Gavin huffs under his breath, a not-quite laugh. Strange, the parallels between them.

It's almost like they're actually related, or something.

"Not any man that can tangle with a Beast." There's a begrudging respect, but a fire in his eyes. "Benoit comes to mind, but I assume you'd know a member of the Elite Four."

Not to mention that one had an eyepatch.

"What else can you tell me?"

He was in no condition to write a report of his own, not yet, so Gavin would take a verbal recount while the memories were still fresh.

Gavin frowns, closing his eyes for a moment as he tries to summon imagery to mind. He has seen a lot of faces, but even if he'd seen this one — the imagery is vague. His eyes open, narrow at a spoken name.

"Anderson," he echoes. He gives a sharp head shake at Rowan Wrynn's apology. "No, this is good."

His phone is pulled from his pocket, a Rotom housed within. Its 'eyes' remain dormant, for Gavin takes his notes manually.

"Laurence Anderson, Head Ranger. Not sure about the Metagross, but the description fits." Fingers dance over the phone screen before he tilts it toward Rowan, a search engine's image results displayed. Several pictures of the ornery Ranger stare back. "This him?"

"Wledig. That's a Galarian name if I've ever heard one — and I have, I think. Heard that one." His brow furrows as he struggles with it, like he's trying to recall something on the tip of his tongue. After several seconds, he gives up and shakes his head. "Unfortunately that's as far as it goes. Do you know what they needed help with?"

From the way it sounded, Rowan Wrynn had been busy with Raziel Beckett, and so Gavin doubts it.

More notes are taken in his phone, the autocorrect struggling to allow a name such as 'Wledig' to stick.

"Mm. We may find out if Briarwood is rescued."

If, he says, not when, because for all that he knew Killian Decker wouldn't like it — for all Rocket looked out for its own, the safety of the many outweighed that of the few. Should Alexandra Briarwood be considered too loose an end, Rocket would cut her out.

He doesn't like it; he doesn't have to. Orders are orders.

His grim mood shifts darker at mention of the League, eyes narrowing. Light catches on the sharpness of his scowl. "If there is a mole, we'll root them out. We always do."