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Post by Deleted on Oct 29, 2013 15:10:31 GMT -5
"Heed my words of wisdom NIKITA!" As usual, the man had gotten up at the crack of dawn. It had been so early that not even the birds were still safely tucked away in their warm nests and crannies. Waking up early was a bad habit of the forty-two year old. There was a reason why he woke up at such a god awful hour, but he was in denial of the reason. After feeding and nearly brushing the fur off of all of his feline Pokemon, he packed his things for work and headed out to his car.
A old rusty thing his vehicle was, it growled and gurgled whenever it was turned on. It wasn't uncommon for smoke to start rumbling underneath the hood. People suggested for the scientist to buy another car, he surely had the salary to do so, but he refused. He insisted that he'd only replace his vehicle when it's engine stopped running all together. "Mondays are always the best days." He commented as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was a long drive to the main base on the island, but hey he had worked hard in order to become a scientist and even come close to being in his brother's shadow.
A meow-like yawn erupted from under the man's brown work bag. A foot quickly moved forward to press down on the brake, and if he hadn't had a seat belt on, he'd probably end up through the windshield on the concrete pavement. The intruder just so happened to be the scientist's overweight Purugly. "Miss Tinkerbelle! What are you doing here? I thought I left you at home!" The scientist frowned, his eyes wide for the cat had scared the heck out of him.
Miss Tinkerbell, an awful name for a cat (but she seemed to like the name), simply looked at Desmond. "Dahling, you can't just leave your faithful assistant behind, right?" The feline asked, her yellow eyes seeming to be glittering with humor. The purple and white cat was only half right. Desmond would bring her to work on some days, but more often than not he'd leave her home to look after the other two cats and Sir George would take her place. Unfortunately, the Slowking had decided today was a fine time to take a break from the 'hard' work of being a assistant with psychic abilities.
Desmond groaned and glared at the cat, but the poor man always found it hard to look angry. It looked more like he was making some sort of comical face. Miss Tinkerbell only burst out laughing with mrrows of laughter. "Hey, don't laugh at me! I can be menancing when I want to be for your information, Miss Tinkerbell!" This only caused the cat to laugh even more. When Desmond realized that the cat wasn't going to take him serously he simply sighed once more and continued the drive towards the base.
An hour or so later, the pair had arrived at the labratory. The man had slipped on his lab coat, and he had even crafted a miniature labcoat for his assistant to wear for whenever when she accompanied him to work. "We have an appointment with a certain ah..uhh..." Desmond peeked into his coat pocket to catch a glimpse of the man's name. He had scribbed down the name just in case he forgot what it was. "Nikita Harris! We are meeting a Mr. Harris today. I think he wanted to talk about splices. Isn't that fascinating Miss Tinkerbell?" The man asked, a wide grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. The cat simply rolled her yellow eyes and preceded towards the labratory. Desmond held out a hand before saying, "Hold on a minute, we've got to wait for Mister Harris to show up first!" But the fat cat had already weasled her way in after another scientist into the labratory, ready to help and make suggestions as she always tried to do. made by CAPTAIN of GANGNAM STYLE
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Oct 30, 2013 0:58:54 GMT -5
It was not a car. Nothing bumped or rattled beneath its tiny hood. To be honest, made of sleek metal—with no hint of chrome—it reminded most people of a panther. The only break from monotous grey was a ebony label on the side; this particular vehicle was property of the police department. No smoke poured from its engine. Like Tinkerbelle, without any signs of obesity or wear, it purred like an excited kitten. When compared to his apartment, filled with busted pipes and cockroaches, it was likely worth more.
The trek to the subway, which quickly transported someone to the ferry onto the Pravus island, was only a ten minute drive. Walking, when one avoided deadly areas of town, would have taken at least three or four hours. Nikita, constantly being paged for some instance or another, had little time for relaxing strolls. He rarely went outside of his jurisdiction. The man was a rare sight within the Pravus-base itself—most people had no idea who he was (which was the point to heading a secret force). The man was never late for an appointment. He had actually not slept the night before; getting ready, a quick cold shower and a change of cold, were all he required.
Two Pokemon, who chose to remain in their balls for convenience (and old age), were along for the ride.
Nikita, being one of those who helped draft the recent helmet law, was hidden beneath a dark helmet. His jacket, made of faux-leather and heavily pocketed, blew wildly in the breeze. When compared with traffic jams in a car, a bike was a much more nimble creature. He never broke the rules—that would make him highly hypocritical. He managed to perfectly rest the needle on the exact speed limit; the Harris man had spent a lot of time trying to follow the rules.
That turn, a bit too sharp to be legal, left him parked outside a nondescript building. The boat ride was the worst part.
Fingers pulled his hair into a semblance of normalcy as he waited for the Pravus island to come into sight. The band around his finger, red in color, easily snapped into place. Wrinkles were pulled out of his dress shirt. Two eyes, one crimson and one the shade of the water beneath the boat, lifted as the Pravus tower came into view. That organization, once some annoying pest, had pieced his life back together. He owed them everything. A sharp whistle tore through the air. The dock bumped against the side of the boat. A single nod, curt and automatic, thanked the driver. The Houndoom, who looked green and likely to vomit, practically flew off the boat. The larger figure, a stately Chesnaught with a dazzling smile, came onto shore slowly. The rocks, slippery at best, held his gargantuan weight: “Takin’ it easy, are we Detective Winters? Just a wee bit of waves make ya like a pup; cept, where I come from, those ain’t quite so green.” Flames flashed between teeth. Gaston, the grass-type, just shrugged and went on his merry way; his belly laughter, warm and friendly, was hard to stay angry with. He would go buy his best mate some ginger before they left; it was just fun to poke and prod at him sometimes.. The old Houndoom, more grey than black, was mostly bark (all of his teeth were beginning to fall out).
Nikita did not take long to find Desmond. He had asked for a brief description of the scientist; the secretary, feeling a bit unnerved, had given one. The investigator—concerned that words might pressure that woman into revealing sensitive information—had filed a complaint. Regardless of how harmful her loose tongue might be, as such things sank ships, it proved invaluable in finding the scientist.
First to approach was the human: dressed in dark clothes with a white undershirt and socks. He stood a few inches in front of the Pokemon.
Second came the dog: Detective Winters, embarrassed over his earlier seasickness, looked ready to snap at someone. He fixed the Janovich with two steely eyes. Teeth peeked out beneath his thin lips. His whiskers stiffened. The tail, which usually gave a greeting wag, was stiff and unyielding.
Lastly, of course, came Gaston. He offered a large paw to Desmond as well. He was tempted to ruffle the poor man’s hair; that sort of behavior being looked down upon, at least in this context, stopped him from doing it.
The measured steps, militaristic in nature, came to a stop in front of the slightly larger man. Nikita gave the slightest bow in greeting. Glasses, slipping off a thrice-broken nose, were quickly adjusted. “Good evening, Mister Janovich. I am Nikita Harris; you may refer to me as ‘Harris’ or ‘Mister Harris’—nothing else, thank you.” He appraised this dark-haired man with a critical eye. Just once, as he doubted he needed anymore looks, the officer examined his body. It was a cautionary measure. No weapons presented themselves. Lanky fingers, arthritic in a few joints, was stiffly offered to Desmond. The master, who would think himself Nikita, spoke again. His lips were turned upward; it wasn’t a smile: “We are here to talk about an acquisition for the force, correct? A hybrid of some sort.” This was nothing more than business.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 1, 2013 11:35:04 GMT -5
"Heed my words of wisdom NIKITA!" First impressions were always the most important. Yet..
The man was clad in dark clothing, although classy and professional it made the man look as though he was about to attend the funeral. Next came the dog who looked as though he would sink his teeth into the scientist if given the option. I'd rather he did not. The man thought to himself as he hastily took a step back, his dark eyes observing quietly. For Arceus' sake, the dog wasn't even wagging its tail! Maybe this was why he was a cat person.
At least the second and last Pokemon seemed to have a better attitude. A soft hand came out to shake the beast's hand and a small smile made its way onto the man's lips in response. At least one of them was friendly! Clearing his throat and adjusting his lab coat Desmond looked back towards the man, Mister Harris, that had stepped forward. "A pleasure to meet you Mister Harris. It is a pleasure to have you here." Desmond didn't like formalities, but he felt as if he didn't talk as such the man, Mister Harris, would drive a blade into his arm or something. So he felt as though it was better to play it safe.
Desmond quickly nodded at the man's question. "Yes sir, did you have anything particular in mind?" He asked before gesturing with his hand to a room down the hall where they could sit and talk. The scientist began to walk down the clean tile-floored hallway, his lab coat was a size or two to big so it swished around him. "Do you work for the military or the police force?" He asked, that was something he needed to know. Usually the military typ asked for things that were largely powerful and wanted to combine them with something that would heighten their power.
The Police Force could ask for any of a variety of things, the types of splices that could be made was almost endless. There were too many different combinations to count. "Some people like to combine the DNA of their favorite Pokemon, but I personally would not recommend that." He thought it was a stupid idea. Oh you really like Pikachu and Zubat? Just combine them together and you'd have both at the same time! No, it was really dumb. If you were going to use splices, at least allow them to be useful and not some childish pet.
Desmond opened the door to the office and took up a seat behind the wooden desk. Rooms like these came in handy when you had appointments with people such as Mister Harris. "Would you like to have a seat Mister Harris?" He felt like a doctor talking in such a manner. Despite how he felt he continued to smile because as they always said if you keep smiling and thinking you were happy it would eventually become true.
He wasn't sure about that if one was talking to a stern-faced man like Nikita Harris.
made by CAPTAIN of GANGNAM STYLE
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Nov 8, 2013 23:59:38 GMT -5
(I apologize. I thought this post was like 400 words. Pretend it is.)
First impressions were important.
The degree of intimidation, as the willowy man lifted his mismatched eyes, was intended. The garb, purposely shadowy and dark, was made to convey a sense of foreboding. Sadly, with work likely to call, it was not as if he could change his clothes. People were much more likely to crumble in interrogation if you chose not to wear your pajamas. Behind those glasses, which were slowly lightening after their exposure to the sunlight, his eyes were a bit cold. The cat-lover could likely feel the assessment laid upon his shoulders. Some things he found came as a relief.
Yet, for all of the Janovich’s supposed intelligence, Nikita did not possess too much faith in Desmond. Nikita glanced around the laboratory; he saw no crumbs. It was a far different case in the Harris’ workplace—then again, for the most part, their work schedules differed. Tired men, and women, sometimes chose to snack in order to keep their eyes open The raven-haired man, peppered with grey, would have little idea what to do with a full night of sleep.
The Houndoom beside him, tail still stiff, wished he could find a stomach not trying out for gymnastics. His ears lay flat against his skull. Orange eyes peered up at Desmond. Little speckles of vomit, mostly cleaned off by his human “partner” still clung stubbornly in little dots and patches. The smell, heady and strong, did little to help his mood; the scent of cats, apparent on this seemingly harmless scientist, was mostly brushed aside. Disliking felines, just because his forefathers did, was stupid and a leftover from mindless instincts. That did not mean that the old mutt enjoyed the company of the quirky, sassy , and insufferable creatures.
When Desmond stepped away, soothing a bit of Detective Winter’s injured pride, the dog’s dangerous stance relaxed slightly. He nodded a greeting. His tail would not wag. He did not beg for human’s approval or ran around broadcasting his emotions; it was not as if man walked around with placards and waving pom-poms each time they felt an emotion.
The Chesnaught, named Gaston, ignored his master’s quiet noise of disapproval. The old Nikita would been irritated at how far a stick was shoved up his rectum by this point. The furry hand gently squeezed; he had to treat humans as most of them treated a kitten. His second limb, a bit lighter, gently padded the arm offered to him. When Nikita walked forward, hands cool on the grass-type’s fur, Gaston gave a final smile. Hopefully, with his presence, the scientist would not dissolve into a puddle.
The scientist had no need to worry about a knife; it was far easier for the dark-haired man to reach his gun or handcuffs. He inclined his head slowly in greeting. Fingers straightened the silver rims of his rectangular glasses. Little bits of dust were picked off of his clothing. Finally, with that same cold and professional smile, Nikita spoke: “It is a pleasure on my end as well, Mister Janovich. The Pokemon with me are Detective Winters and my own companion, Gaston.” The dog, hearing his name, briefly lifted orange eyes. The Chesnaught, close enough to touch, just squeezed the scientist’s shoulder. He wished he could tell Desmond, without scaring the egg-head, that his master was not a horrible person; then again, as of seven years ago, he would be lying. He did not think Desmond was in any danger—Nikita was just a grumpy-man now.
The question resulted in a pause.
The hallway , currently free of scientists, echoed with the steel-tips of his shoes as Nikita followed. Lapsing into silence, cool and thoughtful, he ponded on what the police force needed. The man saw little need for a hybrid; most of them were considered highly-illegal, likely unstable, and an experiment in murder. The budget called for it. A higher-up, after hearng of some complaints about resources, had pushed for such a thing. Like any loyal hound, with little planning of his own, Nikita did as told. The dark-haired man came to a conclusion of sorts—he had determined what would be somewhat useful. “We shall discuss that more in private, thank you.” It sounded like one of the infected had decided to put on the suit of a gentleman; Nikita was a bit paranoid about this area. He had arrested more than one scientist on charges of betrayal, selling to the enemy, and assisting terrorist plots.
Inquiries, something Nikita was used to putting forth, were a bit of a shock. He rarely went out of his way to face questions; part of his job was avoiding them. He paused for a moment. The Special Investigation Taskforce, made up of a mixture of the best attackers and detectives, straddled the line between the usual police force and something darker. “You may consider it a position straddling both; the creature would need to have benefits to both sides: investigation and forcing the submission of unruly targets.” The biggest issue had little to do with a missing gear. It was the fact that some of the cogs, especially those related to higher-ups, were a little rusted and chipped. They made rash decisions. They forgot important facts in a way that was best described as “blonde”.
The man thought to his favorite Pokemon. Many of them were either graceful or large-lumbering types. Red and blue eyes narrowed slightly in disapproval. He did not like it being implied that he would waste the force’s money on such frivolous things. When indicated that he could sit, and only then, Nikita allowed himself to fall into the embrace of the wooden chair. He hoped he did not expect him to stand for an elongated period---Nikita, for all of his strength, was a bit older. Sharp eyes moved around the room. There was some dust in the corners. He also saw what might have been fur across various pieces of fabric. “We need something that can aptly deal with the following: mutants with psychic-abilities and those who display something akin to what you see in ghosts.” While many of the ‘men’ were trained in warding off mental invasion, such as those conducted by a telepath, very few of them were adept at it. The mutants on the force, while strong, were stretched thin.
Mismatched eyes lifted toward Desmond with another request: “It should also be easily duplicated.”
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Post by Deleted on Dec 2, 2013 21:35:00 GMT -5
"Heed my words of wisdom NIKITA!" Desmond sat quietly behind the old wooden desk, his thoughts swirling around in that smart little brain of his. Something that was good for investigating, and forcing submission onto others and strong against psychic types and ghosts! Well, at least the man was specific, but specifics only made his job harder at times. "Okay, okay let's see.." The man thought for a moment as he wheeled around in the chair slowly and retrieved a file from a file cabinet.
For a brief moment, Desmond wondered why the detective couldn't find use in Detective Winters. Although judging from the dog's rude behavior, (Desmond was amazingly good at noticing the behavior pattern of Pokemon), the dog seemed to think he was human. Clearing his throat and glancing around the room nervously for the stone-faced man was rather intimidating, he pulled out a picture of a pokemon, a Mightyena. "First off, a mightyena, with their typical pack instincts would excel at invesitgating, searching and retrieving if trained properly. as for easily subduing attackers or pesky persons..." The man trailed off for a moment and received a few more files from different cabinets.
He revealed a picture of an Infernape. "I know it's an odd combinations, yet fusing a fighting type with such a skilled hunter could produce great results. Fighting type pokemon are very capable of landing powerful foes while still remaining agile and quick, unlike a splice if we were to fuse its DNA with a heavier creature such as a Nidoking. If this splice does not suit your tastes, we could try a different blend?"
Desmond honestly thought it was a great combination, he was the scientist here and knew quite a bit about pokemon behaviors. Although he had a feeling that Nikita would continue to be a grumpy man who never quite seemed to be happy about anything, along with his canine companion.
What a pair. made by CAPTAIN of GANGNAM STYLE
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Dec 14, 2013 4:30:56 GMT -5
Hiss! Serpentine coils of smoke rose into the air. Flame blossomed at the tip of a white stick. Gloves, made for riding his bike, had little issue gripping the slightly stale cigarette. A miniature ashtray, as Nikita was far from dirty, was pulled from a hidden pocket beside his holster. Ash, like some cancerous disease, slowly spread up the stick of nicotine.
The elder man, feeling the urge to sit, forced his back into a stiffened position. He was not weak and would not succumb to a chair. Keen eyes, especially with the aid of his glasses, saw what appeared to be feline hair strewed around the entire room. Pale lips, marred by a tiny scar in their corner, lifted in a sneer at the idea of weakness. At the chair. A moment later, vanishing in a puff of smoke, the expression returned to its cool criticism. “That would be wise, to begin work, Mister Janovich. The Citadel is far less . . civilized. .. than your workplace.” The laboratories, minus some shaking enclosures, seemed to be a quiet place. Nikita had not drug Nada Citadel from hell itself, a mere month or two ago, to lose it to a doddering beaker-pusher. “I am much obliged, Desmond.”
The hound seemed less content. He despised this place. It smelled of death, misery, discomfort and cruelty. While he kept mum on the topic many days, Winters had issues with the Pravus organizations. One day, when the Gods gave him the golden key, he would run through this entire building. Just how many of these uppity-bastards, safe in their ivory tower, broke laws without a batted eyelash? Desmond, muttering about his process, seemed unlikely to be one of those—owning too many cats was not a crime. To the old Houndoom, this seemed to be a pity. HE would not have minded cats being banned entirely; they were a nasty and sneaky bunch.
Those comments, asserting that he was not human, may have ended the evening with burned fabric; Desmond would have found his backside burnt. The Houndoom had spent years trudging his way to the top. He had fought, after his original holder’s death, any sense of leash. He was a partner ; the old dog was certainly not something to be used in a game of criminal fetch. He was far from a sledgehammer thrown at each and every pesky wall. While usually cantankerous, his age prevented him from playing many games and having some fun, Detective Winters felt ill. He would restrain from mauling the Janovich---as soon as his stomach stopped hurting.
In and out. The smoke moved toward the halogen lights; its dark shadows partially strangled the light away. Heterochromatic eyes lifted when the man spoke again. “Mightenya are also known for their abrasive temperamnts. We refrain from using them in most police-work. This beast would be intended as a weapon—it just needs to be easily controlled.” Many of his subordinates did not have the ability to train unruly animals; they were hired for their skills in investigations—not the ability to make Pyroar jump through hoops. “No more dogs—unless it’s a nice looking bitch.” The comment was met wit ha raised eyebrow. Nikita did not appreciate that particular piece of input.
The man walked forward until he reached the desk. Tight lips held the cigarette up against the roof of his mouth. He attempted to imagine an Infrenape with a Mightenya; the results seemed to be a gangly and disturbing beast. “Would the flames be obvious in your opinion; it seems dangerous to do an investigation with the accompaniment serving as a . . .nightlight.” The dark-haired man, while critical, was not angry. His curiosity was genuine. Lithe fingers began to pull through individual photographs with an occasional moment of pause.
“We could likely, if we pulled at the budget, fund two such experiments. “ The man moved into more specific instructions; it rarely helped a job when one beat around the proverbial foliage. “I would prefer one created to deal with psychic mutants. It can likely be a heavier hitter and more at home sneaking in shadows. Mayhap a Sableye?” Pausing for a moment, pondering the plight of ghost-type mutants, the invisible, and something to assist in detecting such things, Nikita continued.
“I will leave the latter up to you; it just needs to be easily concealed in the darkness.” He took a deep draught from his tiny cigarette. He, for the most part, allowed specialists to handle their own ideas and concerns. This man appears to be a thick-headed damn dolt, in some instances, such as now, he took a more proactive approach.
“How long do such things usually take? I have heard it’s between a month and two months—depending on the skill of those involved.” The package would be expected around Christmas. Nikita would be certain to check his mailbox --- next year.
A warmer voice, that of the Chesnaught, emerged. “I actually like that Infernape and Mightenya—sounds like a fun ole friend.” Gaston aimed to soothe the ego of the beleaguered scientist. Few people, outside of criminals, deserved prolong interaction with this version of his trainer.
“We’re not here for fun, Gaston.” The middle-aged man could not resist snapping at his eldest friend.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 26, 2013 18:54:30 GMT -5
"Heed my words of wisdom NIKITA!" Was there no way to please this individual?
One would think that with everything so specific, it would have been much easier to make a decision for the man. Yet with over six hundred different species of Pokemon and narrowing it down to maybe half of that number, it still did not help all that much. "Well.." The scientist spoke as he laced his fingers together and placed them gently on top of his desk. "I had suspected that the police force were quite knowledgeable in training their Pokemon, no matter the type, or species. If that particular pair does not suit your tastes.." He mused for a moment as he placed the files of the two Pokemon back into the case and pulled out a drawer labeled POISON, GHOST and DARK types.
Nikita wanted something that could be stealthy, quiet, intelligent, easy to train and powerful. The majority of powerful pokemon rested in the larger species, yet there were some exceptions. As he looked up at Gaston, Nikita's Chesnaught, it reminded him of a particular Pokemon that could come in handy. A soft hand removed the file for one of Kalos' fully evolved starter Pokemon, Greninja. Chocolate orbs looked up to meet the now smoking man's gaze. (He could have sworn that there was a No Smoking sign somewhere around the office, yet he would not dare challenge the steel-faced man.) "Greninja, the final evolution of Froakie, is a water and dark type Pokemon. It is quick and hits hard, and is dual typed water and dark Pokemon. Now.." He pulled out the file for Haunter, a sneaky ghost type Pokemon. "Haunter is a dual typed, Ghost Poison type Pokemon. It is good at sneaking around in the night, a prankster of sorts, but stealthy. With Greninja's Dark typing, it would eliminate the weakness to Psychic type even when spliced with Haunter." He explained as he placed the two files next to each other to show the man the 'proof' on each of the files.
If this didn't satisfy the man, he didn't know what would. When Desmond knew what he was talking about, he knew what he was talking about. He wasn't going to allow Elias to stay at the head of the department, or close to it, forever. "So you'll get your intelligent, easy to train, stealthy, fast-hitting Pokemon. All in one package. Does this suit your needs, Mister Harris?" He asked, looking back to the man as he sat in his chair opposite the desk.
How long did the process take? Desmond mused for a moment before speaking up, "A couple of weeks, depending on how well the DNA and other processes take. I'm sure you'd want your creature to be as close to perfection as possible, yes? And since you may have wanted two experiments, we could also splice another Greninja with a Sableye, Spirtomb or a Luxray in place of Greninja if you're looking for something that excels in seeing in the dark while retaining greater intelligence". So you would still get your stealthy, heavy hitter, but two Pokemon to deal with psychic mutants."
made by CAPTAIN of GANGNAM STYLE
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Dec 31, 2013 4:57:49 GMT -5
Nikita was certainly a picky individual. In truth, before he had lost everything he held dear, the raven-haired man had been far more lax. He would likely, with a chuckle, have taken the first thing offered—with a suggestion or two. Now, like a whip, he accepted little less than perfection; a single unanswered call had left his entire family dead. His men, and women, were quite aware of that; they likely would have sympathized with Desmond and his current struggle.
Nostrils flared slightly at the scientist’s implications. It was not Nikita. The Houndoom, ears lifting slightly, gave a show of yellowing teeth; inside his nose, flames flickering to life, he gave a show of heat. He truly disliked it being inplied that his pack were incompetent—no two-ton beast could make its approach silence. Body language gave away his show of displeasure; he relied on the basest form of communication when speaking with educated idiots. Detective Winters himself, who had trained hundreds of his own successors, truly disliked the criticism. “Hmph.” The dog gave a displeased snort when his orange eyes met the dual-colored ones of his partner.
Nikita on the other hand, feeling that Desmond would be quite grateful for the department’s expertise in keeping cats from furniture, gave a thin-lipped smile. “Quite.” The word had nothing to accompany it aside from the slightest lowering of ebony lashes. “You will likely find our training regimen a bit severe—it will not solve issues of physics and body-shape however.” A six-foot tall Pokemon, if it could not pass through walls, would remain that way—what the job required would matter little. A variety of information about the drawer became apparent as it was opened. Keen eyes counted the files—and what looked to be recently moved—it was hard for the investigator to let little details slide part. “Thank you for your continuing cooperation, Janovich.” He had the tiniest feeling, seeing the hair upon the area and the state of the filing cabinet, that this project might end up corrupted.
Nikita Harris had little faith in those like Desmond. Regardless, as this had been the scientist handed to him by those above, the officer would allow him to do his job. He saw the name upon the file and was pleasantly surprised; his lips moved downward.
The Chesnaught watched the drawer with fascination. He saw a flash of blue and pink; it reminded him of his homeland. While he had been given away here in Remoor, many years ago, he had spent the first few days of his life in Kalos. The grass-type had battled things such as those in that picture. Giving a nod, feeling Desmond was on the right track, regardless of how vague his master had been, Gaston attempted to encourage him. Instead, the acrid scent of nicotine flooding sensitive nostrils, the large beast broke into a series of coughs.
“Hm.” Nikita gave a noise beneath his cigarette. Finally, dark eyes lighting up, he allowed his lips to pull up into a wolfish smirk. He had seen both Pokemon in action—it would be a useful combination. Greninja were known for grace, speed, and fighting ability. Haunter could easily infiltrate all but the most secure of criminal hideouts. The man before him, while seemingly dimmed, had slightly redeemed himself. The shaking left foot, crossed upon his right leg, stopped. “Quite.” He gave a solitary nod. “I am much obliged Mister Janovich---it is a satisfactory solution in this conundrum.” Lifting his head slightly, allowing ashes a moment to stabilize on the tip of the tube, the head of the SIF closed his eyes.
He did not seem overly pleased with the time frame; it mattered little—he understood why such a process took so long. Nikita never arrived a meeting without some amount of research on the subject at hand. Debating for a moment, envisioning the uses for such a beast, he came to a simple and curt conclusion. “I would much prefer the Luxray—it allows for another typing and a specific sort of arsenal.” While poison may work to loosen some tongues, or destroy some buildings, electrical damage was far easier to explain.
“. . . ugh, a cat. We shall go to it if criminals want some damn hairballs upon their heads.” Winters, with that irritable remark, seemed to be feeling a bit more up to his task as deputy and officer. He truly wished there was a crime for adoring felines.
Nikita paused and began to dig inside his wallet. He pulled from within, with a gentle tug, a folded up check. Offering it to Desmond, giving a moment to read, he quickly stated: “That is half the amount agreed upon.” The rest would be given upon completion—the officer was far from easily hoodwinked.
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