Temp had been minding his own business. His mind was free and empty, not sullied by a single thought as he beat the fuck out of one of the punching bags. He did not care or notice that Cillian Quinn was approaching, lost in his own little world that involved crayon drawings of happy clouds and a bit too much blood for the normal person.

So, Temp doesn't expect the punch. It slams him head on, hurts, has pain blossom in the skin. He's not one to startle easy, though, and used to more than his fair share of strikes.

Not missing a beat, Temp's face curls into a savage grin. He turns to face is attacker, some blond guy, and strikes to hit hard.

But it's a feint, the fake one going for the guy's face, the real one heading for the kidneys.

Usually, when Gavin throws an unexpected punch, the victim goes down. It's THEO BECKETT to blame for that. Beckett's to blame for a lot of things, like the reason Gavin goes for Tempest Quinn in the first place.

He could take a punch, the former admin had told Gavin, and he hadn't lied.

What Gavin does not expect, what solidifies this man as a surprising favourite, is for Temp to turn around and hit him back.

He dodges on reflex alone when a fist aims for the face, feels an explosion of pain in his ribs as Temp jabs him in the kidneys, instead. The grunt of pain is primal, growled from the depths of his lungs, and Gavin grins.

"Oh, you fight dirty, huh?" His veins burn with energy. "I like that."

He takes a defensive stance, shifting his weight and raising his hands.

Something like anger might have bubbled in Temp's gut if not for seeing the other man's grin, feeling the satisfaction of a clean strike. Because, when Temp sees a grin like that, in a situation like this, he knows that whoever this guy is that he's like him. This isn't for anger or some attempt at putting a Grunt in his place, which is what Temp might expect, this is for some type of sick kicks. It's exhilarating.

"Ain't no knight." And Temp liked to win. You tended to win more if you were willing to crack a few more ribs than the average person.

He mimics Cillian Quinn for a moment, hands up in a defensive position, posture hunched to protect some of the more vital bits.

He's never been one for patience, though. A sucker punch is sent at the other. It's followed by a kick to the shins.

Miles is an onlooker, Promoted only days prior, but THEO BECKETT has proven to him more than a time now that his body isn't and must become a temple or at the very least something adjacent. It's the pop of a punch that draws his attention from his weights to the other side of the room. Both sides are easily recognizable, a personal troublemaker who'd seen him at his worst, the other ranges between enigma and beast depending on the day of the week. Today Merlino's chosen beast for better or worse, and for it's worth the researcher is interested.

Months ago Miles would have gracefully departed chalking this predicament up to a mix of misplaced machismo and dim-wittedness, and to be completely truthful he still thinks it is. Even so, he refuses to leave wondering exactly how much Rarie can take and how much Merlino can give.

"That's right," Gavin agrees, wicked.

He'd been trained not as a knight but a pawn, thrown to the wolves to protect those behind him. If he stuck to chess analogies, Gavin supposes he would be the queen, now, but that role seems more befitting of the fabulous Chu-e Choi. King, then, and Walsh could be — the player? Mastermind, it made sense.

He's patient where Tempest Quinn is not, and thus gains an upper hand.

He ducks the sucker-punch, side-steps the kick and shifts low, lunging in an attempt to bring Temp to the ground.

That really complicated chess analogy is cool. Chu-e, despite not being here, would have felt nice knowing Cillian Quinn thought he was fabulous and a queen. Sadly, it's lost on Temp. He didn't know how to play chess; he could only ever hope to win by eating the pieces when his opponent wasn't looking.

But back to the fight!

Temp growls at the missed strikes. When Gavin goes to take him down, instead of fighting against the other man he tries to roll with the force instead. Make the over over extend, try to come out on top. If he succeeds, that's when he can try and use height advantage to punch a man on his back. Only if it works.

Gavin is good at chess. Thankfully, an analytical mind lends well to strategy on both a chess board and a battlefield. This was a friendlier spar than the sort they'd forced him into during Kanto days, but he is also trying to win.

So when he feels Tempest Quinn's weight give quicker than it should, he adapts.

It's not an ideal position, but he attempts to readjust his force in time and jab Temp in the ribs, instead. If the other was quick, which Gavin had no doubt he was, he'd have time to get in a blow of his own before Gavin could retreat.

Temp grits his teeth when he gets hit in the ribs, a grunt leaving him. Cillian Quinn is right, though- Temp is quick. He also isn't pulling any punches of his own, aiming to win in his own way. Temp doesn't know how to be gentle, to be easy, even when he's not aiming to really hurt someone.

So when Gavin gets him in the ribs, Temp goes for the face.

It's fast but he's strong and has leverage. Even if Gavin can still hit him like this, he locks his legs as tight as he can around the other, tries to shift his weight to make it so he can't get back up, tries to use his non-punching hand to fist Gavin's collar to hold him still for more punches. Vicious and eager for blood.

Stars burst, and Gavin feels something crack.

The force of the blow stuns him enough for Tempest Quinn, vicious and ruthless as he was, to gain the advantage. Gavin finds himself on his back, vulnerable, pinned as the other strikes again and again. But Merlino is an underboss, and he hadn't risen through the ranks by giving in.

Unable to scramble away, he resigns himself and strikes whatever he can reach. Had it been life-or-death, he wouldn't have hesitated to go for the eyes, to crush the windpipe, to rip and tear and conquer.

But this is for sport, and so he settles for wound.

By the end of it, they're both bloodied and beaten, but it's Gavin who's lost. When he can feel the weight behind his punches begin to weaken, he knows that Temp is the victor.

"Enough," has the force of command behind it, even if it's spat through blood. "Off."

He rolls over onto his side and spits blood, licks it from his lips and calls out a Lucario that seems to recoil as it senses his agony. But it knows what it's been summoned for, sends out healing pulses to target fractures below skin. Gavin had endured the beating in relative silence but for primal snarls of pain and endures its reversal with the same bitter stoicism. His breaths are heavy with exertion, exhaustion. He opens and closes his jaw, stretches it to ensure it's not broken, wipes blood from his temple.

"That was fun." He gets to his feet, and offers Temp a hand to shake. As if this man hadn't just beat the shit out of him. "Merlino. You're the trainer, aren't you?"

His knuckles are cracked and bloody, smears from both himself and Cillian Quinn coating them. He's bruised, nose and lip bleeding, a cut above his eye, and his torso sings with the promise of new bruises under his clothes. Temp licks his lips, fists shakes as it's halted in the air, seems to think over the request before he relaxes, rolls off the other man. He takes a deep breath to center himself, a massive grin taking over his face.

"Good scrap!" A hand is offered to help Gavin up if he wants to take it. Temp was a good sport like that.

A firm palm tries to clap the other on the back. The hand is taken, grip firm and eager as he shakes Gavin's hand.

"Yup! You gotta mean hook! Norman Rararie, but call me Temp!" Temp, all bloody and bruised and beaten up, talks and looks like Gavin is his best friend and not someone he just met. Who just spent the last little bit beating the hell out of each other, at that. Poor Miles Sharp, watching the show.

There is a moment, with Tempest Quinn's fist in stasis, where Gavin considers he might have to kill this man. If he would not be stopped by words, if it became a fight for his life, Gavin would go for the throat in a heartbeat.

Temp relaxes, and murderous intention abates.

He does not take the offered hand, but it's not out of bitterness. Rocket has taught him to get back up and fight of his own accord, and he does so without thinking. The hand that grasps Temp's to shake it is firm in grip, clap on the back weathered with statuesque grace.

"Temp," Gavin echoes. He licks blood from his lip. "Consider me a client. Not gonna lose, next time."

"Then you got a new trainer, bud! I'll need ta' know some of your medical history 'n all that." And Temp would continue for a moment, asking a few probing but oddly professional, give the circumstances, to Cillian Quinn. Nothing too deep, just basic family history, injuries, if he smoked, things like that. While Temp was a fucking dumbass he did take his job seriously enough. Might even be his passion.

"Next time? Oh, you must know how to treat a guy right, Merlino!" He laughed, cheery, but something dark in his eyes at the future promise of violence.

Temp asks a series of questions, most of which Gavin doesn't answer. When asked if he smokes, there is something like pride in his smirk.

"Not any more, no. I'll have my file sent your way."

Rocket had run all sorts of tests on him since he'd become an Avatar, and they held the most complete documentation of his medical history that there was. And now, his family history as well. There may have been ulterior motives for Gavin to aggressively take out his frustrations with his fists, but at least Tempest Quinn was cool with it.

He claps the other on the shoulder, laughs, and slips away to get back to work.