“Let folly be our cloak, a veil before the eyes of the Enemy.”
It happened overnight. One day, just seeing a capital R in bright red was cause for concern. The next, you couldn’t turn your head in Goldenrod City without catching sight of the emblem. Trendy teens stuck R stickers on every flat surface they could reach. Young adults were actually wearing the symbol in broad daylight like it was nothing, meant nothing.
A viral street interview posted on Joltiktok tried to get to the heart of the matter:
“Jessie and James are my parents,” said a college-age student wearing a distressed R T-shirt. “At least, I wish they were. Can they adopt me?”
“They’re gay icons! I wish I could pull off those outfits.”
“Prepare for trouble! And make that double!”
“Team Rocket is just so relatable. Exhausted young adults who keep screwing things up…they can’t make ends meet…always looking for their next meal…sorry, who were we talking about again?”
Archer must have watched the video six times, his face growing a darker shade of red on each rewatch. These people were making a mockery of Team Rocket, his Team Rocket: a noble organization that deserved their fear and respect. Archer could tell he was stewing because he had not one sip of his coffee, but he couldn’t sit still. He dropped his phone, stood up, paced the perimeter of his office, then sank back down into his swivel chair and watched the video again.
“They’re the best part of the TV show for sure.”
The television show. Was that what had started this incessant misrepresentation? Archer swiped out of Joltiktok and opened up the search engine to type in “Jessie and James Team Rocket.”
He was horrified. They were two absolute imbeciles parading around in the uniform, constantly bested by a tiny rat and its ten-year-old trainer. He watched a compilation of moments when the James character got his head stuck in his own Victreebel.
With a growl, Archer shot up from his desk again, pulled on his jacket, and left his office. Something had to be done about this.
Archer knew he would have pull with the studio in Goldenrod, where this abomination was being filmed. His boss, Giovanni, had often had to meddle in the affairs of the silver screens for both optics and profit. All he had to do was namedrop Giovanni himself, and those execs would shrivel up like a dehydrated Sunflora. On the train, Archer practiced exactly what he’d say, silently mouthing the words to himself: I don’t think our mutual friend would appreciate how you’ve chosen to illustrate us. I have some rewrites to suggest. We don’t have to involve Giovanni; just fire the pink- and purple-haired actors. Oh, and that damn Meowth.
Archer would wrap this up quickly, before Giovanni would even know there was a problem. Finally, Archer would prove his worth, as a man who was always several steps ahead. No longer the lost Houndour that Giovanni had found on the street, but a full-fledged, imposing, proficient Houndoom.
Archer felt fairly confident as he strolled up to the studio lobby. Before he went inside, he straightened out, pushed his shoulders back, and adopted the sneer he wore every time he took care of business. With a measured breath, he pushed the door open and walked inside. He got about halfway through the door frame when he froze.
There at reception, perfectly dressed as always, stood his boss Giovanni. He was casually leaning against the desk, charming smirk turned towards the receptionist. Beside him was the red-haired rascal himself: Giovanni’s spoiled son Silver. Silver clung to his father’s leg and looked around expectantly. He saw Archer first, and yelled about it.
“MISTER ARCHER!”
Giovanni stopped mid-sentence to look at his son. He followed where his son was pointing, and then Archer was the victim of the gazes of both father and son. As well as the rest of the lobby, what with the yelling and all. His face burned hot, like he’d just been placed directly underneath a lamp. He took off his jacket to avoid boiling under the scrutiny.
Giovanni only smiled, excused himself from the receptionist, and strolled to meet Archer, Silver in tow.
“Funny seeing you here,” he said, almost amused. “Do you have an audition, Archer? Something I should know about?”
Archer flushed. “Nothing of the sort, boss. Why would you think that?” He looked around before he proceeded, but everyone in the lobby had already gone back to their business. “I’m here to put a stop to that awful charade they’re filming. They’re making a mockery of us, sir.”
“And?”
“And it’s embarrassing!” Archer nearly shouted.
“No,” Giovanni countered, “it is convenient. Especially for you in this moment, I should say.”
“Sir?”
Giovanni nodded in his direction. For a moment Archer didn’t know what it meant. He looked down at himself, and it all became clear: he was still in uniform. The color drained from his skin.
“S-sir, I’m sorry, I came here right from the office. I have an emergency change of clothes, I can go put them on as soon as I locate the facilities–”
Giovanni placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know why no one has reported you to the authorities yet, Archer?”
Before Archer could answer, a woman who had just entered the lobby walked up to him. “I love your cosplay, sir! Prepare for trouble!”
Realization was slowly dawning on Archer, too slow to allow him to stammer out any kind of coherent response. While he struggled to find the words, the kid took charge.
“And make it double!” shouted Silver. He high-fived the woman, who, satisfied, went on her way.
“They think you are a fan of the show at best,” said Giovanni. “And a feckless punk at worst. If that is not convenient, then I do not know what is.”
Archer felt like he was going to be sick. “So you’re…okay with this?”
“Okay with it?” asked Giovanni. “Hell, I wish I’d thought of it. It’s brilliant. Now are you going on this studio tour with us, or are you going to pose for fan photos here in the lobby?”
Silver was already tugging his dad in the direction of the nearest soundstage. Archer, still several steps behind, weighed all of the information he had just received. Then he scrambled after his boss like the lost Houndour he was.
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