Okay, so maybe john nelson had a point. In his leather jacket and with the goggles hanging around his neck, Angelo could very well pass as one of those iconic Corviknight cabbies from Galar. Maybe he should get aviator cap to complete the aesthetic.  

Still, as the pilot is waved down by a stranger, he finds himself glancing left and then right down the Lilycove pier anyway. 

Oh. He was talking to him. 

Finishing flicking a pebble away that had buried itself in his boot sole grooves, Angelo turns his attention towards the approaching drunk suit. Behind him, a large bird that is decisively not a Corviknight stands, eye-shaped flames staring at the stranger.

An eyebrow lifts in amusement. “Hey, bud. Good night?”

He'd been walking along the oceanfront from his hangar in the direction of home, stomach gnawingly empty after a day airborne. 

“That depends,” he considers with a tactical smile, hands slipping into his pockets that feel decisively empty after such a proposition. “How fragile is your stomach feeling?”

Slateport, huh? He did like their locally caught Clauncher, and they were notoriously not cheap...

"Great night!" John replies immediately, standing perfectly upright thanks to the momentum throwing his arms in the air provides, "record profits, lots of drinks, beautiful Lilycove!"

As he speaks he gestures. It compromises his gait a bit. He pitches forward one moment and to the side the next as he does his best to walk a straight line to the man he's (apparently accurately!) guessed is a cabby.

"But my guys they leave, they leave so early," he says with a fond smile and a shake of his head.

"Now I gotta figure out my own ride home but you're here so . . . Good!"

John throws the man a thumbs up before dramatically leaning back and taking his chin in hand to think about his question. The movement almost sends him toppling onto his ass, but he somehow manages to hold the "thinking man" without actually toppling onto his ass.

"I stopped at the ol' latrine on the way out so . . ." he nods a couple of times before giving another, more serious, considered thumbs up.

"I'm good to fly, captain!"

“Congrats.” Angelo's lips split into a grin as the stranger recounts parts of his eventful evening in enthusiastic animation, feeding off the oblivious stumbles in both balance and tongue.

“Left 'em in the dust, huh? Sounds like you need to find some guys who have stronger stomachs.”

Or, you know, drinking buddies who don't ditch their co-workers in a different city by themselves. 

“Slateport's quite the trip. How's fifty PD sound?” 

Pricy? Maybe. But Slateport was a long way and that'll cover a nice meal for himself and then some. It was worth the gamble when faced with a guy who was one rum raisen away from a fruitcake. Or ending up in the Lilycove harbour. 

“But if you hurl, you're paying for the cleaning fee and Stratos's wounded pride.” He holds out a hand for the man to shake. “Deal?”

Was ol' john nelson feeling lucky? 

"Ah they're alright with the stomachs they've got," John waves the other man's comment off with a dismissive gesture, "They just, got better things to get up to after a certain hour."

Families to run home to, kids to tuck in. Can't fault them for that. It wouldn't be fair. Easier to do if he doesn't think about it, too, so he pushes forward to the more important matter of business the moment it's in the air.

"50 PD to Slateport . . ." he pretends to consider it very seriously. He pulls out his wallet and looks inside with exaggerated gravity, fingers through the bills for a couple seconds before plucking some out with a broad smile.

"Seems fair to me!"

While John closes the distance between himself and his ride he flips through the bills, counting. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty . . . and then he smiles wider before continuing. Sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred. Who cares about fair? In temper or toll.

He'll be put out by his coworkers and this cabbie will walk away with a handsome tip. That's better than fair.

"Keep the change, pal," he says, managing a surprisingly smooth handshake-into-money-handoff despite his drunkenness. After which he wastes no time approaching the bird they'll be taking off on. Not one of those big steel ones funny enough. As he gets close he realizes he does know which it is though.

"Ah, a Braviary!" his excitement is on full display as he practically shouts before holding out a hand to the pokemon, "You look real uh, unique! You look unique though, Stratos. What's your story, huh?"

Forget if john nelson felt lucky, as the man continues counting notes to one hundred, Angelo feels like he's the one who'd come out victorious. 

Although there is some respect to be found in how the drunk man manages to pass him the bills so smoothly. Damn. He'd make a good slip of the hand card dealer. 

“That's really generous. You didn't have to.” He says, mimicking what the more respectable of society would say in this instance. Only to pocket it anyway. 

“He's from those distortions that've popping up all over the place this year. Y'know the ones? There's been at least two in Slateport so far.”

While his passenger takes to admiring the Hisuian Braviary, Angelo quickly fishes out his old phone, firing off a message to skyler dross that he'd be back late. With food! So no need for her to even go into the kitchen. (Really. Don't you dare.)

“His story is a mystery before then, though. But I reckon he was a standard Braviary that got bitten by a radioactive Volcarona.” He jokes, reminded of the cartoons his siblings used to watch on Sunday mornings. 

Stratos meanwhile fluffs his feathers at the attention, preening beneath John's excitement. 

“You need a hand climbing aboard, uh... Didn't catch your name.” He says, tucking his phone back into his pocket and stepping towards John. “I'm Angelo Vestri.”