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'Gavin' hasn't heard from his sister in years. She understands his need for distance, had taught him all he needed to know about covering his tracks in the online world. As his mentor in cyber-security, she also always knew how to find him.[break][break]



Rustboro is bleached by the dying sun, its waning rays providing just enough light to navigate through the narrow streets of the olden district. Gavin keeps to shadows and back-alleys; a Rocket needs not fear the criminal element of the city, and the Crobat that follows like a winged shadow is enough to stave off would-be instigators. He arrives at the given location before the sun is swallowed by the horizon, the door cast in a shifting orange glow as Gavin pushes it open. It creaks with the pain of age.[break][break]



He is greeted like an old friend by the comforting scent of books both ancient and pristine. A nervous energy thrums within him as he greets the wizened proprietor and orders a coffee, black, before being pointed to the stairs. Sipping at the still-hot beverage does nothing to relax him.[break][break]



He has always taken great pains to avoid discovery.[break][break]



Yet Remiel is not greeted with a mask as Gavin slips quietly into the upstairs lounge. He has not dyed his hair, ditched his glasses, nor made any other attempt to conceal his identity as the Rocket agent known to them as 'Gavin Merlino'.[break][break]



He does not know how dangerous Remiel is. The man is an admin of Rocket, however, and this dictates a need for caution. He is armed, though the gun holstered snug against his chest beneath the jacket may as well be invisible.[break][break]



"Mr. Calcifet... sir." There is a notable pause before the formality, and Gavin dips his head. He claims the second lounge chair for his seat, fingers lacing in his lap. He cants his head, curious but wary. "My sister speaks highly of you."[break][break]



The rest is unspoken: 'She's the only reason I'm here.'



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As they exchange words, Gavin's sharp hazel eyes analyze the man in front of him. His mannerisms, the subtle lilts in his voice. His choice of words, carefully deliberate. Saoirse had seemed enraptured by the man; Gavin unravels the why of this as he listens.[break][break]

"She is a solitary lass, for certain." He'd long since relinquished any fruitless desire to sway her otherwise. "I don't ask favours of her lightly, nor she of myself."[break][break]

Both kept their communications limited to dampen the risk of their link being discovered and exploited. They had subtle ways of letting the other know that they were still alive and well, but this had been the first conversation they'd had in years.[break][break]

Though his eyes do not stray from the man across him, Gavin studies the room in his peripherals. He'd noted the most important things upon entry (escape routes, potential points of cover, dead-end traps) but now takes in the mundane. It's the sort of place he might spend his free time. Though he doesn't allow himself to relax into the lounge chair as he might if he were alone, he notes its comfort. The book placed on the table between them has not escaped Gavin's interest since he'd arrived.[break][break]

"Your warnings have been noted. They're not why I'm here." He is confident that he would not have been found if not for his sister. "I don't think they're why you're here. It was Pádraig you asked for, first."

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Quinn.[break][break]

How long had it been since he'd cast off his family name with the intent to disappear? He thinks it must be getting closer to a decade. Hearing it again on the lips of another, unrelated individual is foreign and slightly uncomfortable.[break][break]

Cillian stares at the book for a long time. That its pages had turned of their own accord was doubtless the work of some kind of ghost Pokemon, and concerned him far less than the implications of this book's existence. He'd done some digging on his family name before, and this had not been mentioned once. Suspicion curls at the edge of his mind... but curiosity burns bright, like flame.[break][break]

He leans back in his chair and finally raises his eyes to meet Remiel's. Curious, but guarded still.[break][break]

"You mentioned a hidden association. Or, rather, you mentioned it to my sister." His thumbnail digs into the soft flesh of his palm. "That we're targets for our ancestry. Why? More importantly, why do you care?"[break][break]

Kindness does not blossom often between strangers. He is convinced that there is some ulterior motive.

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Sharp hazel eyes follow Remiel's every movement as he makes his way to the window; though Cillian appears relatively relaxed, he's ever-conscious of the gun's weight against his chest. The Rocket admin is silhouetted against the dusk, dying orange light catching on the glasses of his guest.[break][break]

"So it's you against him," Cillian surmises. "How many ancestries are detailed in this book? How many have you found... and how many has he?"[break][break]

What Cillian doesn't say is this: he appreciates a man who finds other ways to tackle a problem than violence and brute force. Science can be summarized as solving puzzles with the backing of a bright mind, and, in Cillian's case, a university degree. Though he had done far worse things under Rocket's orders than kidnapping and, some would argue, worse than even murder, such things were not his passion.[break][break]

Science is a passion. And, unbeknownst to most, history. His hunger for knowledge is insatiable, and it prowls at the back of his thoughts.

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Well-funded? Cillian frowns at the knowledge. His index finger rests in the dimple below his chin, other hand drumming seemingly senseless patterns against his thigh. His frown deepens, brow furrowed, at the sound of a woman's voice. It's down below, distant and muffled, but there's a familiar cadence that gives him pause enough for Remiel to continue uninterrupted.[break][break]

Fifty people was no small number; had his sister not gotten into contact with him, Cillian might have spared a thought for her safety. She's a smart girl, however, and with the warnings Calcifet had given, he has no doubt she'll be fine.[break][break]

"Only the one?"[break][break]

His brows arch, and he's gearing up to make a point — much as they bore him, Cillian understands numbers and probabilities, knows that Remiel seems to be on the losing side — when the clack of heels upon the steps draws the attention of both men. Not having been warned that they might have a visitor, but also remembering the familiarity that he'd registered in the sound of her voice, the Rocket scientist is cautious but not as alarmed as he might have been.[break][break]

It's still a surprise when she enters.[break][break]

"No need for introductions, sir," Cillian insists, rising with a slow grace. "We've met. Though you never mentioned you were a Nightingale, Isra."[break][break]

It's a shadow from his past, a name he'd not expected to find here. Sinnoh was a long time ago, now.[break][break]

"And you never mentioned we'd be entertaining guests, Mr. Calcifet. One might say this looks like a trap."[break][break]

He laughs, soft. He has positioned himself carefully to keep eyes on them both, though he is conscious of the fact that they block both exits. Six rounds in his gun, but he's outnumbered and their reflexes could be equal or better. His heart's steady rhythm picks up, but his placid expression does not falter.

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Isra's laughter sees Cillian narrow his eyes. Skin prickles under her teasing, and the scientist draws no amusement from the situation. Perhaps to them it is some kind of game; Cillian's upbringing has seen to it that such situations are never to be underestimated. When the Quinn family need to deal with a problem, they send in those their victim trusts the most.[break][break]

It's not until she moves from the stairs that he allows himself to relax ever so slightly. He shifts position to be closest to the stairs, and his heart pulses in steady rhythm beneath cold gunmetal. Thump, thump, thump.[break][break]

"That situation was entirely different."[break][break]

Open space, multiple exits, armed and dangerous. His Crobat had scouted for hidden visitors and found none.[break][break]

Hazel eyes flick to Remiel as the man apologises, appreciative of the contrasting sincerity of his words. Blond brows lift at the implication. "So she is your 'one'. I see. That changes things."[break][break]

Though aggravated by her laughter, Cillian has a certain respect for Isra — and in the Nightingale name he's now learned she carries. He would not want to see her on the opposing side. She asks after his Alcremie, and his lip twitches.[break][break]

"She is acclimating, however slowly."[break][break]

A flash of red lights the room, and Cillian's Alcremie appears on the coffee table. Isra had last seen her dulled in colour with a lack of sweets decorating her creamy composition; the fairy-type appears healthier, now, little strawberries nestled in her cream. She is no less skittish in temperament, though it is Cillian she looks to for some kind of stability.[break][break]

"It's all right," he says, quietly. "You've met Isra before, remember?"

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