He's nervous, terrified, but beneath it, suppressed anger roils. It's held in check by the pain he feels in his ribs when he shifts a certain way or breathes too deep, in his jaw when he opens his mouth.

Reluctantly, bitterly, he learns his place.

He's nervous because he can't afford to fuck this up. If he does, he'll have to resign himself to being nothing more than a grunt, a piece of bait thrown to the wolves. He's more than that, deserves more than that.

We own you. Your time is our time.

He swallows, knocks on the door, enters when given permission.

It's clear he doesn't quite know what to expect, or what to do with his hands. Fingers flex, nails dig against palms. He looks Raphael Pryde in the eye before catching himself and lowering his gaze. His stomach twists; subservience reminds him of his father. There's evidence of bitterness in subtle nuances he's not yet learned to hide: the press of his lips, the furrow of his brow, the tension in the slope of his shoulders.

"Dr. Pryde, sir."

Gavin dips his head in acknowledgment of the words before moving to sit across from Pryde. His movements are stiff and he winces as the movement sends a sharp stab of pain through his side, but he does not make a sound.

He doesn't miss the way Pryde stresses the question, catches the bait.

His pride is on the line. His future.

He dares to glance up, to look Pryde in the eye, to test the waters.

"I'm only twenty, sir, but I've completed my masters with distinction. I was top of my class. I was accepted into one of the most prestigious post-graduate programs in the region. The only reason I'm here, and not studying with the brightest minds of my generation, is because someone decided ethics were more important than results."

There's a note of derision in his tone that he seems to catch, late.

"I meant no disrespect, Dr. Pryde." His throat bobs as he swallows, anxious. "I-I know that I belong to Rocket, now."

Conditioning has him expecting reprimand for the slightest offence. He relaxes slightly at the reassurance, nodding to show he's understood.

"I'm more than confident in my own abilities. I know I can handle this."

His tone is softer, the cold arrogance forced out, but the spark behind his gaze rekindles. Academics had been his outlet when there'd been nothing else driving him forward.

"That was my post-grad," he explains. "I studied biology and evolution in Pokemon; the unique methods of fossil restoration became an interest late into my work, and one of my professors recommended me for the program."

But that hadn't been the question, so he answers, "I've never restored one entirely on my own, but I've assisted in their restoration enough to understand the process."

Warmth, kindness, validation — things Gavin had craved in his youth, things he'd never received from the ones who mattered most. Things he'd resigned himself to never receiving again, once Rocket closed its jaws around him.

So the smile, however fleeting, catches him off guard.

Was he being mocked? His brow furrows slightly, betraying uncertainty.

Instinct sees him lean back when Pryde leans forward, subconscious. The chair creaks as his spine presses against it.

"I-In my work," Gavin repeats, as if to affirm it to himself. He blinks, forces himself to breathe. Shakes his head. "No, sir. Failure is part of the scientific method. You won't learn what there is to improve if you don't learn from your mistakes."

Gavin listens intently, the fear present in the wideness of his eyes.

'I have no intention of hurting you.'

He feels almost guilty, then, like a wounded animal that had bitten the hand of its rescuer. But that guilt, too, is part of his conditioning — not from Rocket, but from before. How grateful he'd been to receive any positive attention at all.

He nods, clearly not relaxed, but an effort is made as he draws slower breaths.

"Just fieldwork, so far. Training."

A reminder that to practice science was a privilege, not a right.

Had they broken Pryde as they sought to break him, or had the older man bent easily to Rocket's iron will?

He wonders but doesn't ask.

Pryde's methods are effective. They humanize him, forcing Gavin to consider him as a person rather than a source of blind fear. The steadiness of breathing grows more natural as he listens to the other speak.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers his guard.

"I can do that, sir."

Free. A word that contradicts those of THEO BECKETT, yet one Gavin clings to in vain hope. That, with time, this might come to feel like any other job, with the security of a lifetime contract on top of it all.

"Fossils are my passion project," he explains. "Uncovering them, studying them, reviving them. Always wanted to make a living museum."

It's brief, but he manages to smile.

Gavin's throat closes around instinctive bitterness.

No, luck had nothing to do with it. It was submission that had led him here, sacrificed dignity. But that's not Pryde's fault.

Pryde knows the words to keep him hooked when he might otherwise slip, tempts him with the bait of his passion before yanking the line with a challenge. Gavin seems to consider his words.

There's no mistaking the gleam of ambition, now.

"I'll bring you whatever you want and more, sir. I don't half-ass my job."