If asked, she would claim she accepted only on the basis of a meal free of charge.

Crime, as the old saying goes, does not pay, after all, her dog's work for humanity's personified filth hardly keeping her belly full and her head shielded from the rain. A burger – no strings attached – would be a welcome gift, loathe as she is been to admit it. Dinner at one of Hoenn's most esteemed restaurants, which wasn't to say anything of the ludicrous price tag it came with is something that a beggar wouldn't dare to ask for. That she's being offered it now, so suddenly, without preamble or explanation is like something out of a dream (or, at the very least, a very poorly constructed romance film plot).

It is precisely because it's like something out of a dream, however, that she does not trust it for a single moment. Strange men offering wining and dining at the Chama Noodlina without so much as a “why” screams of fraud, the only missing nail in the coffin that he failed to pry for further information in his extended invitation. Bank name, home address, credit card numbers. The fact that he has managed to get into contact with her at all is something of a mystery. There are simply too many hoops for a simple scammer to bother trying to jump through when the elderly could be swindled for more with far less effort; she's been singled out, no doubt, but for what purpose, Lorelei can't begin to fathom. Because she's Rocket? Perhaps – but unlikely. There are far more influential poster children to make a bloody symbol out of, even if she, herself is no stranger to innocent blood on her hands. Because of her attachment to Nikolai? A better bet, but a shaky one at best. Only fellow members of Rocket know about that attachment at all, and certainly not the full extent of her devotion. No one has seemed bothered by it enough to do anything about it so far. By now, she's assumed the prime time to take any method of revenge has already passed.

That means that the only way to know for certain is to take the bait. Call it overconfidence – call it nonchalance toward death – but she does not fear.

The woman is clearly under-dressed, sporting not even the most lavish articles of clothing in her closet when taking her first steps into a building that had no business being carved entirely out of high priced stone. Even attempting to “dress to the nines” would have made her look out of place, she supposes. Simply thinking about the bill at the end of a night here would reduce any lower man's brain to mush. She's grateful, at least, that the waiter is swift to stifle the look of appall that crosses his features, and even swifter to lead her through a tangle of dazzling décor and Lilycove's richest at the mere mention of the name on their reservation. Red velvet curtains and all greet her at her destination: but to a man named “Silph”, this entire debacle must be little more than pocket change.

“Mr. Silph.” It's not a question. There is no doubt of who sits before her now, teasing a glass of what looks to be wine. No, no, the doubt lies in everything else regarding this meal-out-of-the-blue. Lorelei doesn't like to waste time. She hasn't even sat down when she asks (demands), “Care to explain?”


FERNANDO SILPH

He explains. Quite thoroughly, in fact. Just not what Lorelei wants to hear.

It's hard to tell if he's simply skirting the obvious, biding his time before playing his cards behind a metaphorical wall of tauros meat and a literal one of velvet, or if he'd really believed that this was what she had meant. For as fond as she was of placing “big words” in her vernacular and weaving together sentences she believed to sound eloquent (modeled after a character she'd admired in her youth, unstoppable, powerful, vile, and every bit the villain), the Rocket was laughably terrible at reading a face or the intentions locked away behind it. Unsure of whether to immediately press her point or not, though, she finally takes her seat, icy stare never flickering away from his face as she settles neatly into place.

The explanation, fortunately, is not without its merits. She certainly wouldn't have understood at least the bit about flipping over her card.

“Did you memorize the information pamphlet ahead of time just for me?” More likely, this wasn't his first time dining here, alone or in the company of someone else. Still, Lorelei is frustrated, and she'll deadpan barbs as long as she'd like until the sting of it goes away – or until Mr. Silph decides to open his mouth to say something worthwhile. Whichever comes first. “I do wish I could say I was impressed.”


FERNANDO SILPH