The smoky promise of illicit activities settles under Temp's skin. It's nerves. In part for the knowledge that this was a turning point, in part for what was to come.

The desire for blood and skin under his nails had won out, in the end.

Temp is and always has been a social butterfly, though. Even though he craves bone breaking under his knuckles he's not so feral to just attack his newfound allies. Most of them seem dewey and fresh like him, their own various flavors of anxiety shown in bouncing legs and other nervous ticks.

Except that blond guy smoking.

Which, in the end, is why Temo approached Cillian Quinn of all the people available. He just felt different from the rest of them. It made a man curious.

"Hey!" A hand raised, voice and expression open when he was close enough. "What's a handsome guy like you doing in a place like this?"

Smoke filters past his lips in a curling haze. Staring out the grimy window to the vacant streets of Slateport's outskirts, he's reminded of a different dingy apartment in a different region.

I wonder what they're up to, right now.

His old team. The closest thing he's had to family in a long time.

There's a subtle softness to his expression that shutters the moment a voice slices through the sanctuary of thought. Amber eyes shift sharp to level the speaker with a chilly gaze.

The words spoken register a moment later. Handsome?

"Tch." His shoulders are tense. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

The blond guy closes off instantly, walls coming back up as soon as Temp impedes on his space.

It does little to deter him, his easy smile staying on his face as he plants himself against the wall next to him.

"Havin' a smoke, looks like." The words sit between them for a moment as smoke curls between them, Temp rolling his thoughts along in his head.

Well, he was never the best at thinking things through, anyway, so he just mentally shrugs that off and pushes on ahead.

"Names Norman! But the guys here have been calling me 'Temp'. You can call me that, too." A small tilt of the head, beckoning. "What can I call you?"

"Yep." He pops the 'p'.

Usually, his acerbic nature was enough of a deterrent on its own, but this one's either too stupid to realise Gavin doesn't want to be bothered or worse, doesn't give a fuck.

"Temp," he repeats. "They're insulting you."

The idiot is implied.

Temp, as in temporary, as in they didn't expect this one to last long.

They hadn't expected Gavin to survive, either.

That's what does it, more than anything else — a fleeting moment of kinship that's gone as soon as he feels it, but lingers just long enough to stop him from pulling his blade and holding it to this fucker's neck.

"Merlino."

No one really calls him Gavin, these days.

Insulting him?

"I know!" It's downright cheerful as he shrugs it off.

It was hard to miss the sneers and mockery in their voices when they called him that. Temp found he kind of liked it. Almost as much as he was sure he could wipe it off their faces in time.

"Merlino? Fancy." At least compared to some of the people he had met so far.

"So, how long you been in Rocket?"

It certainly wasn't as long as the rest of them.

Gavin blinks at him. He hadn't been expecting that.

Well, whatever. If that's what this guy wanted to be called, then so be it.

The question sees his brow disappear beneath his fringe.

"Eleven years," he deadpans.

The grin widens at Cillian Quinn's answer.

"I knew you weren't fresh meat like the rest of us!" He slaps the wall at the revelation, mentally patting himself on the back.

"You ain't got the same, uh... well, I don't know, but I could tell."

If he had a tail it would be wagging.

Temp slaps the wall in his victory; though subtle, Gavin tenses at the sudden movement as if expecting that hand to land somewhere else. Not flinching away, but bracing.

Though his shoulders relax, the wariness remains in his eyes.

"Kanto breeds us different. I get it."

Kanto. Even the name is spoken like a curse.

He bears its marks upon his body, short sleeves exposing the scars on his arms. Faded tattoo ink wraps around his left forearm, an old and clearly abandoned attempt at cover-up. The rest are displayed — not proud, but there.

Ah, so that was how it was. Temp would tuck this bit of information away for later.

Playfully, he snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Dramatic. I meant you're not about to piss your pants like everyone else here. Kanto, though? Damn."

His eyes rake over the offered skin, taking in scars and tattoos alike.

But in the end they just rise back up to meet Gavin's eyes, not shying away.

He might've laughed, once.

They'd taken that from him along with his freedom. He has closed off for his own survival.

He scowls, instead, and swallows any vestiges of warmth.

"Whatever they're gonna make us do, I've done worse."

It's stated flat and without pride. Amber eyes rake over the other man.

"What's the worst you've done?"

His cigarette has burned down to its filter. He drags it against the windowsill to put it out, already fishing in his pocket for another. The carton is extended in a silent offer after he traps his own smoke between his lips.

Edgy crosses Temo's mind. While a lot of people say he's dumb, even he's not dumb enough to let that one slip out. This guy could probably slice his elbow to asshole before he knew what happened.

It's not fear he feels when a tiny shiver ripples up his spine at the thought.

"Given a few people brain damage, I think." Or maybe killed them. He didn't really follow up with the aftermath of the fighting ring he was in. It was underground. People knew what they got into when they joined. If they couldn't keep up it was on them.

He shook his head lightly to refuse the offered smoke.

Gavin pockets the carton of cigarettes, scratching at his lighter before it flames.

A deep drag is taken, smoke directed toward the window before he tilts his head back. He lets his arm hang out of the gap; there's no screen, probably got busted out ages ago and never fixed. A breeze tugs at stray ashes.

"Never killed anyone before?"

It's a guess. He envies them, the ones that'll never have to.

"You think you could?"

"Not that I know of."

Could he? He lets the question sit between for a moment or two, cogs turning as he really puts a bit of thought into it.

".... probably? I've almost done it before."

'Almost' would never be the same as 'has'. While the idea of both bleeding and letting blood thrilled him, actual death did not. It seemed more like a nasty side effect that would end the fun.

Would Temp kill someone? Yeah, in the long run it was unavoidable. But did he want to? No, it would just be something that would happen if he got carried away.

"What's it like?"