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There's nowhere left to run.
No energy, no space, back to the cracked gritty wall and boxed in by the end of it all. Meaty shackle to his throat. He's lucky he's allowed to breathe.
Philippe, colossus, unforgiving. Shining metal in his eyes and cladding his fist, polished and raised. The last thing Corbeau will ever see.
His reflection in the knuckleduster has distortedly large eyes. Wide frightened amber on stainless steel, whites blending in with his bloodless face.
The fist draws back with the weight of the inevitable tide. Corbeau slams his eyes shut and drags his best friend to the front of his mind. Venipede fought so hard for his sake. The last grace he can give her is let her occupy his final moments.
The fist around his throat tenses. Here it comes—
Flicker of wind. The smash of bone—a violent flinch—
Face... intact?
He's alive.
Nothing even hurts.
Corbeau pries his eyes open. They're dry. No blood to blind him, to squeeze from his lashes before he can squint. Only Philippe, arm's length away. Grey irises flashing with malice, nostrils flaring, teeth set to make diamonds from coal.
The sleeve of his dark hoodie tickles Corbeau's ringing ear.
In the silence, there's nothing but their breaths—the rapid flutters of Corbeau's chest, thrice as fast as Philippe's heavy, furious strokes.
If he moved he would die. If he moved, he would die. It was that simple. If he moved—
Philippe's metal knuckles tear out of the wall. Crumbling concrete dusts Corbeau's shoulder like white powdered sugar, and his neck is released from bondage.
"Go."
He can't believe his ears.
"What?" he scrapes.
"Leave," Philippe snarls, rage weltering through every seam of him. "We're done here. This never happened, understand?"
He does not.
Their rivalry was meant to end only when one of them died. This violated every part of that. He wouldn't believe that Philippe could miss at point blank, at a target he only ever wished to greet relentlessly.
Corbeau tenses. Philippe doesn't budge. Not a step away, nor a gesture towards the door, nor a single loosening of a single muscle. Iron-grey eyes nailing him to the wall. Daring him to move as he was told.
Corbeau edges away as if trying to merge with his own shadow. Cracks snag at his sweater, wearing out fabric he can't afford to ruin.
Philippe's neck is the only thing that moves, turning his squarish head on a slow hinge scanning smoothly Corbeau's every step. Tracking him with all of a Skarmory's razor-righteous hunger.
But none of the snap of the beak.
He doesn't stick around to find out why he's still alive.
He scrambles for Venipede's ball, scoops her to his chest, and doesn't stop running until his body can't withstand another step.
Philippe's in trouble.
Big fucking trouble.
Blindfolded. Gagged on something too tough to bite through. Lashed to a chair with enough knots to subdue a Garchomp, team fainted, surrounded by enemies in a dilapidated maze of a factory long overdue for demolition.
Whatever future wrecking ball finally hits this place will rain rubble down over his bones. He can't see anybody here caring enough to bury his body under green, growing grass.
A fitting end for a brute like himself. Can't really complain when this is exactly the life he's worked so hard to achieve. Blood traded for blood. Everything has a price, and everyone's gotta pay. Straightforward life, fair and unforgiving.
There's a strange peace in knowing there'll be no more debts after this.
The ropes around his wrists twitch.
Someone's there.
Philippe jolts and snatches blind with what little he can move—snags something spindly and holds it painfully fast, breathing heavy around his gag.
The silent gasp of pain from behind his head is all too familiar.
His throat goes dry.
He releases the wrist.
A pause where he lives his whole life.
The tugging resumes. The swift sawing of a knife, a frantic whisper. Philippe hauls a desert from his mouth down his throat, and prays that no guard turns their back to notice how still he's become.
His knotted bonds weaken enough that he could rip himself free. Holds perfectly still instead. Hopes the lack of fight in his fingers spells enough of an apology to count.
The rope slithers free and doesn't touch the ground. Gag loosened, silently spat to dangle around his neck.
The fingers that tug his blindfold to his forehead are nimble, small, and cold.
The presence presses the creaky folding chair more firmly to the ground. It makes no sound as he quietly rises, stiff as a ghost.
Turns around, heart in his throat.
Yellow eyes.
Finger to lips.
He follows without a word.
Corbeau moves through the maze like he was born into clutter and darkness. Philippe sticks close, matching a risky pace that sets his heart into overdrive with every step. He's too large, too heavy for stealth—or so he thought.
He stops when his little shadow signals him to stop. Moves when it tells him to move. Wonders the whole time what the hell he's done to deserve a second chance at this life that's exactly what he deserves.
Enraged, distant screaming echoes through concrete and rebar as Corbeau beckons him through a half-collapsed hole in the warehouse wall.
The instant the cool night kisses his face, Philippe snatches the runt over his shoulder and takes off running. The kid weighs hardly nothing as he bounces and flails and whacks Philippe's head with his jackknife elbow. Accident or not, he neither knows nor cares. Doesn't happen a second time either way.
Industrial district still. Old steel mill made a nest for dangerous pokémon who feast on the long-cold slag. Philippe knows how to avoid and deal with them. Kindred spirits in stubbornness, and what constitutes respect.
At this hour, he knows they're all asleep.
He dumps the brat onto his ass once he knows they won't be found, heaving for air and feeling every inch as alive as he almost wasn't.
"You're fucking crazy, kid," he wheezes at his ground-bound savior. "Could've gotten yourself killed, the hell were you thinking busting in there alone?"
A piercing yellow gaze tries to stab him from below. It glances off him as a knife would Steelix hide.
"How'd you even know where I was? You been following me around? Never fuckin' asked you to stick your neck out for me—it'd suit you way better if they'd beat me to death and left the stage all yours to take over. You crazy fucking bastard. Nearly threw your fucking life away for no good reason—"
Corbeau thrusts something towards him. Philippe vanishes back a step as if Corbeau pulled a knife— as if this scrawny brat could possibly injure him— and with what?
A filthy handkerchief. One hem unraveled, stained in a corner by God-knows-what.
Philippe suddenly feels every sting and bruise tightening his hot, sweaty face.
He almost hears the steam hissing from his joints. Dials easing from red more yellow.
Nothing here worth blowing up for. Even if it's fucking crazy that anybody would risk their life to save him, he can't ignore the efforts spent.
Philippe sighs deep. Reaches past the scrap to grasp the kid's wrist and haul them to their feet. Light as a Rookidee's wing. Corbeau shoves the threadbare hankie in his palm when he lets go, and he takes it.
"Thanks," he drops like a gentle kettlebell, and brings the rag to his crusty, bleeding forehead. Less swollen than he thought, but more than he'd hoped.
"For what?" Corbeau prods.
"Whatever you wanna think I'm thanking you for. Never asked for your help in the first place, brat."
So much for diplomacy.
"Didn't have to ask when I knew you needed it anyway," Corbeau snorts. "Now we're even."
Even? His brow deepens while he wipes more blood from it. He's not once done this brat any favors worth repaying.
"Don't worry about it," Corbeau calmly dismisses, like it never would've mattered if Philippe understood him or not. "Just give me that back sometime, okay? Then you won't owe me, either."
When Philippe lowers the bloodstained rag from his face, only dust motes dancing in the moonlight remain.
Typical flighty brat.
Philippe folds and pockets the handkerchief like it's made of cobwebs and lace. His body's really feeling everything that it went through. Face hurts. Wrists hurt. Everything hurts. He's gotta heal his team, patch himself up, and muster his forces for a counterattack tomorrow. And now he's got this scrap to wash, plus a new one to buy. Heavy cotton. No tears, each hem intact. He'll say he lost the old one, but this one here should make a decent replacement.
Small price to pay for his life remaining his.
"I know you're still listening," he says at large, voice disappearing into the dark corners and empty spaces surrounding.
Silence echoes back.
"Come find me later," he says from his gut. "I really do owe you. Doubt I'd be alive right now if not for you."
He can sense there's still more to say and be heard. Philippe licks his lips, loosens his fists, and begins the least he can to shave a sad hair off this latest debt.
"If nothing else... consider yourself safe from me, kid."
Anything further is pointless. He knows he's finally alone, amidst toppled crucibles and rusted chains and floor mosaics of slag and shattered glass.
He's got half a mind to let Lairon out, in case the familiar surroundings wake him up.
Best to let him rest. He and Skarmory and Onix worked hard trying to keep him safe. They'll be ecstatic to see he really is. Beaten up, but intact and breathing
It's a long walk back to find the nearest Center, which is a lot of time to think about what it means for him that he's still here.
Corbeau, that little maniac... This just might be the most strategic move the bastard has made yet.
If one thing's certain, it's that Philippe will refuse to let himself rest until he's wiped out all that he owes.