[attr="class","spiral"]Now that’s a change of pace. Whether the liquor is expensive or not doesn’t matter. They all taste the same, more or less, some notably smoother but the nuances are wasted on someone with a dilated taste like Fernando. But it’s the from where Hartigan grabs the bottle that highlights the audacity of her actions.

“Tch.” Fernando flexes his finger against the empty can, tapping each one with a rhythmic pang. “You don’t have to dress to impress.”

Two shots sit in front of him and totaling his previous mistakes, that puts him well into a bad territory— bad for work hours, mind you. Only the need to grasp his own ego allows him to indulge in succumbing to her dare, silently mouthing off his own thanks as he wastes it away in a single gulp.

“But you do impress.”

[attr="class","spiral"]Fernando flounders behind her, praying or her to absolve her own crimes with patience or interruption. They don’t drink at the same time, him always lagging slightly behind her, but they do match pound for pound, ego against ego.

The irony is that on the surface, this is nothing more than friendly banter strum from battered pride from an unknown circumstance. Underneath a couple layers, they’re the source of their own problems, unknowingly intermingling from their greatest nuisance from last night.

An eye strays to her payment and he tilts his head in confusion. It’s one thing to flaunt. It’s another to be wasteful. The whole practice reeks of suspicion but he doesn’t mouth it on the underlying assumption that whatever ‘haul’ she landed was paid for in spades with the exhaustion that bleeds from her eyes and skin.

“I don’t smoke.”

Not during working hours. Not without reason. Whatever circumstances Fernando went through last week died when he got his hands on them. Otherwise, he only smokes when he gambles, or for a select few occasions. As rattled as today might have them, his refusal serves as a telling clue to anyone who knows him intimately.

Unfortunately, no one does.

“But go ahead.”

[attr="class","spiral"]“…”

His eyes accompany her departure right until she hits the door. Well wishes are accepted with a dip of his head but nothing more passes between them.

The road to hell is paved on good intentions; hers doubles back as a curse that ensures his day is anything but. It comes with the line of work and he never puts one and one together. Superstition is well below him. There are more important things to weigh-in on, things that rely on fact and recreation, not slanderous words held high only by invisible faith.



night 10: thursday 10:12 pm



Tonight, Fernando does not come alone. A single man accompanies him, dressed casually, laughing with a boisterous joy that contrasts his own quiet, reserved personal space. They find a spot on the bar, Kaleidoscope more full than usual, and hammer way in mindless chatter that lacks any buzzwords.

Those Silph recognizes as regulars are given brief looks of acknowledgement, his version of saying ‘hi’ without detracting from giving his guest their much needed attention. He doesn’t even give Hartigan a hard time today, only briefly mentioning he knows the bartender by name.

The man, never mentioned by name, spends the night yapping away about his fishing trips off the shores of Lilycove. It’s loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, befuddled with crass jokes and mindless ranting, but provides nothing insightful as to what goes on in the life of Fernando Silph.

[attr="class","spiral"]The night comes to an uneventful close. The only consequence of note is that Fernando drinks a bit more than most nights, slowly unraveling a quiet rowdiness that matches his companion’s tall tales with sarcastic rebukes and ridicule. “You’re so full of shit,” he bludgeons with an accompanying laugh before patting the man on the back.

They leave together, promising to meet up soon, as he sends him off to his wife for the night. He too returns to his condo, alone, but grateful for an opportune reunion.


night 11: friday 11:03 pm


Local News remains saturated with the reports of young trainers combing the Mauville Deserts for treasure and fame. No matter how many times the anchor repeats that the League does not condone such activities the repetition never ends. For someone who represents the organization and their high council, he seems unfazed, apathetic to the plights these reckless daredevils will soon face.




“Tch.”

A short commercial break just gives them to regurgitate the same story. “What a load of shit,” he murmurs, tilting his head in her direction. “What’s the appeal? A chance to throw yourself in harm’s way to get ambushed by Megalopolan?”

[attr="class","spiral"] “Money?”

Barbaric. Fernando doesn’t see eye-to-eye with such a viewpoint. He refuses to. Even with the recognition that his upbringing laces him with a privileges that few can dream of, he remains adamant in his judgement.

“Tch. Can’t spend it if you’re dead,” he mutters. Among those in Hoenn, no one’s avarice can match his own. In regards to the objects he treasures, at least. Everything else? Pointless. Which begs the question, what does Fernando Silph value above all else?

The answer is easy: his own life. Self-preservation is the key to a long and prosperous life. He owns too much to give it up now. All of his efforts, his position with the League, all a stepping stone to curate a world where he can enjoy the fruits of his labor in peace.

“Would you risk your neck for a pretty coin?”

[attr="class","spiral"]"Indeed." Acknowledgement in agreement is good enough for him. Without contest, his point stands and is reinforced by a lack of contention. The news continues to play out a new segment highlighting the pretense and background behind the expedition and Fernando allows the chatter to buzz in the back of his attention span.

"Oh?" It shouldn't come as a surprise. Many people fought in the war. It was do or die, the survival of a region at stake against the ambitions of another world. Although the conflict was restricted to a few key-points, losing any of the front would've have opened up the helm for a region-wide siege. Her service and therefore patriotism, is appreciated, earning her a curious smile and hesitates at queuing up another drink.

"Where were you stationed?"

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

For Fernando, curiosity runs a fine line between prying and caginess. There's always a need to know more, to have every answer available, but remaining discrete is an art unappreciated by the masses. Only in casual conversation do they have a chance to touch upon the vulnerable. Each exchange presents a new opportunity, weaving a string of sentences that lays out too much to bear when one proves less than vigilant.

And the great countermeasure to all of this is one word: silence.

An awkward quiet presides between them and Fernando knows not to force her to talk. It's a touchy subject laden with demise and tragedy. What that means to Lulu, he'll never know, but he wisens up to her lack of enthusiasm.

"And here they are throwing themselves into round two."

He switches the focus back up to recent events. On the other hand, he'll have that drink now. Tonight's choice is pretty simple and therefore tame. Fernando recluses onto a personal favorite and a Kanto Sake bomb set is ordered under a quick quip with Hartigan.

"Got any plans for the week?"

When it comes to small talk, Fernando always opts for the basic bitch route.