while his pale skin was flushed and lips bloodied– kiss-bitten.
The scent of another’s perfume and sweat sat heavily upon his skin, his clothes and hair rumpled and in disarray. Not to mention the acrid smell of cheap liquor on his breath. Frankly, he looked a mess. Not the normally put together man Philippe had been starting to admire.
His boss doesn’t answer the question, making an attempt to push past him. Philippe shot out an arm in front of the doorway to block entry, Corbeau bumped into it and snarled.
Looming over him now, Philippe spotted a series of red-purple blotches just under his collar.
Safe to say, he’s less than impressed. Annoyed that the man let himself fall into such a filthy state. That he would even let someone do such things him.
“You look like shit, sir. Full offence intended.” He made his distaste known.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that... Let me in, Philippe.” He snapped, pushing at the arm again, before shooting him yet another glare.
Philippe doesn’t move.
Hazy eyes narrow further.
But Philippe may as well be reinforced concrete.
Then Corbeau blinked and his posture suddenly loosens, he ran a hand through his hair with a lazy grin. “Ha. Okay, I look like shit. Feel it too... Now please let me go in, Philippe...” His tactics shift, tone almost sultry now... Cloying. Poisonous. False.
Philippe just shook his head. “You look like you had a night with a Machamp, sir...”
“Yup. I probably do...don’t I?” A rumble of laughter tickled that love-bite covered throat, but it too was fake to Philippe’s ears.
“...While drunk as a Stuntank. And lost the battle, hmm?”
“Uh huh. Get the scolding over with already. I have things to do.” He grumbled, crossing his arms now. Bored. Petulant.
Oh, that grated on his nerves.
And it slipped into his next words.
“I’m not your keeper, boss. You can let off steam all you want, but we’ve got an reputation to maintain here. We—I—can’t have you ruining it with an all night bender. And hanging around a client’s premises of all things, Corbeau! A whorehouse, no less. You’ll be a laughing stock if this gets out. Do you even understand that?” Philippe ends his stern tirade with a deep, slow breath... Letting any building anger go. “If you needed something. You should have called me.”
But Corbeau’s mind seemed a little too addled to notice all the effort Philippe was making to keep his calm. As usual, he attacked, spitting vitriol.
“...Why? What would’ve you done, huh, Philippe? I needed to let off steam, I wanted a good fuck with a faceless whore, so I got one. Done. Who-the-fuck cares? Now, lemme in. I won’t ask you again!” He squared up, jabbing a finger into his chest now, face twisted into ugly shapes. The rage he so associated with the man returning.
So he prepares for the tidal wave.
“You wanna make me, boss? As I won’t be until you understand the gravity of your actions.” He challenged, locking himself in place, sturdy as steel. Immoveable.
If the younger man didn't see the wrongness of his decisions taken tonight, then Philippe would just have to teach him. As the one with more experience. As the only one looking out the organisation, apparently.
“That sounds rather like insubordination to me...” The words burst into the air, a foghorn in a stormy night.
Oh, the gall the man had... Corbeau knew just where to strike. As quick as a Seviper. Philippe's founding principles – his loyalty. Obedience.
No one ever questioned his loyalty, no one. Never. Only one with a deathwish would...
Something must falter in his mask, if for a second, as Corbeau grinned Sharpedo-like... Sensing blood in the water.
“You want to punish me for looking out for our interests, go ahead, little Crow.” Maybe he'd let a trickle of his own anger show this time, as he sneered in his smiling boss' face. Disrespect in return for Corbeau's own lack of respect.
"Don't call me that!" He'd known what would come before it even happened.
Corbeau swings—as of course he did—a slap with talons added, dragging across his cheek and catching his nose, it rattled his head a bit but he merely stared down at the man... Musing on if his boss would even survive if Philippe ever truly let himself loose. Others certainly hadn’t.
But he tried to put those days behind him, he’s not only violence. Not just a brute.
Even if Corbeau clearly wanted him to be right now. Wanted him relied up, dangerously toying a line that Philippe would regret if he crossed.
He’s had far, far worse before, it’s barely a footnote as a hit, but it’s the principle of it that stings.
Corbeau glanced down at his hand then back up to Philippe’s face, yellow eyes widening, realisation finally settling over him in a crashing wave.
It took him long enough...
“Wanna try that again, huh, boss?” He rolled his neck, feeling the pops it made. The release of tension, making him loose and languid, he grinned.
Dread settled over once furious features. Reddened lips open and shut as the man struggled to find his words again.
“Philippe...”
He simply raised a dark brow. Nothing more. Those next words would either bring them to calm waters or push them further out into the brewing storm.
“That was...I was out of line.” Corbeau said, each word seemingly forced through his gritted teeth.
“Yes, you were, sir.”
He had the sense enough to look ashamed, at least. Guilty. Remorseful. Things distinctly not Corbeau.
Any shared lingering rage was doused when he gazed up again. Corbeau looks small, swamped in his wrinkled clothes, tucking his head into his collar. Like a scolded kid would.
Sometimes Philippe forgot he was a good ten years older than the other man. Not right now though.
He could see it plainly.
“You got anything else to say to me, boss?” He prompted.
“Yes... Um, I’m sorry, Philippe. I lost myself there.” He ran his hand through his messy hair, pulling on it rather hard.
“That you did. What else...?”
“I...” He paused, eyes darting around frantically as a frown set upon worried lips. Then it clicks in place. With a long breath through his nose, he straightened up with a nod. “I understand that my actions weren’t favourable. They were stupid, frankly. I need to be better. I will be.”
The words are genuine enough. Lucid enough. Determined even. Not cloaked in a sultry falseness, not indignant annoyance. Not hazy.
They would do.
Philippe stepped out the way of the door. “Good enough. You are forgiven, boss. Now clean yourself up. I’ll go do some damage control.”
Corbeau takes another long drag from his cigarette, the caustic smoke curling upwards in wispy trails that those same clouded eyes attempt to follow. They can't seem to focus.
“I’m not perfect, I know that. ‘M not a good man... Never good enough for Team Flare. Probably saw me as filth, eh. I know why I was left behind... But—” His voice hitches louder, resembling a dry sob, and Philippe hadn’t quite known Corbeau like he does now. Back then, he hadn’t known that when his boss got like that his anger wasn’t too far behind– An emotional wrecking ball, oscillating between the wild rage of a Tauros and a deep despair rivalling that felt by a baby Cubone.
“You’re not filth, c'mon boss.”
“I. AM! Otherwise... He would have told me, he would have—”
Then Corbeau punctuates his words by trying to stub out his cigarette on the skin of his own palm. However, Philippe stops him just in time... Plucking it from his thin fingers and taking a short drag like he hadn’t realised what his boss actually wanted to do. Making sure to snuff it out properly in an ash tray, a little none to gently at that. Grinding it to ash and dust.
His boss stares up at him with shining golden eyes for a long moment, something begging within—something that Philippe still couldn't identify to this day. Then he looked away, saying nothing and simply lit another.
Philippe hated seeing him like that. Barely any of the brilliantly intelligent and annoying mischievous young man he had come to know was in there. Not the man he’d stepped down for. Who he would follow into any battle. Just an empty shell left to be filled with alcohol, smoke and pain...
The real Corbeau lost in the fog of grief and vice.
Philippe may as well have stepped out into a warzone by the destruction he found in front of him.
Upturned furniture, glass and Arceus-knows-what smashed to pieces, the back wall even had a fist-sized hole in it. The air charged and thick, dangerous.
Pure rage-fuelled chaos.
And in the centre of the small room knelt his young boss, his back to the door, fingers tugging harshly at his hair... A cascade of sharp debris surrounded him, a disturbing splash of blood staining the tile.
Two of his Pokémon were cooing in distress outside of the barrier of broken glass. Arbok hissed and slivered but cannot get to his trainer without incurring injury. Scolipede was precariously kicking and nudging things out the way to get across, but not quite there yet. Determined and studious in it’s duty to his turbulent trainer. They both swivel towards Philippe as he entered, the serpent Pokémon hissing at him in worry or warning. Likely both.
Corbeau didn’t seem to notice them. He didn’t seem aware of anything around him.
Philippe wasn’t sure what had happened, he was out overseeing several of their operations when he got the call to return from a frightened underling.
It looked like another rampage for some reason or other.
He’d seen it before, been present for a few now. Tucking away his rising anxiety he strode inside calmly, locking the door behind him and patting down his pockets for a roll of bandages... An old habit from his fighting days, still a needed one.
“Do I want to know what caused this, sir?” A mixture of flippant and cautious, a bizarre mix he'd found worked on occasion. Philippe was the one that could challenge his boss when he got like this... Or rather was the only one willing to, able to weather any vitriol afterwards. He'd been at the top for a time, he understood the burden... Even if Corbeau seemed to lash out a lot more than he had done.
Corbeau finally startled at the sound of his voice. His fingers grip harder for a brief second before he lets go, his hands hit the floor hard, a resounding slap against the tiles, and he slumped forward – a marionette with it’s strings cut.
Scolipede gave a chirping whine at the display, head whipping between his trainer and Philippe in worried confusion, he held out a hand and nodded at them. Approaching slowly, stepping over the thick glass that crunched under his shoes.
“I...lost.” Corbeau whispered, curling up on the floor and slamming a fist against it. His other fingers skirt rather close to a large shard of glass, however.
“Lost what, boss...? Or against who?”
“I’ve not lost in so long...” His hand closed around the shard and Philippe reacted in an instant, kicking his hand to drop it. It skittered away as Corbeau swore and withdrew his hand.
“No, thank you, sir. Now... sit up and talk to me properly.” He reached down and hooked his arms around a slender waist. Corbeau rumbled lowly but with a struggle he stands and leaned back against the taller man.
Now he can see his face, there’s a smear of blood on his cheek and in his hair but no damage, his veins are a little prominent and visible and his eyes somewhat dazed – if glaring daggers his way. Lost in the fury, in the comedown of rage.
A particular vice Philippe knew all too well.
“Why do you...always spoil my fun?” His voice caustic.
Philippe frankly didn’t care, had dealt with far worse from his boss and much worse from others. What was a temper tantrum really?
“As your idea of fun needs work, sir. Now to your desk. Venom needs to mother you.”
Corbeau turned his head to the side, his lips pulling into a snarl until he regarded his closest partner. His anger suddenly melting away as he focussed upon the nervous clicks of it's fore-claws and the worry in those large soulful eyes.
“Oh...boy. I’m sorry. I’m okay now, my good boy...” He reached out towards Scolipede only to still at noticing the blood covering his hand.
Slowly Philippe walked them over to an area with a clearer floor and the moment he does Arbok ambushed them, coiling around Corbeau’s legs and torso tightly.
“Seems Nightshade needed a hug too.” He huffed, trying to keep the amusement from his voice.
They both spend a moment patting the serpentine Pokémon on the head as it refuses to let his trainer go.
“C’mon Shade, mate. Let’s get the boss sitting, yeah?” He reasoned as he scratched under it’s chin.
He gets an affronted hiss but slowly his trainer was released.
“I don’t need mothering, Philippe. ‘M okay now. Seriously.” Corbeau complained as he’s more manhandled than walked and pushed down into his desk chair.
“You clearly aren’t, sir. Give me your hand.” He left no room for argument, and his boss complied if a bit reluctantly. A scoff and eye-roll to cover his pride. Scolipede was at his other side, licking the blood from his face and he flustered under the attention.
“Yes, yeah—Venom I can’t see. Stop it.” He tried to push them away as they knock off his glasses.
The creature ignored him.
Philippe simply shakes his head at their antics, the earlier heaviness of the atmosphere having almost completely lifted.
“Serves you right for worrying them, boss.” He mumbled, inspecting the blood on Corbeau's bruised knuckles and dabbing it away.
The man sighed deeply, closing his eyes. “Alright, apologies for worrying you all. I just... Lost my temper.” He leans back against his chair, submitting to the joint care of his partner Pokémon and patient second-in-command.
“...Again.” Philippe added before continuing to bandage up his boss’ hand.
“The old bastard wanted to leave everyone behind, boss. Not just you.” Philippe threw it recklessly into the building atmosphere. It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong time. Especially to the temperamental grieving man... Yet, no one was perfect. And he couldn’t find himself being courteous nor impassive with how distraught Corbeau was in that moment. His heart was not actually made of steel, despite the many rumours over the years stating otherwise.
Those sharp eyes narrow, lips threatening to pull into a feral snarl. “Watch your tongue, Philippe! He wasn't a bastard! He was—he was...” The hints of rage flickering between the anguish as he knocked the whiskey bottle off the table, and they both awaited the almighty crash to follow.
Yet, it does not happen, just a pathetic dull thud instead, the bottle being far too expensive–too well made to break for Corbeau’s anger.
They both pause, the younger man slowly slumped over to pick it back up, and Philippe half-expected it to be thrown his way next. For the man to fly into another rage... Anger was a much easier emotion to deal with in the man, and in himself—it's despair he cannot fathom. Instead, the lid was unscrewed in haste and Corbeau took large, generous gulps.
Rather sad really, as a good Galarian whiskey should have been savoured...
And it must burn going all the way down.
Corbeau doesn’t seem to care.
Afterwards he slides back into his chair, the plush cushions devouring him, making him appear so small against them. No powerful Syndicate leader... Just that little crow he first met in a cold basement.
“I won’t apologise for that, sir. I knew him longer than you. He revealed his true self like everyone else. Ain’t much to it beyond that.
"But Crow, there was nothing any of us could do if he truly made his mind up...”
Those heavy eyelids fluttered at the nickname, rarely used between them anymore—sometimes wanted and others not—then his gaze turns away – lost in the fog again.
“But...Maybe I...?” He starts before giving up halfway.
“He was always a stubborn guy, boss... No one would’ve changed his mind. Not even you.”
Seconds tick away in silence, the only thing between them a coiling trail of acrid tobacco smoke. Philippe's fingers itch to snatch the thing from his boss' hand and throw it far away. They also want to grab him by the shoulders and shake away the choking, drunken fog he's become enveloped within. They long to reach out, to lift that chin and point those hazy eyes his way– to tell the man it will all be okay, that it will get better.
His fingernails dig deep into his palms instead.
"Philippe..." Corbeau interrupts his own spiral. "Am I a hypocrite...for still wanting to believe in his ideals—that beautiful world—basing all we do on it...even when I’m the filth he’d want destroyed? When he did such a terrible thing because of what he—I believe?” His voice is a rough, low thing. Bitter—and on the verge of collapse, so close to defeat, at that time Philippe had never heard it that way before.
Honestly, it scared him just a little. Every time Corbeau titters on the edge... Philippe fears. Fears if the man will truly recover this time. Fears of what will come in the aftermath.
Not that he will ever let his boss know that. Nor anyone know.
“No, boss. No. Of course not... His dream of a beautiful Kalos and to help this great city, they were—are—noble goals. His philanthropy and want to give were good... He just got lost somewhere along the way. Drew to the wrong conclusions.”
Philippe still believed they could achieve a more beautiful Lumiose, a better Kalos overall too. Just not using the darkest of methods Lysandre had attempted. He was prepared to wade through filth, to stain his own soul, for such an ambition. Just not that—Lysandre's—way.
Corbeau takes a moment to process the words, before he pulls off his glasses and buries his head in his hand again.
“Philippe?” It's barely above a whisper now.
He steps closer, obeying the silent command without thought. Hovering nearby as he has done for the several years since his employment– Always by his boss' side. No matter the storm, Philippe has weathered it, remaining at his side despite his dangerous edges.
“Yes, boss?” He risks a solid touch, his hand enveloping a shaking slender shoulder, and golden, hollow eyes blink up at him almost confused by the softness of the gesture. Philippe didn't give needless affection, even to Corbeau. Always trying for a professional distance.
Even if he wanted to do more...
Even if it blurs the lines sometimes.
He gives the slightest smile.
It doesn't get shrugged off. A small victory. The fabric of Corbeau's shirt is soft under his calloused fingertips, and so very warm. He worried that all the alcohol in his system had made him feverish, or if the man always burned so hot and he hadn't noticed.
Thin lips pull down into such a wobbly frown, one that Corbeau covers with taking another long swig of whiskey.
It returns afterwards, regardless.
He looked so breakable, his mind hanging on by a thread.
“If I ever get lost along the way...like he did. Will you stop me?”
It was the last thing Philippe expects, the clever man that had run circles around him in his youth, usurped his position by his wits and skill alone... That annoying little crow – that cunning Murkrow that spread it’s wings to become a mighty Honchkrow...
Asking for his own destruction, should he too follow his mentor into darkness.
Despite the situation, it's rather admirable.
He had his answer before it was even asked. Giving a warm shoulder a gentle squeeze, he says:
“I will, Crow. I promise.” And Philippe always kept his promises...
“Thank you...” Then Corbeau slumped back, leaning his head against the offered arm as he took another choking drag, fading back into vice once more.