Team Rocket Grunt- Javier

The last Team Rocket safehouse fell at 3:42 AM on a Tuesday.

You know because you were watching the news through the cracked window of a Celadon City motel, bare feet kicked up on a stained duffle bag while your stolen Houndoom gnawed on the bedpost. The Pokegear's fuzzy screen showed officers storming what used to be your mess hall, Giovanni's private jet already a speck in the sky. No evacuation orders for low-level grunts. No severance packages. Just your face on wanted posters and a half-feral Dark-type you'd been assigned three months prior who now whined pitifully every time it rained.

Houndoom's teeth splintered wood near your thigh.

"Quit it," you muttered, frustrated and scared. Your hands were shaking, you didn't know what you were going to do now. You had no home to return to, Team Rocket was your entire life. He didn't move. Just stared with eyes that reflected the exit sign's red glow too brightly.

Route 7 smelled like diesel and wet concrete when you slunk out before dawn. Houndoom's claws clicked against pavement in that uneven rhythm he'd developed after the Growlithe attack, left paw always dragging a half-second behind. You'd stolen hyper potions from a PokéMart last week, but the burns along his ribs still glowed yellow when he overused Fire Fang.

"Keep up," you hissed when his panting grew too loud.

A siren wailed in the distance. Houndoom's entire body locked up, smoke curling from his nostrils as his tail hid between his legs. The scars on his muzzle, four parallel slashes from some battle you weren't there for, stood out stark white. You grabbed his collar and dragged him through the alley and into a gas station. The clerk screamed when you entered. Houndoom's answering growl made him stumble back.

"Easy money," you coaxed, scratching behind his horn the way he liked. "Just like before. Same as before."

Except Team Rocket training never covered how your partner might start hyperventilating at the vending machine's hum, or how his claws left scorch marks on linoleum when the lighs flickered. While the cashier tossed snacks at you with shaking hands, Houndoom vomited between the aisles. He looked sick and not just from fear.

"Moomoo Milk," you realized, looking at an empty plastic bottle in the bag as you stuff the snacks on top. "That raid on the dairy farm.." So, Houndoom is lactose intolerance. Good to know.

Petrel found you at the old Power Plant. Moonlight turned the Admin's mohawk silver as he stepped from the shadows, a Weezing coughing poison at his heels. Houndoom was on him before you could blink, not attacking, just... vibrating, excited and happy, claws scrabbling against concrete as his entire body wagged.

"Weak," Petrel sneered, nudging the Dark-type away with his boot. "Just like your trainer." Something in Houndoom's spine straightened. The Dark Pulse hit Weezing so hard, it fell to the ground.

"You little- !"

Petrel's switchblade missed you by inches thanks to the smoke screen Houndoom provided, dense, acrid stuff that stung like tear gas. You ran until your lungs burned, collapsing behind a dumpster where your partner immediately began licking your fingers. His tail thumped softly when you didn't push him away.

Houndoom sneezed embers onto your stolen motorcycle handlebars, swaying dangerously as the car sickness hit him. You weren't much better, leaning against his flank as Vermilion City's lights blurred past, hiccuping about how the stars looked like a Jigglypuff's eyes.

When you finally park in a dark clearing in the woods, you lie down in the grass.

"D'you think Giovanni misses us?" you slurred, half-asleep. Houndoom exhaled a smoke ring that vaguely resembled your old boss's face before passing out atop your stolen jacket. You followed suit.

The smell hit you first—charred meat and too-sweet cologne, something chemical underneath.

Houndoom’s ears pricked before you saw the figure slouched against the abandoned Route 17 toll booth. A familiar tattered bandana flapped in the wind, tied around a wrist that had definitely broken yours in a sparring match three years ago.

"Javier," you exhaled, and the man turned, revealing a Feraligatr missing half its tail curled protectively around his legs. The Water-type’s pupils were pinpricks, tracking Houndoom like fresh prey. Javier’s grin was all yellowed teeth. "You're still alive?"

Houndoom bared his fangs in something that wasn’t quite a snarl. Feraligatr rumbled low in its throat. Javier tossed you a dented flask—still full, somehow. The liquor inside tasted like battery acid and nostalgia. "Saw the posters. They’ve got your eyes all wrong."

Behind you, Houndoom snorted a puff of smoke. You didn’t ask where Javier had been. He didn’t ask why your hands shook. The flask passed between you until the moon hung high and heavy over the trees, until Feraligatr stopped bristling every time Houndoom’s tail twitched, until the four of you were just another constellation of cast-off things—broken, but living.

"So," Javier mumbles, stretching his legs across Feraligatr’s scarred back. "You wanna rob a PokéMart or what? I'm starving."