"Pest control," Gavin drawls.

It's a crude way of wording it, but he's sure she'll catch the implication clear enough. She'd learned how Rocket handled rat problems courtesy of one @aoi.

"How's the leg?"

THEO BECKETT had told him of their battle, of the injury sustained.

There's been a sharp shift in dynamic that Gavin hadn't wanted, but he respects it with a curt nod. Better, he tells himself, that she's bitter and alive.

"Let me know if it becomes a problem."

He gestures, leading.

"Let's go."

Mossdeep's air is damp, briny, the steady crash of the waves against the island's shore audible from a distance. He leads them down the street to a club that's set into the ground, a staircase leading down to the unassuming doors.

"Our connections in the establishment have tipped us off that they're here tonight. There are two of them. We're going to want to lure them somewhere they can be taken care of without witnesses."

Gavin's nose wrinkles as the door opens to the stench of booze and sweat. He's never liked establishments like these. The smell reminds him of his early days in Rocket and, before that, of his childhood.

There's a bouncer just inside the door; whatever identification Gavin shows him seems to be enough for the man to overlook Plank entirely.

"Stay close," Gavin advises under his breath.

He leads them through the club to a quiet corner booth with a good view of the bar.

"You drink?" He's not looking at Plank, but rather idly scanning the room. "If you don't, fake it. You'll stand out less."

He catches the eye of the bartender and holds up a finger.

A relaxed posture and wandering gaze suggest a familiarity with the establishment, attention lingering in particular places. Dim lighting makes for poor facial recognition but he's been given a description of their targets' attire.

His gaze shifts back to Plank as she echoes him.

"You're Rocket. They don't care what you do if you're with me."

Underage drinking was the least of their crimes.

She requests a whiskey ginger; Gavin arches a brow. "You don't drink?"

Hell of a choice, but he doesn't question it further. He beckons the bartender with a hand, repeats the order. There's no need to specify his own. They arrive together — the liquid in her glass lighter than the amber of his own, both rattling with ice.

The bartender leaves them, and Gavin lifts his glass in a toast before knocking back half of it. Glass clunks against the table.

"One of them's up at the bar. Red shirt, jeans. Don't look too long."

"Best pace yourself, then. It'll hit slower than you expect."

A lesson he'd learned younger than her and much harder, scars on his forearm to remember it by. He'd never again been as drunk as he'd gotten that night.

In his peripheral, he sees their mark shift anxiously about. This particular booth had been chosen not only for its vantage point but also for the angle at which it was hidden from those sitting at the counter. For all he's on edge, the red-faced man does not spot those who've come to hunt him.

"He's alone; he shouldn't be. No sign of the other one."

He does another canvas of the room, to be sure, and confirms it with a nod.

"We can use that. Easier to make him cooperate if he's alone. How would you approach a jumpy man like that?"

When THEO BECKETT had trained him, he'd forced Gavin to find the answers himself. Trusted him to, Gavin tells himself these days, but the end result had been the same: he'd been flying blind in many a mission, had faced the sting of failure and punishment as a result. It had made him stronger, he tells himself, but might it make her bitter instead?

He tries to help, then, in his own way, by making her think.

He's patient as she thinks, remains so as she puts those thoughts into words. His lip quirks at the gesture.

"You want to be a Beast, right?"

He'd told her, after all, that THEO BECKETT was his mentor.

"The Beasts are our muscle, our claws and teeth, but they've got to be able to sheath those claws. Lure their prey. You understand what I'm saying?" His gaze shifts to their target, making sure he hasn't moved, then back to Plank. "Think you can handle him? I'll stay close and intervene if needed."

To another, the rattling of ice against glass might have seemed annoying. For Gavin, it fades into background noise, just another thing to vaguely focus the pattern of his thoughts.

Surprise registers in the tilt of his brow.

"No, I was only asking about luring him away. I'd kill him myself." But he seems to think, lips pressing together with purpose. "If you do want to train as a Beast, you may have to kill eventually. If you think you're up to it, then..."

He trails off, thoughts drifting to a dingy Slateport safehouse.

"But don't feel pressured, if you aren't ready."