Gavin seems indifferent to Bill Anderson's handling of his books, glancing toward him before returning his attention to their destination. So long as he handled them with respect, which he had.

"My former residence was in Fallarbor. It's been quite the adjustment."

Concrete steps make no sound as they descend.

"Naturally, such a pristine record is noted and appreciated."

The same could not be said for Gavin's own, especially thanks to a recent excursion on Mt. Pyre. It mattered little; he was loyal to Rocket until the end, whether the League hunted him down or let him be.

"It will help keep their guard down."

Gavin's underground laboratory is as clean as Anderson's record. Along one wall, a hydroponic setup provides a splash of colour to an otherwise sterile environment. What appears to be a setup for fossil revivification dominates another section of the space, a partially excavated ribcage catching light against its curving bones.

The subjects shifts, as does Gavin's gaze, to the fossil reanimator.

"It is, yes."

There's a touch of pride in his tone. They were expensive and not easy to acquire but fossil Pokemon had been a passion of Gavin's before Rocket had got their claws in him. He imagines it might've been his life's work if they hadn't.

Yet it seemed such passions stood in opposition to the teachings of Arceus. Gavin, who'd not been raised religious, hadn't known.

He lifts his brows.

"Yet in modern days they thrive under the right conditions. Except for those abominations from Galar, but no one counts them." No one worth their salt, in his opinion. He still kept them for his collection. "But, yes, it's for private use; I'd hardly have the time to do anything else."

Rocket kept him tangled in their affairs.

He relaxes at the notion of respect, watching as Anderson paces around his laboratory. This was his sanctuary and it took a good amount of trust in Rocket to allow others into his space.

"Had?" Gavin echoes. "What happened to it?"

Gavin had two Aerodactyl of his own.

"You strike me as a survivor too."

Gavin huffs softly, the barest hint of amusement in the gesture. All he had done, he had done to survive. It showed easily in the scars that marked his skin — where Bill was clean, unblemished, Gavin bore the marks of failure and punishment. A vicious scar divides the palm of his left hand, a mark above his eyebrow turned white with age.

"I'm sure it would solve many a crime. A shame they can't."

There's a note of dark humour in his tone. He cants his head when Bill turns to him, preaching the word of his Lord. Gavin's gaze reflects indifference but not disdain.

"Destruction of what?"

Time.

Gavin nods, though he finds himself unable to relate; of all the Pokemon he'd lost, none of them had been to the slow creep of age. Failed experiments, fallen in battle, taken down by Necrozma, his partners had all met grisly fates.

"I don't subscribe to good and evil."

Yet he seems to agree with Bill Anderson on the natural order of things.

In Rocket, he'd been taught such a pecking order — the strong would prey upon the weak, and the weak could only adapt or die.

The sudden shift in conversation to the League is jarring, but he adapts quickly.

"It's not so different from the natural order." A smirk plays upon his lips. "Rocket is strong where they are weak."

And like predators, they would hunt.

Vaguely, Gavin acknowledges that he's being preached to. It's in Anderson's nature; just as fish swam the streams to spawn, so too would this man preach the word of his Lord wherever he went. Gavin is not religious, but neither does it offend him. He thinks of Chu-e Choi's rituals for Darkrai, Cresselia, Lugia, wonders if there's any such decorum for followers of The Original One.

A husk of what they used to be.

Some would describe Rocket as the same — soft, weak where Silas' Rocket had been strong. Gavin sees change rather than complacency.

There's something dark in his eyes at the mention of power. Hungry.

"What do you do with something that's suffering? That refuses to die?" It's a rhetorical question, a gentle lilt to his tone. "You put it out of its misery, Father."

Like a lame horse, the League would be put down.

He cants his head like a predator observing the movements of prey.

The prey is not Anderson, but the League.

"There is more than one way to skin a Skitty," he purrs. "Soften from within, and look for chinks in its armour from without. No shell is impenetrable."

They had learned through Blackwell, through Klaussner, that a single approach would not do. Now they poisoned the well to leave the town weakened for the siege.

"This region will be ours."

Mine.