Chapter Text
Ever since Corbeau’s been in charge, the Rust Syndicate goes hard.
A building shaped like a black stone monolith marks their home turf just north of Bleu Plaza. Past a pair of sneering black blazered grunts guarding the entrance one might meet Philippe, the heavyset executive with mutton chops trimmed and dyed to look like steel spikes. He and Skarmory won’t let anyone in without a fight — not that some don’t come prepared. And for those desperate few lies the plunge of a lifetime. There are no breezy upstairs offices for guests of the Syndicate. The elevator only goes down.
Down, beneath the streets of Lumiose City. Down under the Bleu District, where raw deals are forged and futures are razed. Where, as rumors claim, new recruits slice their tongues into forks and choke down shots of Venipede venom, and if they don’t flinch Corbeau bestows fist bumps and steak knives leftover from the last startup he slaughtered.
Monsieur Corbeau sits at an ornate bureau at the center of his mauve and jet-black battle lounge, guarded by a katana and a Kingambit statue with crystal eyes and blades sharp enough to fillet a man.
There’s a rhythm when he greets unwanted guests. When the doors rumble open, he shifts his shoulders. When he hears footsteps, he cocks his head so the beads of his eyeglass strap click. He always meets their eyes with his own — for courtesy’s sake. Eyeliner sells a fierce aura when they’re naturally amber, made fiery in the understated lighting.
There’s a sigh that morphs into a growl and the skrittch of fingernails across the grain.
And the greeting, in his calm and measured voice:
“So. I have visitors.”
“So. The riffraff wandered in.”
“Ciao. Good afternoon. How the hell do I know you, and why shouldn’t I make you bleed?”
(That third one he doesn’t use with kids, and it’s alarming how many of them are seeking his help these days.)
But Corbeau can’t hear a hologram’s footsteps. He can’t properly meet its eyes or be sure it hears him crack his neck. There’s no rhythm to the instant entrance. No heartbeat to the shimmering, blindingly pink illusion. And if there’s one thing rotten in Lumiose lately, it’s how many of these wraiths walk the streets. For some reason, people are losing the will to physically leave their homes.
Or maybe that’s just her, he thinks.
The walking nuisance whose hologram pops into his lounge without even sparing a glance at his monolith.
“Enchantée, Monsieur Corbeau of the Rust Syndicate!” comes her disembodied voice. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me? Madame Jacinthe, esteemed socialite and présidente of the Lumiose Society of Battle Connoisseurs?”
Corbeau says nothing. Doesn’t even move. His hands are clasped firmly on the desk before him, and he stares right through her toward where flesh-and-blood guests should be gleaming with sweat.
The pink wraith just keeps yapping.
“I have come via holo cast for one purpose! To invite you, a fellow high-ranking Pokémon trainer in the Z-A Royale, to my own spectacular private tournament! Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe! You see, as présidente of the SBC, I wish to see a world where Pokémon battles are both safe and stylish — the premiere entertainment of the privileged and weary masses. By hosting this tournament, I hope to unite people from all walks of life under the chandeliers of the Hotel Richissime…”
Are we losing our touch? Corbeau wonders, as Jacinthe’s massive, intangible ringlets sway around her. He wears a Key Stone on his lapel badge, for God’s sake. He’s outright said he’ll use his Rank A wish to grant the Syndicate a greater chokehold on this city… without saying “chokehold,” of course. Why is it now his badass secret lair’s been reduced to a hangout space?
“...Le Super-Tournoi simply cannot happen without your presence — and of course, Monsieur Philippe’s skill in handling Steel-type Pokémon is welcome as well! If you deny my invitation, not only would it shatter my heart into pieces, but it would deprive our beautiful city, nay, the world of what could’ve been the perfect display of the courtesy between people and Pokémon—”
“Enough!” Corbeau cuts her off, leaping to his feet and slamming both fists on the desk. “This is the Rust Syndicate! We don’t do courtesy! Where’s your real body? My people will find you and teach you a lesson for coming at me like this! I don’t know how your holo tech could even breach our security and let a frilly fairy princess like you down here!”
“Alors! But Corbeau, Monsieur Philippe said you were free tonight!”
“Philippe?”
Corbeau’s eyes shift to the Rotom phone idle on his desk. He snatches it up, but before he can even swipe his thumb across the screen, the elevator dings, and the big man marches in himself.
“You told this wraith I was ‘free tonight.’ What gives, Philippe? Did she put a spell on you? I hope you at least lent our best threats.”
Corbeau envies how much louder it is when Philippe cracks his neck. There’s a lot to envy about someone so naturally large, who doesn’t always have to shout or dip his words in venom to get respect. Philippe passes through the hologram without shivering and approaches the desk. He’s wearing a sideways grin.
“Well, it’s still your choice, boss. But it sounds like we’re invited to a party at the Hotel Richissime. Kind of an honor.”
A trademark vein starts to grow in Corbeau’s forehead. “A soirée? But what about my cookout in the sewers? I’d rather invite Jacinthe to that, whenever we’re having it.”
He eyes her shimmering shape as he says it. But if she flinches, it’s delayed by a poor connection. True, Corbeau is free tonight. He didn’t make plans, save for an ice cold shower and the sweetly smooth taste of his homebrewed umeshu in bed. And true, he and Philippe go way back — to the point they can almost read each other’s thoughts.
Could be fun, that sideways grin is saying. Watch things tip in your favor.
Corbeau relents. He throws back his head, hands diving deep in his pockets and a suave smirk stretching on his face.
“Hm. Alright. I’ll cut you a deal, Jacinthe. You get the Rust Syndicate by your side for two hours. That seems reasonable. I want a good, hot meal while I’m there, and if Philippe or I wins this tournament, I want the SBC out of Centrico Plaza for good. Your immaculate goons keep scaring kids off the battle court. I don’t like that.”
He’ll have one of his grunts stab a shed Arbok fang into her mattress either way. Gotta keep up appearances.
The wraith twirls in circles, her gloved hands clasped tight. “Oh, a deal is a deal! Magnifique! Truly, this evening shall turn out divine! I expect to see you both at eight o’clock sharp!”
With a flash and a chirp, she’s gone. Alone again, Corbeau looks to his bodyguard with not a further handsome hint at amusement.
“Well, I’d better go hike up my party pants.”
~N~
Noodz Nexus Discord code: BVKz8tTZfV
Cover art by YemDM
Published by scrivenernoodz on FFN and AO3 January 27, 2026. Thanks for reading! Don't repost.