[attr="class","spiral"]"I'm here t' say . . . no. I've been tryin' t', fuck, what about . . ." Plank murmurs to herself as she walks the pristine streets of Slateport's Upper District, on the way to an appointment she had all but lost faith in getting until a mere twenty or so hours ago. Her hands balled up in her basketball shorts, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her hair (drawstring pulled so it hides all but her nose and eyes, and muffles her voice).

Her father's been in prison for a couple months now, and since the day he went away she's been going through his contacts -- trying to figure out how to keep their name tied to their business. How to fill the shoes he left in their doorway. At least half of that time has been spent chasing his most elusive contact. A figure from an organization supposedly snuffed out by the League.

All of his contacts are vaguely recorded, smartly so, but this one is a different kind of puzzle. No gender, no hints of a name, and nothing but middle-men listed in uncertain terms to get in touch with them. Middle-men who were unsurprisingly hesitant to tell some mouthy teenager a damn thing -- even if she had proved herself at least a little bit by finding them.

Eventually Plank decided it wasn't worth the effort. She has other potential clients, other ways to keep the family brand afloat, and really who wants a piece of a dead gang's pie anyway? At least that was her mindset until she came home to a note taped inside of the door to her locked apartment in Pacifidlog; with a time and place printed plainly on it alongside some simple instructions.

"How the fuck . . ."

Ever since the address led her into the Upper District, Plank had been uncertain about its validity. But now, standing outside what seems to be a high end establishment -- a nice seafood restaurant -- she really feels like she's being had. Still, she walks in. Uncertain how a group like Team Rocket can set up shop in such a busy and pricy part of the city.

Not a second through the door she has a woman asking if she's in the wrong place and obviously unhappy to see her. Not surprising, Plank knows how she looks. Knows it's not a look associated with fine dining. With a sigh she loosens her hood and pulls it back.

"I've got a, uh," she shuts her eyes, trying to remember the words printed on the note, "I've got a reservation, with a VIP. A man in the shade." It sounds so stupid coming out of her mouth, but she watches as the woman who was previously hassling her straightens up a bit.

After a little more back and forth verifying her identity, Plank is led behind a counter, through a kitchen, and eventually to a side room. After letting her know her meeting is through the door ahead of her she's left alone.

When Plank pulls a hand out of her pocket to knock on the door it's shaking. Even in the lowlight of the hallway she can see it glisten with sweat, too. That won't do.

"Walk into a dealin' weak and you'll walk out cheated," Plank clenches her fist, echoing words she was taught a long time ago. After a few seconds the shaking in her hand stops, and she raps her knuckles against the door. Three strong knocks. And then, before anyone gives her permission, she swings the door open and strides in.