[attr="class","rigidw"]

Shaking the woman's hand in an amiable manner, his hand as warm as his smile, Nate settled back down into his seat, turning his sunny expression on the Delphox. Studying the pokemon's bowtiw with an admiring, speculative air, he remarks, "You know, that's pretty dapper, Finn. You'll cut a swathe through the hearts today, no doubt, dashing and all as you are."[break] [break]

With a wink at the vulpine pokemon, the broad-shouldered man turned his attention back to Jessie, reclining into his chair and shifting, striving in vain to grow comfortable. "So, what brings you to this kinda thing, Miss Jessie?"

[attr="class","rigidw"]

The Fixer had been doing the problem-solving gig for quite a while now, with jobs big and small, in locations far-flung, exotic, and as mundane as one could imagine. Throughout all that, he had noticed a peculiar trend in his clients and their designated targets - People absolutely loved acronyms. Just couldn't get enough of them. They bent themselves into pretzels shoehorning a vaguely appropriate series of kinda-sorta comprehensible words together, just so they could have a cool acronym. S.P.E.A.R. or G.L.A.I.V.E. or B.A.D.A.S.S. or something similar, and it was painfully apparent that they had picked the acronym first and worked backwards, rather than the other way around. Usually, anyway. He found it rather charming, in a way - A little bit of whimsy in an otherwise grim business, and he was the last person to begrudge someone trying to bring a bit of colour to the bleak business he often participated in. The latest in the long line of acronyms he had been attached temporarily to, or possibly would be, was S.P.E.C.T.R.A, which he couldn't decide whether it made him think of a car or a ghost, and so he elected to solve his conundrum via fusion - Ghost car. Which was, admittedly, pretty awesome. He'd like to see a ghost car someday. Maybe even drive one, if that was a thing that could be done. [break] [break]

Such were his idle thoughts as he went over his last series of gear checks, a routine that had so long ago become second nature to him that his hands and brain worked largely on auto-pilot, leaving him free to let his thoughts drift while they worked. Rough pads of calloused skin rasped over the enormous sidearm he favoured, methodically testing and searching for any tell-tale signs of necessary repair or misalignment, and finding none, moved on to the large calibre rifle. This new iteration of Rocket was impressive, admittedly - Moreso than its predecessor had been, when he had worked with them during the Kanto subjugation. Smarter, more subtle, and infinitely more likely to succeed by virtue of those two qualities alone. It certainly didn't hurt that they appeared to have an endless supply of money, or close enough to it. This submarine base they had going was nothing to sneeze at, and it wasn't just for show - He'd checked. The personnel seemed both disciplined and sufficiently kitted out in an ample supply of quality gear, and there was no shortage of high-end tech on display. [break] [break]

An excellent example of such was the arena that the participants had been instructed to assemble within. The Fixer studied the pristine area as the scanner swept over his form, the light reflecting off the curved, glossy black plating of his combat plating. He ignored the little, cheerful ping of his helmet's ID chip being successfully picked up by the scanner, instead allowing his gaze to drift up to the observation decks above, where it lingered for a long moment. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth was, as all his expressions, lost beneath the sleek cover of his helmet. 'An arena indeed. Are we to turn and face our venerated Caesars and cry 'We who are about to die salute you!'?' How very civilised this barbarism was. With a slight, courteous inclination to the figures behind the glass, the Fixer turned his attention to the other participants. [break] [break]


The heads up display projected onto his view of the surroundings shifted and flickered as it processed the information fed to it through the helmet's sensors, assigning tags to the individuals in the crowd and alerting him to the presence of pokemon and their associated weaknesses and traits - Though it came up with errors for two that seemed to be owned by a white haired male. That gave the Fixer pause. It was rare to have his database come up short for a pokemon, let alone two at once. What the fuck were those things? Concerning. He had to hope that he could learn enough about them in this little exercise to do some homework after, and devise a tactical doctrine tailored to each. Not knowing a pokemon's capabilities made him distinctly uncomfortable. Who knew what they could do, after all? Their trainer, presumably, but he didn't, and if you didn't know, you couldn't prepare, and if you couldn't prepare, life got so much harder. [break] [break]

Case in point, the young man and his freshly made puddle of vomit. No sick bag, presumably no preventative medicines taken to assuage an ill stomach, or whatever plagued him. Maybe nerves. He had that look about him. The Fixer had been there, once, many a moon ago, and he felt a rare pang of pity for the boy. Heavy, plated boots hit the grated floor without any attempt at subtlety or stealth as the geared-up mercenary made his way through the crowd to stand to one side of klaus anchoret , armoured fingers snapping open a pouch at his waist and extracting a small white disc, which smelled strongly of fresh, potent mint, which he offered to the younger man in a decidedly casual manner. The voice that emanated from the helmet could not, in any conceivable world, be mistaken for a person's natural speech. Deep and reverberating, it was obviously filtered through some sort of audio modulator, resulting in something that sounded like a demon had had a particularly throaty lovechild with a voice synthesiser. "Mint?" [break] [break]

[attr="class","needlelies"]

[attr="class","rigidw"]

Tyrunts did not balk or cower, no matter what they were faced with - And he, Ruin, was the Tyrunt of Tyrunts, a king among kings, and so he did not flinch when the Skrelp's slender snout came close enough to almost brush his own. He may have blinked, though, but that was because sometimes a pokemon had to blink, and he wasn't about to let his eyes get all dry and irritated for someone else's sake.[break] [break]
Solid and steady as a mountain, albeit on a much smaller scale, Ruin stood patiently where he was and watched the elegant creature - A Skrelp, according to the many lessons his trainer had drilled into him in order to identify threats - whip about to deal with some would-be usurper. Or maybe the Totodile was just a slowe learner, but either way, the appropriate reaction was the same. Absolute domination. He approved of the immediate and thorough dissuading of the water-type's misguided desires, letting out a low, shuddering series of sounds that were, unmistakably, laughter at the Totodile's expense. [break] [break]
When the lissome Skrelp glided back towards him and offered a fin in a gesture of peace, Ruin only regretted that he did not have longer arms. It made such motions more than a little awkward, and so instead of cheapening this momentous ceremony of peace between two worthy tyrants with graceless arm flailing, he lowered his head and tapped his snout against the fin, blowing out a breath of approval. This done, he rose, spying motion from the corner of his eye - A Marill, trying to sneak into the pond behind his ally's back. This would not stand! [break] [break]
With a guttural roar that reverberated around the pleasant pasture with considerably more volume that one might expect from one of his size, Ruin charged, bulldozing his way right into the Marill and knocking it away from the pool, where it law sprawled among the grass, too stunned to move. Seizing it in his jaws, the Tyrunt unhurriedly sauntered back to where the Skrelp Queen awaited, squeezing down on the squeaking, spherical water-type only a little before tossing it to the ground at her...Well, not feet. Fins? Before her. Tossing it down before her. [break] [break]

[attr="class","rigidw"]

He hummed as he walked, the thick soles of his polished black boots thumping out a steady rhythm to the melody as he wove easily through the milling crowd, noting with amusement the occasional flushed face, shining eyes, and expression of absolutely disgust. 'Ah, humanity.' As likely to recoil in revulsion from someone as fall madly in love, at events like this, or so it seemed to him. More probable, really, that most people would go home with a vague sense of disappointment and loneliness, wondering if it was themselves that was the reason they were alone, or if it was other people. [break] [break]
Dissolution, his Abra, seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the potent combination of utter disinterest and the soothing thrum of Fixer's bass humming, pressed up against the man's head as he was. Taking care to lift a supporting hand to ensure his beloved little friend didn't pitch off his shoulder and onto the floor, Nate settled himself into the chair - Which was, surprise surprise, far too small for someone of his considerable height. Still, there was pastries arrayed artfully upon a plate in the center of the table, and this whole shindig wasn't so bad, so far. He might even come to enjoy himself. Best to wait for his companion before trying one of the desserts, though - He didn't think it'd make much of a good impression if they came upon him with his mouth stuffed full of baked goods. [break] [break]
Gently running the backs of his rugged fingers along his slumbering Abra's cheek, Nate's vibrant, fiercely blue eyes lifted his second 'date' for the day, flashing a bright smile as he politely rose, offering a large hand. "Hey there. Name's Nate. Little fella dozing on my shoulder here is Dis, pay him no mind, he's not trying to be rude. A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

[attr="class","rigidw"]

Setting the oversized Tyrunt on the ground outside the Daycare, the Fixer, in his civilian getup, knelt down before the aspiring despot and looked him in the eye, expression stern. "Ruin, remember: No eating any other pokemon." A pause, in which several less than pleasant memories are briefly relived, and then he adds, "Or people. Don't eat anything other than the food they put in your bowl." A scoffing snort accompanied a dismissive turning away of the fossil pokemon's enormous head, which was promptly seized in his trainer's powerful hand, and forced back around so that the scowling creature was face-to-face with the Fixer, his features set in a flat, dangerous stare. "This is important. Don't fuck this up. You need to learn to play with others." [break] [break]
After reluctantly acquiesing with much grumbling, and being dropped off inside, Ruin stomped along beside the worker until they had made their way into the general enclosure where the other pokemon were kept. Paying no attention to the door that shut behind him, the Tyrunt surveyed his new environs with a predatory, speculative eye, studying the assorted pokemon for those that would be likely candidates for subjugation. His heavy jaws clacked together once in satisfaction as he spotted a particularly burly Geodude, and made a beeline straight for the other rock type.[break] [break]
After having used the Geodude as an impromptu bludgeon to bring the other land-borne pokemon into line, and being satisfied that they now knew who was king of the Daycare, Ruin turned his attention to the pond, and the ruckus that had been going on there throughout his own campaign of domination. Another successful conqueror, judging from the fleeing water-types, and while Ruin had absolutely no interest whatsoever in anything to do with water, he had little else to do, and he was curious.[break] [break]
Stomping over as if he were a fully grown Tyrantrum, and not merely a particularly outsized Tyrunt, the dragon-type approached the edge of the fouled pool and snorted, a rumbling greeting shuddering forth from his broad chest.[break] [break]

[attr="class","rigidw"]

Callouses, much like handshakes, could tell you volumes about a person. If you knew what to look for, there really was a veritable cornucopia of little signs that you could learn to read, interpreting them to divine hundreds of minute details about someone's life, their history, their work. It was a fascinating hobby in its own right, even detached from how useful it could be in his line of work. Idly, he wondered if it constituted a proper field of academic research. Maybe somewhere, in some lab or university, there was a group of seriously minded scientists writing papers on the minutae that made someone who they were. [break] [break]
So the rough pads of hardened skin on Daisuke's hands told Fixer that he was no stranger to manual labour, which he always appreciated in a person, but there were a few that were more likely to have come from extensive handling of guns, if he was any judge. And considering he had more than a little experience with firearms himself, he would put money on it - If he was the betting type, anyway. Gambling was a waste, the hobby of the rich and the desperate, and he was neither.[break] [break]
"Oh, I wouldn't put too much stock in badges, anyway. I've met plenty of people that never set foot in a Gym and could beat most Champions up and down the street. Best to be prepared and confident before you go in for a badge, anyway, I reckon." Turning his head to regard the Abra that was drifting aimlessly to one side of his shoulder, evidently bored out of his mind, Nate cracked a broad, boyish grin. "Why, thankya. He's a good sort, though he has no interest in this sort of thing, an-" Whatever he had been about to say was cut short by the loud buzzer that signalled the end of the current round of dates, which elicited an apologetic half-smile as he stood, collecting the Abra onto his shoulder. "Guess that's that. Was nice talking to you. Good luck with the training!" [break] [break]
With a languid wave cast over his shoulder, the big man strolled on over to the next table, his Abra leaning his head against Nate's and sighing heavily.

[attr="class","rigidw"]

The Fixer had to suppress a smile that, if allowed, would have been four parts amusement to six parts skepticism. A humble ranch hand, huh? And making a note to say how unexciting it was, too. Simply a private individual? It was natural not to want to bare your soul to a complete stranger, after all. Still, Fixer thought, as his eyes flicked casually down to examine Daisuke's hands for any tell-tale callouses that a ranch hand might possess, he'd been around enough cagey folk to have a good sense for this sort of thing.[break] [break]
His upraised hand drifted through the air in a lazy, flowing motion, illustrating the vagueness of Nate's response. "Security consultation, I'd say about ten years or so, but knowing people?" A quick, bright grin, sharp and mischievous. "That's a lifelong calling, I'd say. How long have you been humbly handling ranches? And how's the foray into training coming along? You have a fine Audino there." This last observation was accompanied by a polite nod to the pink and cream pokemon, a warm, genuine smile turned briefly DeDe's way.[break][break]

[attr="class","rigidw"]

A handshake could say a lot about a person. The Fixer had shook hands with just about every type of person imaginable, and thus had a masterful understanding of what could be communicated in such a brief contact, or so he liked to think. He'd met big men, real bruisers, who were desperate to be seen as strong, so desperate that it betrayed the aching vulnerability of their inner self. The crushing grasp, the overlong hold, the wide-eyed stare, the lean-in; All classic moves of the bully, the little man trying to be a big person, and failing. [break] [break]
Nate did none of these things. His handshake was firm, solid, and simple. It conveyed self-assurance without exerting undue force, and it came with a pleasant crinkling of the edges of his eyes. Lowering himself back into his still-too-small chair, he draped his right arm over the wooden back, his left hand and shoulder rising in a slow, expressive shrug. "Oh, this and that. Odd jobs, security consultation, that sort of thing. I'm the guy who knows a guy that can put you in contact with the solution to your problems, kinda deal." [break][break]
An upturned flick of his fingers, his tone pleasant as he asked, "Yourself?" [break][break]