There was a small step down to the concrete path that led out and around the Ducklett pond; Cyg followed it past sections of cultivated shrubbery to a spot near the back corner. “It’s pretty late in the evening,” she said, flopping down in a chair, “and the bar gets crowded quick.”

Despite the number on the clock it was still light out, with patches of blue sky in between fluffy white clouds, a characteristic of long, Hoennian summer days.

She’d come to know Petalburg more since living there, having relocated from a stagnant 1-bedroom apartment in Mauville to a small, but charismatic, flat above a local bakery.

“I work for a flower shop near here,” she said, after thanking the waitress for the menu and draft list; she ordered a tall IPA to start with and a basket of onion rings.

“Get whatever you want,” she said to Isaac, “it’s my treat.”

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo

She mirrored his smile. "Languishing away under the iron thumb of the taxman," she said, voice half a joke and half the truth. Escaping the corporeal punishment of 12 hour shifts and union dues was why she joined Rocket, after all.

"Oh, I can't grow anything for shit," she confessed, spinning a monogrammed coaster with one finger and her thumb. "I work the floor. Do maintenance. Deliveries. I'm learning a lot."

She left out the part about the business being Elisabeth Fiorelli's legal front for her decidedly illegal poison apothecary and assassination assistance company. And the part where she frequently delivered said assassination assistance. He'd find out, eventually, if he stuck around; though part of her hoped he wouldn't need to.

"I do, actually. I like dahlias." Nice, non-toxic, brilliant, and colorful, but difficult to start from seed.

The waitress brought back their first round of food and drink. Cyg split open an onion ring, steam rising into the air.

"What about you? Have you been in Hoenn long?"

He was so easy to talk to she'd forgotten she'd only known him for, like, an hour.

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo

“Ain’t that the truth,” Cyg scoffed with a roll of her eyes, she lifted her beer to cheers Isaac and then tossed it back in big gulps.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said on a gasp after she’d drowned the glass. “Sometimes Elisa-- that’s my boss- doesn’t even want me looking at the plants.” It was, and it wasn’t, true. Elisabeth Fiorelli, she felt, would never say anything disparaging about her. But there were times, Cyg could tell, when her eyebrows would squeeze just a little bit inward-- usually when Cyg had pruned something too short or added too much nitrogen to a mix of potting soil.

“That’s the nice thing about flowers, too, is that they sort of never really die. We just trim and graft and replant.”

She watched him Google the flowers incredibly quickly. So quick, she almost didn’t notice it. But, again, they were mostly reading each other's minds at any given moment, and she hid her smile under a bite of an onion ring.

“Yeah, they’re big, bright, colorful, and--,” nontoxic-- “they come in all sorts of varieties. So you can, like, plant a bunch together, and cross-pollinate, and they can end up kinda wacky over the life of a garden.”

She snorted. “Not a tourist. Cultured. You know, from anywhere outside of Hoenn. What with your Hunka Junka Orre Death Bike, and all.” His answer surprised her, though. “No shit. Lavaridge? Huh.” She had the decency to look impressed. “Were you trying to get out of Hoenn before the Doomdsay Dome went up?” Because who wouldn’t be, honestly.

“Hoenn, born and raised in Fortree. Then Mauville and most recently of Petalburg. That’s how I found this place. I rent a flat above a bakery.”

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo

She realized, with a bit of remorse, that she was sort of painting Elisa out in a bad light. Which was a disservice, because she was possibly the best, nicest, brightest, kindest person Cyg had ever met. She frowned a bit-- mostly at herself.

“Plants are… soft,” she said, after a beat, then giggled at how stupid she sounded. “I mean, they-- I don’t know. They break so easily and their rules are different. Machines are easy. I can pull them apart and put them back together and they’ll still work great, sometimes even better than before. Can’t do that with flowers.”

Or humans, for that matter.

She laughed along with him at his self-disparaging. “If you haven’t had at least two mid-life crisis…sis,” she snorted, “by the time you’re 26, are you really alive?”

He was really easy to talk to.

She did have the grace to look surprised when he talked about the dome, eyebrows going up slightly. “Dang, so it is real?” she huffed a surprised breath out her nose. “Shit.”

Almost makes Rocket work a real snap back to reality, huh?

Sometimes, sometimes not; but this question sure did. She swallowed, trying to cover her faux pas with a messy bite. Most of her floristry work was Rocket work. But he didn’t need to know that yet. She realized, distantly, that she may be setting him up for failure-- that the innocent, dorky, Disaster Pal picture he was painting in his head would probably come apart at the seams when faced with the asinine, grimdark reality of her life.

So she just shrugged. She had to get better at hiding these things. “It’s small but nice. I fix the espresso machine when she goes on the fritz. Or the stovetop when a burner’s out. And it always smells amazing. But it’s not like, super different from Rocket stuff.”

It was, and it wasn't, a lie.

She took a look around the sitting area by feigning a glance at the beer menu, before leaning in to whisper “I did rob the Lilycove Mall, once.”

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo

Soft. were they talking about humans or plants? Was he talking about humans or plants? Most likely, Cyg figured, he was talking about himself. Isaac screamed poorly veiled disparagement. Like every time he said something that hit remarkably close to home it was supposed to be an accident, a guess, a whoopsie, but it was actually a self-incriminating sentience.

Like-- like Tuxedo Mask in Sailor Moon. My work here is done.

But you didn’t do anything?

“Yeah, plenty of time,” she agreed with a nod, before falling into the strange, uneven silence that stretched between them.

She did notice. She met his eyes for a half-second, then looked away. Pretended it didn’t happen. Pretending it wasn’t real.

My work here is done. But you didn’t do anything?

“I had help,” she confessed, drinking, “from someone who I guess was actually a professional. I just used my Ghost-types to do most of the work, but I did get to invent a--,” she broke off, brow furrowing, thinking of how best to phrase this. “Okay, so it was essentially a signal jammer that instead of truly jamming just put the signal on an automatic media loop of about 15 seconds.” She made a circle-spinning motion with one finger. “For the security cameras.”

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo

He’s looking at her with an open mouth and something close to wonder. Cyg shrugs. “It was pretty simple,” she said. “I just had to find out what signal the CCTV was broadcasting on, program a raspberry PI with a repeat command, and turn it on. The programming is the hard part. It took forever.” She shuddered. “So many little pieces.” And soldering gun burns.

“The problem is,” she said, not wanting to seem like her head was actually that big, “it only really works if-- if it makes sense. Like, at night, right? Nothing’s supposed to really be happening. The image is pretty static. It loops easily. Any sort of movement, either objects or people or even light, throws it off.” This left practical application to late-night jewel heists.

She grinned at his utility belt idea. “As soon as I make a batarang, I’ll let you know. But I always preferred the Flash, to be honest.”

⚰︎ beer run

Isaac Merlo