Memo’s leaning back in his chair, balancing on the hind two legs. His next partner, tall, slender, well-dressed man with artfully shaggy blonde hair. His appraisal stops short at the crown of Memo’s head, which makes him crack a bright smile. He could always tell when someone thought he was too short.



His smile grew as Cillian Quinn introduced himself-- Memo even came forward on his chair, front legs hitting the ground with a soft thump. “Memo,” he said, voice thick with his own Spikemuth accent-- a little heavier on the saliva. “Galar, right? Small world.”



Short and to the point. Memo could work with this. “I’m an artist. Music, graphic design. Things that make m’parents sad.” He laughs.

Cillian Quinn | fit

"Memo," he corrects, as if in apology. "Ye, Galar!"

He laughs, too, when parents are mentioned.

"You'd think being a scientist woulda made my own proud, but someone's gotta tell them that." When he smiles, sharp canines flash in the light. "I get ya." Parental issues are a common thing, so he doesn't feel ill at ease sharing that little grain of truth. That of Cillian Quinn, not Gavin or Finn. "Long as you're good at it and not out on the streets, why should they give a fuck?"

He flicks blond hair from his eyes with a lazy hand.

"You have a name you go by, with your music?" Maybe he'll look it up, sometime. "Your accent... Spikemuth?"

Just south of Circhester, so citizens of both would often visit the other for events and the like. Or, in the case of the Circhester natives, to get the hell out of the snow for once.

Guillermo Marceliño

“‘Sthere a lot of money in it?” Memo asked, fascinated by the concept. What little boy doesn’t want to grow up and play with dinosaurs? Or like the idea of it, at least. “‘Cause that’s what my parents wanted. Money, wife, church on Sunday.” Eyes a blue flash beneath black spectacles.

Just more things he couldn’t give them.

“Yeah, Spikemuth,” he grins, imagining dark alleys and neon lights. “Prob’ly not a lot anyone’d know. Lotta music there. Almost too much.”

“But fossils! Dinosaurs. Not a lot of that going around. Anything big on the horizon?”

Cillian Quinn | fit | i have no brain

Gavin laughs.

"Some," he affirms. "Lots, if you're good."

And he is good; there were plenty of people willing to pay a small fortune for a revived fossil Pokémon. Collectors, mostly. But though Gavin had built up a comfortable nest egg using his day job, it was crime that truly paid for his sharp dress and the beachside property in Sootopolis.

A smirk curves across his lips and he lets out a bright peal of laughter. "Oh, my parents would be livid if they knew I was seeing a man. I don't think they'd care how much money I make."

He wonders if Memo, too, has disappointed his parents in that particular way... but he doesn't ask. They're all but strangers, and just because Gavin has no shame regarding his sexuality doesn't mean the other would share the sentiment.

Memo redirects away from himself and Gavin obliges.

"Oh, always! I've been working on a couple of Galarian fossils for a client. They're especially difficult considering... well, whatever crackpot put the first ones together, they clearly didn't know what they were doing." It's not façade, after a moment; Gavin slips easily into his passion. "But for some reason collectors want the brainless, hopeless things that were created and so I've got to sling together bits and pieces of fossils and hope whatever abomination comes out can make it through the week, let alone live to get me paid."

Guillermo Marceliño

Memo wasn’t great at reading people. Or, more accurately, he liked people. So he often had blinders on when it came to people’s truest selves. He was often willing to go to bat for anyone, so long as his moral compass didn’t get too bent out of shape along the way.

So it made sense that he had not the smallest inkling that Cillian Quinn might be some criminal mastermind. For all Memo knew, all paleontologists from Chirchester acted like this. Who was he to judge? He was wearing sunglasses indoors for fucksake.

Gavin gently dropped his sexuality and it made Memo’s face light up. Seems like they have more in common than he first guessed.

Then Gavin lapses so easily into talking about his passion that Memo sits and listens intensely. “That’s… that sounds sad,” he says, feelings written on his face, readable like a book. “And not very fair to the-- the Pokemon, I guess. That’s a lot deeper than digging up rocks and filling museums.” He pauses, aware the conversation is getting heavier and heading towards a cliff-edge tipping point, so he backs it up. “I dunno, man, that’s heavy. Definitely not what I imagined from a fossil hunter. But it’s nice to see you’re passionate about what you do!”

Cillian Quinn | fit | blah

Sometimes Gavin forgets how utterly morbid the process can seem to the uninitiated. He'd grown up with Pokémon are tools, not pets and transitioned into all Pokemon exist for the glory of Team Rocket and even now that his partnership with a certain shadowed legend was teaching him the values of the bond between trainer and Pokémon, well, a lifetime was a long habit to break.

"They're perfectly happy if you treat them right," he shrugs, "and they cost a small fortune, so there's not many that would go into buying one if they weren't ready to give it the proper care. I've had my Arctovish for over a year."

Let loose in the wild, the poor dumb fish would starve, but in its basement tank it lived happy as a Clamperl being fed by the one who'd pilfered it from the Oceanic Museum.

He leans forward, an excited gleam in his eyes.

"Went on an underground exhibition with some people a while back, and we found a cavern with a bunch of living fossil Pokémon. Not revived or nothing, just a little preserved time capsule from way back. That's the shit I live for."

A bell rings, and he blinks.

"Got carried away," he says, by way of apology. "Good talking to you; if you gimme your stage name, I'd love to look up your music."

Maybe he'll recommend it to PERISH 111.1 if it's interesting enough.

Guillermo Marceliño

He listened to Gavin more or less explain himself and offered an apologetic nod. “Yeah, it probably just sounds odd to me. The uninitiated. I’m not judgin’, just thinkin’. Reason I don’t do much of that.”

He can’t help himself. He’s sucked into Cillian Quinn ’s charismatic orbit as he leans over the table, conspiratorial glint in his eye. When he speaks, Memo’s mouth drops open, dying to ask a zillion questions, then-- ding!

He shuffles back and looks sheepish. “Shit.” He grabs a napkin and a pen he had in one of his many pockets and scribbles MEMO - MEMO(RY) - followed by his phone number, before handing it to Gavin. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, earnest. “If you ever need an adventuring partner-- or a wedding DJ-- hit me up.”

Cillian Quinn | fit | OUO this was fun !!