Chapter Text
“We finally snatched up that rat for ya, boss!”
Philippe looked up from his seat at his dented metal desk – an inelegant but useful find, saved from a trip to the dump when they discovered it on the side of the road. Scrawled notes lay strewn across the scratched surface, bullet points and marginal annotations analyzing verbal reports from the grunts. They all contained information on the same subject, allowing him to cross-reference and identify patterns of behavior, and now it seemed all that analysis had finally paid off.
“For real this time?” he rumbled, only a bit incredulous. Skarmory squawked from her perch in her form of an echo.
“For real, boss! Made sure not to let him out of our sight this time when we hauled him in.”
Philippe remembered the last time the guys claimed to have the “little rat” in hand. They had hauled the guy in and thrown him in a room locked from the outside while they went to fetch him. When Philippe went to unlock the door, relishing in his team's triumph and ecstatic to finally put this vermin through the hell he deserved, he found that it didn't need to be unlocked at all. The grunts swore up and down that they definitely locked the door, “triple-checked and everything, boss!” Turned out that asshole had just picked his way out and made a run for it within the few minutes they had stepped away.
This time, though, they took more…forceful measures to ensure the rat wasn’t going anywhere. He had slipped through their fingers too many times, and Philippe was done taking chances.
Philippe nodded silently at his beaming underlings. He'd figure out a reward for their good work later. Maybe a party or something. They were due for a good karaoke night.
He leaned forward and took a deep breath before pushing himself up and out of the rolling chair. It squeaked slightly at the relief from his weight, then groaned as its tattered cushion slowly returned to its default height atop the telescoping base.
The towering man forced himself to be patient as he gave Skarmory a quick pet and, “Don’t worry girl, I’ll be back soon,” before he exited his makeshift office. He walked down the stairs, and stepped out into the central open space of the Rust Syndicate's hideout, the three grunts who came to deliver the good news on his heels. The repurposed warehouse was nothing pretty, but it got the job done, and its dark alley entrance was both discreet and somewhat intimidating. He was eternally grateful to Lysandre for providing the funding necessary to purchase the building and help with other infrastructural costs. Eventually they’d start bringing in enough cash to get some real furniture, but for now, he had no problem making due.
It took all his self-control not to make a fool of himself for how excited he was that this day had finally arrived. Philippe had never seen the rat – impressive considering just how much trouble he had caused for the Syndicate – and now he could finally put him in his place once and for all. He schooled himself against running eagerly to where his evasive nemesis was being held; no matter how gleeful he felt, he needed to keep up his calm but tough appearance as a leader for his underlings.
The Syndicate boss crossed the open floor to a side door leading to a short hallway. About half the fluorescent tube lights mounted on the hall’s ceiling were burned out, and a solid third of what remained flickered. This part of the building went largely unused, with the exception of what must have been the warehouse's old break room – evidenced by the presence of counters and cabinets, and an empty space adjacent to them for a refrigerator. They hadn't scrounged up a working fridge just yet, but they had managed to score a sizable table and a slew of mismatched chairs. The lights were a dim, pulsing mess in there, too, but it almost made the space feel more cozy. If nothing else, at least it was theirs.
The last door on the right was cracked open, a soft, warm glow emanating from within. With one last deep inhale and exhale, Philippe pressed his hand to the cold metal surface and slowly pushed the door open. This room had no functioning lights left on the ceiling, instead gaining illumination from a single standing lamp near the door – also a scavenged find, and missing its lampshade. There was no other furniture except a single metal folding chair in the darkest corner. And on that metal folding chair sat a hunched figure, wrists zip-tied behind his back and ankles duct taped to the chair legs.
Two grunts had hands roughly gripping his shoulders, and another two stood a short distance away, keeping watch. No worries about the bastard taking off this time.
The grunts had probably roughed him up a bit getting him here. They knew, though, that Philippe wanted to deliver the real pain himself. For months, he'd had some of his best prospective deals sniped by this guy, and he was completely fed up. His knuckles had long ached to divorce his enemy’s teeth from their mouth. His crew knew that the true vengeance belonged to him.
Except…was that…a kid?
No, that couldn’t be right. Maybe he was just a short guy. There’s no way a kid could have been undermining his operations and outsmarting him at every turn all this time.
But as his silver eyes adjusted to the low light, Philippe felt his stomach drop and twist all at once. He could make out the beginnings of bruises forming on their captive’s face, and a small, dried trickle of blood below one nostril. And behind the damage, examining the soft facial features…this brat couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. Fuck.
He tried to keep his outward expression schooled into something unmoved and stoic, but internally Philippe’s thoughts were accelerating into a torrent. His nemesis was a kid. He had been bested over and over again by a kid. He’d had his grunts beat up and capture a kid. He had been fantasizing for months about breaking the bones of a kid. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Phillippe approached the kid (fuck) and squatted down to make their faces level. Arceus, not only was this a kid, but he was small. Before his eyes adjusted, he had chalked the rat’s diminutive size to his hunched posture, but it turned out he was just that small. Philippe probably had a head and a half worth of height on the guy. The kid. Fuck.
Well. Nowhere to go but forward.
“So you’re the little prick who’s been raising hell all over Rust Syndicate territory,” Philippe said, forcibly keeping his voice low and even.
The captive brought his eyes up to meet the voice. They were strikingly gold, even in this light. A mop of violet hair had the distinct, bedraggled look of having been plastered to his face with sweat before drying into a scraggly mess. The kid didn’t speak, but he straightened up a bit and huffed sharply through his nose with a quiet defiance.
“Name, kid.”
No response.
Philippe growled low in his throat, as much an intimidation tactic as it was a genuine expression of his frustration with his current situation. He reached forward and gripped the brat’s chin with a forefinger and thumb, pressing firmly enough to hold his head in place, but not enough to form a new bruise. “Tell me your damn name, kid.”
A hesitation came before a half-mumbled, half-hissed answer: “Corbeau.”
What the fuck kind of name was that? Had the kid made it up himself to sound…cool? It was like a child’s attempt at making up a very Kalosian-sounding name. Okay, sure. Whatever.
“Good. I’m Philippe. I’m sure you’ve heard my name before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
Philippe gritted his teeth but tried to morph it into a more-or-less menacing grin. He released Corbeau’s chin and shifted his squat to his heels. “I struggle to believe that, considering how much of a huge pain in my ass you’ve been.”
Corbeau shrugged, smirking slightly. Philippe got the feeling that this kid was seeing right through his unaffected facade. The Syndicate boss had never been particularly good at masking his feelings, though his earnestness had helped his underlings to feel more comfortable opening up around him. But he was already getting the sense that the bastard in front of him was something of an empath and knew exactly how to use others’ emotions against them.
“I’m just doing business.,” the brat murmured with a smirk. “How is it my fault if your offerings simply don’t match up to mine?”
Philippe was seeing red but managing to hold it together. He couldn’t let this Corbeau kid get under his skin. He leaned back forward again, scoffing. “Look, bud. You’ve been fuckin’ around quite a bit in Rust Syndicate territory. You know that?”
Corbeau rolled his eyes. “And how in the hell should I have known where your gang’s ‘territory’ is, exactly?”
“Anyone who’s been in this town for a year of their damn lives knows what belongs to us.”
“Well, what if I haven’t been here a year of my life, hm?”
His first instinct was to laugh in the kid’s face and call out his lying ass, but Philippe now recognized that Corbeau’s features suggested Johtonian or maybe Kantonian ancestry. He must not have noticed in the low light.
“So you’re new to Lumiose, huh?” Philippe mused almost warmly before his voice turned cold as steel. “Well, let me fill you in on some important info they might’ve forgotten to mention at the visitor center: This part of town belongs to the Rust Syndicate, and no other organization operates from or encroaches on our territory.”
Corbeau rolled his eyes. “I don’t operate from wherever the fuck your territory is, old man.”
Philippe’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And where are you operating from, exactly?”
The kid didn’t answer. He maintained his dignified posture, but his gaze had shifted subtly to the right, somewhere beyond Philippe, no longer making direct eye contact.
Philippe leaned forward again. “Don’t make me ask again,” he growled.
Now Corbeau seemed to shrink almost imperceptibly, slightly obviously averting his gaze. He made a nearly inaudible sound like he might be sick or in pain. Or horribly, dreadfully uncomfortable. Embarrassed, even.
Oh.
The reality struck Philippe suddenly. The kid didn’t answer because he wasn’t operating from anywhere, or at least nowhere permanent.
Philippe’s resolve to pummel his nemesis had already ebbed significantly upon learning he was a kid. For Arceus’ sake, there was no way he could take swings at a homeless kid.
All of the remaining aggression and rage drained from his body, replaced with a low smolder of loathing and a desperate need to be done with this mess. He suddenly stood, causing Corbeau and even the grunts to flinch back slightly. Rubbing a hand down his face and pulling at the skin of his jaw in exasperation as his eyes rolled to the ceiling, Philippe simply muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
There was a palpable tension in the room as he mulled over his options. The grunts stood stiffly around their captive, awaiting the boss’ orders while trying to maintain a domineering presence. The kid looked a bit lost at this point, somewhere between trying to keep up a prideful air and anxiously anticipating whatever came next.
What came next was a long, irritated sigh, followed by a grumbled, “Let the kid go.”
Corbeau stayed silent but was clearly shocked. The grunts were incredulous, hands still gripping the kid to keep him in the chair, as if he was going anywhere with all the duct tape and zip ties.
The grunt who had first come to deliver the news of the successful capture eventually managed to splutter out, “B-but boss! You’ve been trying to kick this rat’s ass for ages! And you’re just lettin’ him go?”
Silver eyes shone in a cold fury. “Are you questioning my decisions?” came his low growl. After all this shit, the last thing he needed was his team undermining him in front of the damn kid.
The grunts recoiled and relented, as they should. Mutters of “No boss, sorry boss, you’re the boss, boss,” and so forth.
Philippe nodded, then settled his focus back on Corbeau. “I’m not killing you today, kid. Keyword is today.” He got closer, looming over the brat to emphasize their difference in size. “But you’re gonna stay the hell out of our territory. You snipe another one of my deals and I can’t promise your bones remain intact.”
The kid opened his mouth, probably to protest once again that he didn’t know where the Syndicate’s territory was, but Philippe silenced him with a raised hand and a warning glare. “Western half of Northern Boulevard, plus Southern Boulevard between the river and Estival Avenue. Everything from those outer perimeters to the Plazas. Off limits for your scrawny ass. Got it?”
He was met with a nod, though he could see the calculations happening behind Corbeau’s eyes. Probably trying to figure out which of his contracts were worth risking fucking around in Rust Syndicate territory to salvage. “I don’t wanna bloody my knuckles on a kid, but I don’t make empty threats,” Philippe snarled. “Off. Fucking. Limits.”
The little shit looked like he finally got the picture. “Fine, I’m okay with that,” he muttered, gold eyes glittering with hatred.
Okay with that. As if Philippe was asking for the guy’s opinion. He knew that reacting was exactly what the kid wanted from him, though, and kept his expression steely and cold.
Philippe turned on his heel and started towards the door. “If I see you around here again, I’ll make sure it’s the last time,” he called over his shoulder. Corbeau didn’t respond. “Alright boys, get him out of here. Escort him to the territory borderline so he doesn’t stir up any more trouble on the way out.”
He left the room, trusting his grunts to follow orders and finding his way back upstairs to his office. Skarmory squawked joyfully at his return from her perch next to Philippe’s desk, and he gave her a reassuring head pat before walking over to the small window overlooking the primary alleyway entrance to the building. He saw the grunts cutting the kid’s wrist ties – no need for the general public to see anything like that from his crew – and watched curiously as a Venipede scuttled seemingly from nowhere and crawled its way up Corbeau’s back, perching on his shoulder. Philippe smirked in amusement. Something made sense about the little bastard’s partner Pokemon being a bug.
He waited for the grunts and Corbeau to clear the corner and leave his sight before striding back to his chair and dropping himself onto it, leaning his head back and letting out a tired sigh. One hand rested on his belly while the other absently stroked his beloved Skarmory’s head.
He hoped to never have to see the damn kid again.
Something told him that hope was futile.