He notes the way Priam tenses, but doesn't think much of it. He has that effect on people, sometimes; it doesn't occur to him that the reflex might be out of embarrassment for the trash-covered Ferroseed Priam caters to.

He actually manages something resembling a smile at the question.

"Nothing like that," he assures. Squints. "Is that the same Ferroseed that was in the vents?"

Gavin blinks slowly as Priam's voice shifts up in pitch. He seems indifferent to the anger, allows it to roll off him like dew drops from a Sunflora's leaves.

"You are the only one responsible for your own Pokémon."

Though stern, there's no heat behind the words. He softens.

"No, I'm not here about the Ferroseed. I've just got back from checking on Halla." Having been witness to the aftermath of Lugia's assault, however brief the window, Gavin assumes Priam needs no elaboration. "Still not sure how she got there."

There, being the nebulous location of the Route, their mission.

"You grew up in Rocket, didn't you?"

It's harder than he expects to broach the subject. Gavin takes a swig of whiskey as an excuse to gather his thoughts, focuses on the way it burns going down. This would be easier if he was drunk, but he never let himself go that far.

"What was it like?"

Where Priam aims to suck up to a superior, Gavin finds sadness in the answer. It's one he finds he can relate to. Where if not Rocket, indeed? He hadn't known the answer when Blackwell fell.

It's why he'd stayed.

"Wherever you'd like, I suppose." His shoulder lifts in a shrug. "How old were you when you — got involved?"

Joined was not the right word for his situation.

"It's been a long time for me, too."

Unlike Priam, Gavin knew exactly when he'd signed his life away to Rocket. It lingered in his thoughts as some twisted anniversary; the first day with Rocket, and the first man whose life he'd taken. There'd been many more of both.

Priam proves perceptive, and Gavin dips his head.

"Sort of, yes. And, yes, I'm worried about her." He polishes off his whiskey. "Your situation seems most similar to hers, and — well, if there were any highs or lows, it'd be good to look out for them, I think."

Translation: How the hell do you raise a child in Rocket? Gavin has no fucking idea.

"I joined in Kanto as well." His expression pinches with the return of distant memories. "I hope Rocket never goes back to being like it was then, but..."

But if Walsh pointed, Gavin would shoot, and the environment of an organization like Rocket trickled down from the top. Declan wasn't Silas. Gone, Gavin hoped, were the days of Rocket seizing children from homes where they'd slaughtered innocent families. But that didn't make Rocket safe, especially not for one so young.

"I've thought about that," he admits. "But she's not exactly a normal kid; how many eleven-year-olds know how to build bombs?"

His laugh is hollow as he shakes his head.

Gavin squints when he notices the tremble in Priam's fingers.

"Nervous?"