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"It's cause Lugia's asleep."

He laughs easily in the presence of his friend, the jest fluid between them. That the fabled Guardian of the Seas slumbers in the deep is no lie, but her presence in the bay brings calm rather than storm on most days. Such had been her role, before the Nihilego's corruption had sparked the path to her involvement in the world's conflicts.

Dark miasma mingles with cigarette smoke as he inhales, wisps of dark smoke billowing in his step. Where Mars opts for disguise, Gavin proudly walks the streets of a city he'd help bring down.

"Hope you don't mind dogs."

It's a warning that's very much needed, because they're swarmed by a few of them when Gavin opens the door to the beach house. Gavin's own Lycanroc have been strictly trained, their presence merely gleaming eyes in the gloom, but Tempest Quinn's brood have been raised with a gentler hand.

Lights are flicked on, and Gavin leads the way to the kitchen.

"Any preferences?"

He takes a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet for himself.

notes

"Hah! Same, honestly. Him and Emma both."

It no longer hurts to say her name, to think of her fondly for the life they'd shared before the end. It is only bittersweet, the blue-furred midnight Lycanroc a memory of their past.

As he straightens up from the liquor cabinet, a Sylveon pads into the room with a yawn displaying sharp fangs. He'd left it at home today, as he often did when working outside of the submarine. It was cruel to trap the fey creature in his lonely metal office when he wasn't there.

It jumps up on the island, regarding Mars coolly.

Gavin doesn't bother shooing it off; it's never listened. Lugia's influence on him has in turn made the Sylveon a vicious creature with no regard for discipline.

"We've got gin, if you'd prefer." He gestures vaguely to the cabinet; it's filled with all different kinds of liquors. "In case of guests."

He pours himself a glass of scotch over ice.

notes

"Hm?"

The question surprises him, and he shifts his attention to the Sylveon. The fairy's ribbon-like feelers sway with no influence of breeze.

"A few times, but nothing serious. He won't bite you so long as you don't touch him. He doesn't like to be touched."

Only Gavin had that honour, and even then it was challenged a few times in the past by the Sylveon's sharp teeth. Blue eyes glimmer with mischief as the fairy-type looks at Mars, and Gavin snaps his fingers to shoo it.

"Ai! Go on, Puca, you're scaring my guest."

His accent bleeds through in the privacy of his home and the company of a close friend who knew his truth.

Predictably, the Sylveon doesn't move.

"Little bastard. Come here, then." He beckons the Sylveon over to him, carding fingers through its pink and white fur.

notes

Gavin doesn't fight the clarification; he knows all too well that to display fear in Rocket is to expose one's throat to the wolves.

He's mine now.

Amber eyes soften with understanding.

"Yours seems a timid thing," he remarks, having spotted Achelous before only in quick glimpses. "I hadn't realised it could be so aggressive."

But there is reason behind it, he's sure, just as there is reason for Puca's foul temperament. The corruption in the veins of Gavin's patron floods over to his own mind, and through their bond disturbs the Sylveon in turn. Months of playing pacifier to Gavin's misplaced frustrations have turned a once docile creature cold and callous.

As he tips back the scotch, the vicious scar through his own left hand stretches taut, a barely perceptible stiffness to the fingers that grip the glass.

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"Ah."

What else can be said after such a damning revelation?

What he lacks in words, Gavin makes up for in the meaningful glance that he shoots his friend. He, too, is a master of many masks and faces, but that softens now to show his sympathy for Mars' loss.

He is not one to offer empty condolences or platitudes.

What he offers is this:

"We'll make them pay."

A reminder of a promise not forgotten by the underboss who lifts his scotch now in a silent toast to future vengeance.

notes

He doesn't talk often of his scars. Yet when Mars asks, there is no hesitation before Gavin replies, "Kanto."

Kanto.

A single word with a brutal implication.

To those who listen to the whispers within Rocket, the past of Gavin Merlino is not one concealed. Though merely a grunt in their time of war, his persistence through the ranks of Hoenn's branch have only served to strengthen a reputation gained on the back of violence.

Setting down the glass, he places his hand flat against the kitchen island, then turns it palm-up to reveal the matching scar on the opposite side. Scar tissue from the initial wound and resulting surgeries mark the skin, paled from age.

His right hand dips into a pocket, drawing out a switchblade. Despite its age, the knife has clearly been well cared for.

His own knife, slammed straight through his dominant hand and dragged through flesh and bone.

"A punishment for failure."

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