Orion is nervous. Palm sweating, dry mouth, racing heart.

It's not a big deal, he tries to convince himself as he glances around the meeting room, scraping his gaze over potted plants — anything to avoid looking at the smiling faces of customers on the TV screens. He can't share in their happiness. In a sense, this feels like giving up. He's been in denial for so long, as if avoiding prosthetics might some day return his arm to him.

He startles when someone enters the room.

"Go — good morning," he returns, awkwardly clearing his throat when his voice catches. He shakes her hand, unsure of where to look. He settles on eye contact, even if it made the back of his neck prickle, for he worries that she might not take kindly to him staring at her own prosthetic limbs. "That's right. I, uh, heard about your company from a friend."

Several people had, not unkindly, suggested WPT as a solution for the elephant he so often brought into a room. He'd sworn to avoid it, yet here he is.

A glance is spared when Nikita crosses her legs, unable to avoid a glimpse of the prosthetic, but Orion is kind enough not to stare. She exudes an air of confidence that he can only dream of, but ogling was unkind no matter one's outlook.

"Kind of," he admits. "I mean, I don't know much, but I know I'm not trying to make it look..." He frowns, brows knitting as he tries to find a better word, but finally shrugs and settles on the original, "...real."

He had lost the arm. He would never get it back.

Look at it as a step forward, not sideways. The advice of his therapist. Technology these days is amazing.

"I am — I was a Ranger." That's in his file, but what he hadn't included was that he'd lost his job due to a poor attitude and an utter inability to cope with his newfound disability. This was a part of trying to rectify that. "I need something heavy duty enough to return to work without being a," he grimaces, "hindrance to my squad."

Orion nods as the benefits of titanium are explained; they all sound like positives, and the picture is more visually appealing to him than the flesh-coloured one had been.

He expects to shut down the idea of any custom features besides a particular one he'd heard about from others, but the mention of pokeball storage does startle a genuine laugh out of the former ranger. "That sounds kind of convenient, actually." His smile lingers only briefly, but its presence does serve to soften his ordinarily rigid features. "I've heard some prosthetics can interface with Rotom, to provide additional functionality. Does your company offer anything like that?"

He glances instinctively toward the monitor where her own had inserted itself, curious.

Orion nods, accepting the risks. His features pull tight with sorrow as he shakes his head.

"Not any more. It was stolen when I was attacked." One of the many Pokémon that Rocket had taken from him, and not one that he'd managed to recover during his escape. The thought of his beloved Pokémon enslaved in the service of those who'd mutilated him turns his stomach, and he's quick to add, "But I've been looking into acquiring another. I specialize in Ghost-types."

He strictly avoided the Black Market unless the Pokémon came from a League bust, so the acquisition of a rare and sought-after Pokémon such as Rotom was taking more time than he'd like. (And, perhaps, grief means he's not searching as hard as he could.)

"It's recent," Orion confirms, and then laughs nervously. "I guess you already knew that."

It had been over a year ago, but at thirty, that was not too long ago in the span of one's life.

Orion doesn't expect sympathy. Ordinarily, he even resents it, but the stark reality of Nikita's own prosthetics soften the defensive tightening in his chest. She knew, in ways that most who expressed their hollow sympathies did not, how it felt to lose a part of yourself that you could never get back. Pokémon were like that, too. Irreplaceable.

So he nods, accepting the reserved condolences of she and her Rotom both, before eagerly moving on when the screen is presented to him.

He doesn't balk at the price tag; he'd looked into how expensive such things could become if there was want for customization, and WPT's prices were more reasonable than many he'd viewed before. He's not hurting for money, and this is an investment in his ability to heal. If there was one good thing about his time served on the council, it's that it let him build up a nest egg for situations exactly like these.

"It does, yes," he affirms, nodding again.

How did it happen?

Do you dream like your limbs are still there?

How long did it take to accept?

(Has she even accepted it at all?)

Orion smiles at her, tight and brief, before shaking his head.

"No questions. Thank you, Miss Wells."