[attr="class","spiral"]"Keep an eye out, don't let anythin' creep up on us," Plank orders Queenie, her Seadra, floating beside her, "Seems there's always at least one pokemon too gutsy for its own good in here."

As she walks through the cavern's tunnels Plank does her own due diligence keeping an eye out. It's a bit tougher than usual, though, on account of the number of things weighing her down.

Aside from her usual diving gear, she's carrying another two sacks on her shoulders in addition to a bundle in her arms. Hidden inside waterproof bags are a host of supplies.

In one bag nonperishable food, in the other some magazines and comics. The bundle in her arms? A tent to keep them covered.

The last time she was in the Seafloor Cavern she saw what she thought wouldn't make a half-bad little base. A small, out of the way tunnel that led into a cozy little space. Her mission today is to lay claim to it with what she's brought.

[attr="class","spiral"]"I'm not a fuckin' narc," Plank snaps back in a heated whisper, clearly a little offended at the thought that she'd ever rat someone out for anything. I mean, seriously? What kind of upbringing do you have to have to even consider turning someone in?

His mention of Rocket provokes two reactions instantly.

First, understanding of why she recognizes the young man in front of her -- emphasized by a second of widened eyes and a silent 'oh'. priam conrad is a pretty common name to hear around the base. Even as a newbie, she has some passing knowledge of the young man. She just didn't recall his last name; but who bothers with those anyway?

The second reaction, directly following the first, is an anxious twist to her face. Should they really just be calling themselves Rockets out in public? Even if they're whispering to one another it's not like the place isn't crawling with civilians (and no doubt League members, given the recent announcement by Declan Walsh).

"Uh, just call me Plank," she replies, eyes quickly darting around to make sure no one is close enough to hear their conspiratorial murmurings.

[attr="class","spiral"]Jack is not one to let an enemy simply retreat. He hops along Plank's shoulder, chasing the young man's retreating digits. He continues his pursuit onto her back, digging talons into her hoodie awkwardly as he attempts to sidle across the space between one shoulder and the other.

It's distracting. Just what she needs to get her to lighten up a bit.

"Okay okay Jack, I think he gets it," she protests, arching her back a bit to try and dissuade the Chatot's talons from scratching at her covered skin. By the time he's found his way to her other shoulder the tension Plank had felt upon the stranger's arrival has evaporated.

"Depends on what you're thinkin' of killin' time with," she replies with a shrug, "I'm not exactly trippin' over myself with things t' do, so . . ."

Plank is curious, but cautious. The mention of more friends coming and the potential danger of being in a group of strangers doesn't go unnoticed. The mention of fireworks is the exact kind of thing to take her mind off of it, though.

"Uh, yeah, that sounds cool as fuck."

[attr="class","spiral"]"I do have a point, don't I?" Plank wastes no time turning the scantest of praise into a chance to brag and preen herself. Her smug smile is hidden behind the makeshift mask her hoodie has provided, but the way her eyes sparkle when she nods in response to the man's direction couldn't make her mood clearer.

"Ya hear that, Princess?" She asks her Goldeen (who swims out in front of her at the sound of her name) in an excited whisper, "The moment I give ya the word we're gonna make these fools see stars!"

At the question from her partner Plank offers a knowing glance and a raised eyebrow. After a few beats of silence, just so he knows she sees what he's doing, she replies.

"I didn't, but ya can call me 'Plank'."

[attr="class","spiral"]Like down in the cargo hold, Plank finds herself fighting against the expectation of a certain response. In response to her vulnerability she expects some kind of jab. At the display of an unknown weakness she expects to be derided. She's already braced herself for it by the time she finishes her small "confession".

It doesn't come.

The recruiter instead offers . . . help? He promises to give her some direction and immediately follows it up with, as far as she can tell, clear and serious guidelines. No sarcasm. No insults. No passing swing at her lack of knowledge and experience. It's weird.

"Uh, yeah, okay," she replies, struggling not to look and sound as stunned as she feels, "Yeah I can do that no problem. Ya don't even have t' worry!"

The anxious air around her fades and her body language relaxes -- probably more noticeably than she intends it to. For the third time her smile returns.

[attr="class","spiral"]"I mean, I know how it works," Plank replies, her words more than a little defensive, before catching her bottom lip between her teeth. She worries at the sensitive skin for a moment before continuing to speak.

"I just," she sighs. One sweaty hand leaves her pocket to scratch at her scalp.

"Pop handled most of the business end of stuff, thought I was still too young." too stupid, more like. She takes one more sharp inhale before finishing the thought, "I've only just started doin' that stuff because . . . ya know. And nothin' as big as this."

[attr="class","spiral"]You're on the right track.

Her partner's response rubs Plank wrong. It chafes against her ego in such a way that when it hits her ears it registers as little but condescension. Doubt. She got enough of both on the boat ride to Galar a few days ago.

"The chaos is the fuckin' point," she objects, "If we make a big enough scene they'll be too busy doin' damage control t' all swarm us."

The truth is she's restless. Plank wants action, was hoping this mission would give her an opportunity to find some. A good excuse for a bit of mindless conflict.

She's just self aware enough to recognize this selfish desire; and so when she opens her mouth next it's to take a step back. To compromise.

"How 'bout I give ya a second t' handle the cameras, 'n' then we hit 'em hard 'n' fast," she says, "No cameras means no footage of us and my plan t' raise hell will go smoother."

[attr="class","spiral"]After a few more rounds of satiating her pokemons' begging the dumplings are put away; the container closed and then slipped into a drawstring bag. As tempting as it is to blow through them all as fast as possible, they'll be better served breaking up monotonous meals throughout the next week.

Plank has only just got the bag's straps back over her shoulders when an arm drapes over top of them. Instinctively her body stiffens as she attempts to shrug herself away from the stranger suddenly in her space.

Jack, situated on the shoulder opposite the new arrival, wastes no time moving in to bite at the foreign fingers now within beak's reach.

"What's it t' ya?" she replies to the man's question, brows knitted in anxiety even as her lips twist into a sneer. Her eyes scan the young man's face as she meets question with question. There's something familiar about him, but she can't place it.

[attr="class","spiral"]Unlike a certain other meeting with a certain other man, Plank waits for permission before barging in through the door she's knocked on. There's no need to put up a strong front here; and really if she's going to con the man out of his pokemon being polite is probably important.

The moment she's in the lab her eyes are scanning the space. Windows, corners, the door behind her and any other doors. She looks around not curiously but anxiously. Like she has to know the lay of the land before she can turn her attention back to the man in front of her. The professor.

Just looking at him she can feel the dull, petty irritation from a few days ago bubble back up.

Oh, it's this guy.

On second thought maybe this was a dumb idea. The guy was already treating her like some kid out on the water. Now she not only has to put up with it again, but lean into it? It's almost not worth it. Almost.

Free pokemon. She has to remind herself.

"Hey, so I saw this thing," she speaks plainly before digging into the pocket of her basketball shorts and pulling out a crumpled up wad of parchment, "Said somethin' about 'pokemon and guidance' for new trainers or whatever."

As she continues to speak she attempts to open up and smooth out the abused poster. It takes some doing, and a lot of crinkling sounds, but she eventually manages.

[attr="class","spiral"]Wright's primary duty in the garden is simple management. Plank's not much of a gardener herself, and with a mind and schedule as scattered as hers she'd be hard pressed to water the damn berries without the Bibarel there to do it for her. So most of his days are quiet and peaceful.

Still, sometimes trouble comes knocking. Wright's there to deal with that too.

The moment he hears the sound of something messing about in the berry trees he goes plodding into the garden. The Doduo still has its back turned when Wright nails it with a WATER GUN. It's sent stumbling away from the trees, berry juice dripping from its twin beaks.

Both of its wet mouths open to cry and holler at their assailant. It's mealtime! Does this Bibarel have no manners!? He doesn't. Another WATER GUN is only narrowly avoided thanks to the Doduo's AGILITY.

The heads of the Doduo bob in opposite time and its feet stamp out a steady beat in the dirt. A SWORDS DANCE, the wild pokemon is setting itself up to be a nasty opponent. Wright won't let it though. A YAWN from his bucktoothed mouth drifts through the air and catches the bird in the middle of its choreography.

The JUMP KICK it throws afterwards is fast and strong. Devastating. When it hits Wright he almost drops then and there, but he stands firm and confident knowing the battle is as good as done. The Doduo's heads blink, and then blink again. They wobble on suddenly weak necks before (bonk) knocking into each other as it falls limply to the ground.

Fast asleep.

That evening Plank stops by to share a meal with Wright and show him some love. He gets extra of both when he presents his prize from the day. She tosses a pokeball onto it before laying out their meal.

[attr="class","spiral"]Hull doesn't return to Plank's side after the fight, instead letting his eyes rove over the shadowy streets and alleys, hoping for another opponent to show themselves.

He paces restlessly as he looks and waits, stopping only when the Comfey approaches. For a moment he puffs up at its presence; but he relaxes a moment later when the FLORAL HEALING sprays out over his bruised body.

With a barely audible sigh he pushes out his wounded chest and lets the move hasten the mending process on the bruises and scrapes where PIN MISSILE landed.

Meanwhile, Plank's smug smile widens at the praise offered by the other girl.

"Yeah, he's a tough one. Damn good fighter," she says, pausing for a second after the stranger's question. The truth is Hull kinda came as advertised -- his skill doesn't have much to do with her. In fact Plank caught him because he put up such a good fight against her Carvanha, Baby.

Admitting that feels lame though. So instead she lies a little. What's the harm?

"Little bit o' column a, little bit o' column b," she replies with a steady smirk, "He was tough when we got 'im, but I whipped 'im into the shape he's in now."