[attr="class","spiral"]Tonight is no different from any other night. Fernando gives up stomaching another hour of work when it involves having to reach out to someone else. Having to rely on them, much less wait on them, kills his spirit. The solution is to kill his night the same way he always does: a night in some random Lilycove bar, drinking whatever the special is, or whatever the bartender recommends, while watching whatever HNN special plays on TV.

“…”

His eyes settle onto someone he doesn’t recognize. Not that he recognizes everyone who walks past Kaledioscope’s doors, but rarely do they have a Pokemon in accompaniment, much less a Solrock.

Interesting.

Couldn’t be him, not with something so bulky and conspicuous, but to each their own.






Friday nights are always the slowest. Why? He couldn’t tell you but he’d have to guess that Kaledioscope appeals to a lowkey, chill break room type of pub. Anyone caught on a Friday night is bound to be somewhere more uplifting, living up the end of the week with a round of shots before delving into a night of debauchery. That’s why this quaint little pub grows on him.

Only four other patrons remain. Among them, Fernando turns in early, sitting at the bar counter, nursing a well condensed bottle of Hoongie. A battle from Kalos’ Ultraball Cup comes to a conclusion and the Councilman shakes his head in resignation.

“Damn.”

His choice in victor loses and, as per tradition, he buys everyone a round of their choice. It’s more of his punishment for losing against the bartender than anything else, but those who’ve caught him during Battle Season know the tradition well. As one of the newer patrons, the bartender eventually call out to Lulu she can get whatever she wants.

“Silphy upped and lost again. Let us know when you’re ready, hun. Drinks on rich boy,” he shouts, pointing at Fernando hanging head as he lives through being humiliated once more.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Tch.”

Their jeering ends after they’ve had their fun at his expense. A recap of the battle buzzes loudly from the television as commentators speculate about next week’s match.

“Don’t get used to it,” Fernando grumbles before killing what’s left of his beer. A good half a bottle causes him to gasp once its down his gullet and he taps the empty bottle against the counter, a request for another. “Second loss all season. It won’t happen a third.”

The overall lack of people means they get the barkeep attention quick. “Give me whatever she’s getting as well,” he says, eyeing her Solrock with his peripheral vision.

“Two rounds though.”

Newbies always get another round. It’s a quick check to her tolerance and his way of welcoming another patron.

[attr="class","spiral"]“Best way to learn other drinks.”

Fernando watches the bartender prepare the drink, keeping an eye on what type of bottle he grabs and where he grabs it from. Something readily accessible means it’s something common and nothing fancy. Having to look for it, or reach a high shelf, or behind another bottle, implies it’s something he’s not used to.

“Actually, get me a beer too,” Fernando adds in once he sees the shot.

Four shots are divided between the two of them. Silph doesn’t make a move until he has his beer, a suitable chaser should the alcohol prove too potent.

“One to test, and prepare myself,” he says, grabbing the first shot. “The second to enjoy and see if I like it.” The second one fills his other hand.

He waits for her so they can kill them at the same time.

[attr="class","spiral"]"Uh huh."

He sounds like he understands, as if he'll follow through with the motions, but his actions say otherwise. He still waits for her, watching her leave him, if only for a moment, before she comes back. When she diverts her attention to the television, he squanders the shot, taking it in stride and regretting it soon after. Hence the beer. Fernando's tolerance in holding liquor might last with the best of him but his tolerance for their bite is something else. The way he swallows the first few gulps is short of washing his mouth out.

"Not normally," the bartender answers. He takes a look around before setting his gaze at Fernando, the only other person between them. Silph shrugs, allowing the bartender to give her the clear. "But ain't no one going to put up a fuss. Have at it."

[attr="class","spiral"]"Tch."

Fantasy Pokemon Battling hurts more because he knows who should've have won. On paper, the match was a sure thing, but execution relies solely in the hand of someone else. Whether it be nerves or just an inconsistent day, that miniscule margin of error is enough to kill his win streak and ruin his lineup for the next two weeks.

"You can hope but I wouldn't bet against me."

He taps what's left of his beer bottle against her glass in a makeshift cheer before giving it a go and turning his attention back to the television. "Silph. Fernando Silph." As if someone in Hoenn didn't already know the esteemed Councilman and Silph Co. CEO.

It breaks to commercial and ads play for last minute Christmas Shoppers.

[attr="class","spiral"]"Not that rich." Just enough to be disgusted by the shamelessness of the adverts flickering on the screen. Shopping for him is a different ball game, a menial task better left for someone who's time is worth pennies on the dollar compared to someone as pompous as him. "Just sort of, kind of."

Drinking habits demand more but discipline staves off incessant urges. Let time take its toll and if he doesn't feel so much as a sweat in ten or so minutes he's good for another blast.

"Aw shite," self-imposed regret enunciates through the bartender's exclamation when he recognizes the silent request. He fumbles behind the bar on the off-chance that there's an ash tray somewhere— he's sworn he's seen it once before, but gives up when his search ends up as fruitless as his actual care. This time, he shrugs, settling on the only real solution present.

"The type of rich that still bums cigs," he sneaks in after he catches the little exchange. Traditionally, Silph never smokes unless he's gambling or he's in deep shit but there are always exceptions. Seeing someone else partake kick starts an envy that itches at him to join in. At first, he ignores it, but the downswing of his mood makes it all too hard to pass up. Only problem is he didn't bring jack shit.

"You mind?"

[attr="class","spiral"]"Appreciated."

Beggars can't be choosers. It's less about the brand and moreso that he has to navigate using matches. Feelings the smooth surface of a lighter, even a dinky disposable one, is a good part of the experience. At least it feels like it when Fernando's been spoiled with polished silver and a perfectly grooved flint wheel.

Running the match brings a different type of satisfaction and he lights his with a promptness that's more happy to be done with it more than anything else. He lets the cig sit between his fingers, untouched, before sneering. "Next week, I won't lose, Lulu. Bet on that," is the last thing he has to say before indulging.

Pink pixie dust replaces the grey carbon he inhales. It's no MISTY TERRAIN but the avatar's innate anatomy shows in more ways than one. It makes him smell like a gaudy candle. The ones labeled vanilla but oversaturated with pecha and last minute valentine flowers.