The survivor flees, an awkward stumble back that transitions into a run. At Gavin's signal, Lucario gives chase — not to harm, but to watch. Should the man attempt to signal any kind of back-up or authority before the Rocket duo were well on their way, Lucario would give them fair warning.

Only then does Gavin relax, stepping back from the role of enforcer long enough to realise something is wrong.

Sharp eyes bore into peggie vela's unfocused ones; he does not recognize the problem exactly, but he recognizes the look, that faraway signal of dissociation from trauma. There is twinge of sympathy that he does not show. Rocket has not taught him kindness.

"We're done," he confirms, and gestures for her to follow.

He would lead them back to the quiet building with its rusted back door and echoing stairs, up into the saferoom whose lights are flicked on to provide a dim glow. Here, in this private space, he rounds on her with accusation.

"I think we need to talk about what happened, back there." Despite his phrasing, it rings like an order. "Did I not ask if you were certain you could handle this?"

Gavin has never been taught to handle trauma. Not his own, nor anyone elses.

"It's handled," he agrees, but there's a sharp note of dissatisfaction in his tone. "You handled the situation, but you do not appear to be handling yourself." He makes a vague gesture toward her vacant silhouette. "I offered you an opportunity to speak up, should this work not agree with you. Why didn't you take it?"

Cold amber eyes bore into hers, the opposite of comfort.

It's the wrong thing to say.

"Do I look like a man who jokes about these things?" Her anger fuels his own, though there is no point where he raises his voice even as hers gets loud enough to grate against his ears. "I will never be cryptic where Rocket's safety is concerned."

What if she'd lost her cool? What if she'd had a breakdown? What if, what if, he does not appreciate what ifs.

"Do not tell me what I know." peggie vela does not know him for who he is, and he doesn't tell her. "I don't appreciate your tone, Vela."

A warning, not veiled.

Gavin hates shouting.

He hates it, because it reminds him of his father. How the eldest Quinn's face would go all red and splotchy moments before he snapped, and his voice rumbled like thunder through the halls of their home. He'd taught his son to be quiet as a mouse to appease him, and as an adult, that same man refused to stoop to the levels of the man who had raised him.

He steps forward, into her space.

"You are part of Rocket, fool." He radiates menace as he stares her down. "You handled yourself, yes, but you shouldn't have had to. Had you expressed any concerns, they would have been addressed beforehand."

He sees her expression falter, the shimmer of her gaze. She is so young, to be mixed up in criminal affairs... and yet, Gavin reminds himself for the umpteenth time, she had chosen this path.

"I expect communication from those beneath me, not stubborn pride."

She seems on the verge of a breakdown, and Gavin's lip reflexively curls. He had been raised to see such things as a weakness, but he does not lash out as his father would have done. As his recruiters, his mentors, and so many others who'd raised him up through Rocket might have done, had he ever shown such vulnerability.

Instead, he listens, his amber gaze never faltering from hers.

"No matter how grim, this is a matter that needs taken care of." Gavin would be the last to defy an order, no matter how loosely worded it may have been. "That doesn't mean that it has to be you. We would have discussed the discomfort and, if it was not something that could be worked through, then yes, you would have been allowed to leave. Rocket has plenty of grunts, and part of training is finding where their skillsets are best suited."

Or, in this case, potentially where they weren't.

Plank pales, and Gavin likens the pallor of her complexion to those unfortunate Rockets who suffered seasickness aboard the submarine. She looks as if she might be ill, and Gavin takes a step back to give her space — just in case.

Words come jumbled and frantic, but their meaning understood.

"Remember to breathe." His deep voice is steady where hers wavers. He gestures to the large living room window as if to suggest they draw near it, and shoves his weight against one pane. With a groan of protest, it shudders upward and lets a burst of cool night air into the small space. "What's done is done; rather than focus on the past, we must look to the future. If this is not the work you want, you will not have to do it again. Not so long as you work for me."

The acrid stench of vomit fills the small space, and Gavin is grateful for the breeze that winds through the cracked window. Plank is collapsing, and Gavin does not know what to do.

He is not equipped to handle trauma.

Rocket has taught him how to be cruel, how to lead, how to destroy. Never how to help, to heal. What little compassion he displays suggests a remnant of a past life, a man that might have been had Rocket not sunk their claws in deep. They'd got him young, changed him. They'd change her, too.

In the absence of understanding, he only waits.