The ship creaks beneath his feet, a salt-scented breeze tickling exposed skin and tugging at his hair. On occasion, Gavin reaches up to tuck away stray blond strands in vain. Amber eyes are fixed on the horizon, the last vestiges of sunlight dying upon a glittering expanse of deep blue. Below the boat, the shadow of a Dhelmise lurks.

From the cargo hold comes a low moan; Gavin turns from the view, eyes narrowing with displeasure.

"Quiet them, would you?"

Though masked as a simple request, the order is a test — how would peggie vela handle the noisy Pokémon? How well would she take orders? Gavin's ever-watchful gaze lingers on her, and he would follow if she descended into the hold.

There is a tense breadth of silence where she does not move, and Gavin does not speak. His gaze burns with an intensity that brooks no argument, but he does not repeat the order.

He only waits, expectant.

Slowpoke wail over the steady rhythm of the sea, and peggie vela moves at last toward the cargo hold. Nothing is missed — from fingers pulling at her sleeves to teeth worrying at her lip, Gavin files away her tells in the cabinet of his mind.

He is a tall man with lean, hard muscle, but his steps are light in his pursuit of her.

The cargo hold is damp and dim, with various crates of supplies shoved to the side to make room for their illicit cargo. Slowpoke are crammed uncomfortably into a space barely fit enough to hold them all, and a few Slowbro rise like living mountains amidst their smaller kin.

As the pair of Rockets descend into their space, their melancholy song continues.

Breath sharp enough to be abnormal but soft enough to be almost unheard; she's panicking, though he does not know why. His guesses are fleeting and quickly dismissed in favour of focus.

Contrary to what peggie vela expects, Gavin does not scold — not with his words. It is his stare that is relentless, never leaving her, never allowing her to draw a proper breath under its scrutiny.

What do you need? But he does not ask.

He waits, a spider spinning its web.

Gavin leans against the wall beside the stair, expression impassive as peggie vela sends out a Chatot to settle on her shoulder.

He doesn't intervene — not even when he's nearly deafened by the hyper voice that rattles through the hold, assaulting his eardrums and rattling their living cargo. Wails and moans grow louder as the discomfort of the Pokémon transitions to distress. Plank, too, seems distressed, hushing the bird on her shoulder with a voice that softens more with each syllable.

She does not know what she's doing.

He had suspected as much the moment she'd hesitated, tripped over her words and tugged at her sleeves. She had not asked for help. A red flag. Was it fear of repercussion, or pride that kept her silent?

Pushing off from the wall, Gavin steps forward. His voice rings clear over the din.

"The next Pokémon that makes a noise will have their tail lopped off and fed to the Sharpedo." For a moment, it seems as if the threat of violence alone is enough. Then the ship groans, and a Slowpoke on the edge of the flock lets out a quiet 'Pooooke'.

Damn it. From his pocket, Gavin pulls out a knife.

The silence that falls after birdsong is a dangerous one, threaded with the threat of the man who now blocks the hold's only exit. His solid frame is a wall which peggie vela will not be allowed to pass.

"Just who do you think you are?"

Gavin does not yell. His anger is a cold thing — not of fire, but of ice. He speaks only loud enough to be heard over the crash of waves against the hull and the groan of distressed wood. Should Plank try to interrupt, he will raise his free hand — the other maintaining a firm grip on the knife — for silence. Should she persist, he would speak over her, maintaining his soft volume.

"Disrespect is ill-tolerated in Rocket. I will not warn you again." His blade gleams in the moonlight that filters down the steps. "Had you such a simple solution to the problem, I would expect its immediate execution. Understood?"

He does not move from the doorway.

Try as she might to dip and duck around him, peggie vela will find no way through. She does not cow from him as others might; he had suspected this might be the case, but a cold disappointment settles over his expression nevertheless.

These are the ones who often need the harder lessons.

"No," says Gavin, simply.

A quick flick of his wrist folds the blade back into itself, and he pockets the knife.

"Had you learned, you would address me with respect." It's not about titles, for Gavin — not sir, or boss, or Mr. Merlino. It's her tone that he minds, the barely repressed notes of anger. She wears frustration like face paint. "If you need time, you ask for it. False confidence will win you no favours with me."

It is not good enough, but it is a start. This is a process to be refined through experience; she would test him, he thinks, and he would lay down the lines she should not cross.

He does not mock her strained attempts.
He steps aside.

Just as before, he follows wherever she goes. He will not allow her to be alone with her thoughts. Rocket is a delicate dance of self-control, a dance whose steps were ever-changing. She will need to be controlled under any circumstance.

The League could shatter her like glass.

Land is visible on distant horizon, Galar's silhouette coming into view.