There are precious few things in life that rouse from the dog prehistoric memories. His history began the day he was taken off the streets of Johto by the Hasegawa. Life before that is murky, trauma repressed and buried. These weapons rouse a memory of that time from him, reminding him of another time he felt singular, childlike bliss.[break]
A lady his mother worked with had taken him to a candy store. As he peers through the door of the armory, he remembers that day. Dawning, distinctly human excitement at the prospect of what lay within unites the grown being he is and the boy he was. His partner's words plant him in the present, his amber eyes finding her. He listens to every word, practically hopping with giddy excitement.[break]
There is nothing complicated about armory duty. It is duty, and he understands that well, but it is also fun. What red-blooded creature walking on two legs doesn't enjoy the opportunity to see all the high-grade munitions a paramilitary terrorist organization would have on display?[break]
"I'm Hitoshi!" He barks excitedly, eyes flicking between the iron lady of the forge and the door. "I remember ya. Lots of the other grunts say that name." Some part of him prays she doesn't ask him to repeat the name, for he wouldn't remember his own if it wasn't printed on his sleeve. "Yer one helluva blacksmith, or so they say."[break]
His attention turns to the door, and he echoes the iron lady's words.[break]
"Yo, let's see if they have any katana or bazookas! Uh, eh, for the glory of Rocket. Yeah!"

Aurelie Lefevre

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"Yo, for real?!" The offer to visit her shop brings a wide, bright grin to his lips. His steps, already light, suddenly carry with them the promise of future swords. "I got my main sword here." He taps the Honedge, always at his side, like he's presenting his pride and joy. "Made by Muramasa himself if ya can believe it! But I'm always lookin' for new Wakizashi and tanto-oh!"[break]
He is cut from his yapping by their entrance into the proper armory. Guns, bullets, swords! A playland for killers. Each of them perfect, purchased and forged with top dollar money. He trails after her, taking in everything. The place smells of gunpowder, polish, and well-maintained metal. No rust lingers in the air. Whoever Rocket's official armorer is, they know their craft well.[break]
The dog enjoys the ambient silence, too. Other than their voices and the movement of others outside, there is a certain stillness in the air. It reminds him of the moment before he draws his sword, a calm before the killing.[break]
"Oh, that's a beaut!" He leans in, seeing his own reflection in the ripple along the blade. "Looks like it was made proper, too. None of this crap ya see on TV that they sell in malls!"[break]
Another blade catches his eye. This one is much longer than the one the forgemaster has presented. It is housed in a long violet scabbard decorated with dancing chrysanthemums. A man could hang his clothes on this blade.[break]
"Heeey, don't get jealous." He teases his own katana. The cloth on the end of the blade paws at his elbow, a child trying to remind a parent that it's there.[break]
"I found some trainin' dummies down one of the other aisles. Looks like some grunts cleared a space."[break]
Taking the lead, he unsheathes the long nodachi and holds it up. The blade is taller than him by at least a foot. Were it not for the high ceiling, he would scrape the roof.[break]
"Pfft. Look!" He points the tip of the blade at the training dummies. There are four of them, arranged like the points of a square. MATIAS SILPH, Greyson Connors, Navy, Melody Miro. A picture of each Elite Four member is crudely pasted over the heads of the dummies.[break]
"Yo, forgemaster, watch this!" He falls into a killer's poise without warning, rushing forward like he holds a lance. The immense length and relative weight of the sword is leveraged into a forward thrust that pierces one of the dummies clean through the head, tearing the picture of Matias in two.[break]
"I just killed Hermeas Dilf!"

lots of yapping before they practice.

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Her playful request sends a story's worth of emotions across his eyes in a flash. Concern is replaced with amusement which is followed by cold animal's eyes. Though the smile is still there, he looks at her without a mask or presumption. His first kill was with a knife, and it hearkens back to old days when he ran through Goldenrod streets like a stray.[break]
"Sounds fun!" He smiles, despite himself and those thoughts. Everyone seems to be in a good mood, and the cloud of black nostalgia breaks. It is simply a friendly match. They're having fun.[break]
He takes time as he looks over the knives. They're nothing special, but every individual knife is different, just as every person is different. Whether discussing humans, dogs, or knives, one truth remains the same: though each thing is made from the same blueprint, there are always differences in the final product.[break]
The dog's hands are small, smaller than one might expect a killer's hands to be, and that in and of itself necessitates he pay close attention to the knife he picks. Many are made for bigger men and bigger hands. The one he settles on is small, but its weight is immaculate. He holds a feather in his hand with a killing edge.[break]
"Wonder if you made this one, Iron Lady." He grins as he goes to the floor mat. The blade is tested as it is pilgrimaged under and over the empty space between digits. Every twist could lead to a cut, or pain, but they don't. The first lesson of knife fighting is this: accept the pain. Accept that you will be cut.[break]
"I'd be happy to help shell up yer sword fightin' skills. Only seems right." He settles into a firm grip, sliding his body so that he faces her sideways, almost like a duelist. Four fingers grip the handle, a calloused thumb split across the spine of the blade. A step forward, and he thrusts, quick as a Liepard bounding down upon an Audino. He tries to coax her into the rhythm of the practice, a delicate dance which would end in death, were they battling on the frontlines of Mosseep or Petalburg.

Aurelie Lefevre

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With the concession of victory given, the dog returns to the easy rest of a civilized thing. His knife is wiped clean with a cloth, given a brief oiling, and returned to its scabbard. Though he himself is no smith, he will not allow the metal to give way to rust under his watch. On some battlefield in the not too distant future, that knife might prove the difference between life and death for a hapless grunt.[break]
"Like I said, if ya ever wanna sharpen up yer skills, I'd be happy to help ya train." Another grunt rushes in with a first aid kit, doling care upon the SPECTRA agent and wiping away the blood. Perhaps the flesh will scar, but a few trips to the infirmary should prevent that. He's not in the business of collecting scars, unlike some folk he knows.[break]
"I'm just lucky that Senpai and the general see somethin' in me." Their eyes when he kills for them brings forth singular delight, once only reserved for she who holds his chain. "I'll stop by yer forge sometime. Really do need t'get a second katana and some other stuff ready for the war."[break]
With that said, and with the buzzing of his watch, he is told that it is time to go. Other tasks require his attention, and some would say he's dallied long enough in good company.[break]
"Catch ya 'round, Iron Lady." His grin shows gratitude for the permission to keep up the epithet. He leaves her with a wave, and prays that she finds good fortune in the coming war.

Aurelie Lefevre