John gives Cian's hand a firm shake as they make their introductions (or rather, as Cian recognizes his own) before returning it to his side.

It's a bit of a surprise, how humble Cian seems in person. Almost bashful. In his interview with HBS he'd seemed incredibly confident and straightforward. In his gym battles he comes across as meticulous and eccentric. Neither image quite aligns in John's head with the somewhat unsteady kid in front of him right now.

It's not a bad thing. If anything it endears John to the gym leader even more.

"I mean, I don't mind if you don't," he replies gently to the younger man, smiling faintly.

"And I hope you don't mind me saying, but you shouldn't feel guilty about any of it. It -- and really, feel free to tell me to keep it to myself if I'm overstepping -- isn't like you're the reason your family was in Rocket. You getting out is the right thing to do and you speaking out is proper, too. All that said, it's hard to imagine your family would have anything to hold against you."

He nods and smiles a bit wider.

"I'm sure, like you said, that it'll all be worth it in the end."

Cian would have every right telling him to mind his business at this point. It's not like John knows him personally but, seeing the younger man so vulnerable, it feels wrong not to say something reassuring.

John could imagine exactly how well received the 'ballmaster' was by a young player base; in large part because John struggled even in his thirties to completely rid himself of his crude, teenage sense of humor.

It was a good thing his character's expression and his own were separate from one another. It would have been mortifying to embarrass himself in front of this kid again by letting him see just how hard he cracked up at the unfortunate NPC's title.



The more tame message was sent once he'd organized his new items in his inventory. The gear was categorized by slot and then further sorted by level needed to wear it. He already had a few more grey pieces of gear that were above where he currently sat, but lower than the new green gear required.

John's character dusted off his hands with another scroll of the emote wheel.

gallowsCalibrator's explanation made him want to look for some kind of 'head in hands' gesture instead. Really? He'd managed to miss an entire tutorial? He didn't even know there was magic in this game! He thought all the skills were just flashier sword swings and little stat buffs.

He tried not to betray his frustration with himself too much when he replied, however.



Oh, he left the language filter on. He'd get to that later.

Holidays? Kind of blow! That's John's take on the matter at least. It's the perspective he's had for a while, to be honest. For almost as long as he can remember. The list of things a tense household spoiled for him is far too long for him to bother keeping anymore, it's more than good enough to say that festivities are one of them.

That's not even the whole of it as an adult, however. Age has given him not experiences to soften that perception but instead only emboldened it. As his social circle shrank the opportunity for get togethers shrank with it and now that he's working management for a company, well . . . it's fair so many employees beg off but god is it ever a nightmare keeping the office staffed around any Big Day(tm).

And Christmas is the worst of them.

Especially since Christmas is the only one that requires he take time away from other responsibilities to prepare presents. At least now he's halfway decent at the task, the first couple years that he was part of management they eventually gave up and put him on 'tape duty '; his gifts had all come out wrapped like a drunken Zangoose had done them (an insult to MC, who he doubts would have struggled nearly as long as him -- claws or no).

(Double) at least there's snacks. The fruitcake made by someone in HR is solid, a rare accomplishment for the dish.

"Things are looking alright," is John's reply when his boss breezes in. He doesn't even look up to greet the man, too focused on trying to get this wrap job done just right.

"We're on pace to finish wrapping for the building by the end of tomorrow," he says when he's done, finally looking over his shoulder to take in del Mar, "The sweaters were a good touch for this year's haul, by the way. Real appropriate for the season and . . ."

He pauses as his eyes return to the pile of gifts (where his newly wrapped parcel is bound). Is it just him or . . . is it a bit smaller than when he last looked?

"Yeah I'll keep my eyes peeled" John replies in a similarly light-hearted tone, but with the same underlying seriousness of someone who knows the underbelly the city now unwillingly supports. Slateport has never been the safest city in Hoenn but it's no secret that Team Rocket has never fully let go of their initial foothold in the region.

Thankfully he lives in the Upper District, and knows which places to avoid on his walk back from the Lower.

"You have a good one, too, boss," he says with a small wave as del Mar exits the bar. He polishes off the other man's gin before pounding a glass of water and heading off.

The air is as nice as he thought it would be. The moon more beautiful than it's been in months.

"Ah they're alright with the stomachs they've got," John waves the other man's comment off with a dismissive gesture, "They just, got better things to get up to after a certain hour."

Families to run home to, kids to tuck in. Can't fault them for that. It wouldn't be fair. Easier to do if he doesn't think about it, too, so he pushes forward to the more important matter of business the moment it's in the air.

"50 PD to Slateport . . ." he pretends to consider it very seriously. He pulls out his wallet and looks inside with exaggerated gravity, fingers through the bills for a couple seconds before plucking some out with a broad smile.

"Seems fair to me!"

While John closes the distance between himself and his ride he flips through the bills, counting. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty . . . and then he smiles wider before continuing. Sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred. Who cares about fair? In temper or toll.

He'll be put out by his coworkers and this cabbie will walk away with a handsome tip. That's better than fair.

"Keep the change, pal," he says, managing a surprisingly smooth handshake-into-money-handoff despite his drunkenness. After which he wastes no time approaching the bird they'll be taking off on. Not one of those big steel ones funny enough. As he gets close he realizes he does know which it is though.

"Ah, a Braviary!" his excitement is on full display as he practically shouts before holding out a hand to the pokemon, "You look real uh, unique! You look unique though, Stratos. What's your story, huh?"

John's hands return to his side as Cian seems to settle. It's an intentionally slow movement, not so dissimilar from the way he's gestured at spooked alley Meowth outside his apartments: 'I'm cool ' it says, 'no danger here '.

"Yeah, sorry about that, I didn't think," he replies, fighting the urge to mirror the gym leader and reach for the back of his own neck.

"It's really brave by the way. What you're doing," it's kind of a stock platitude but John delivers it as earnestly as he can, "I think everyone knows what Rocket's capable of these days. It takes a lot of guts to . . . but you don't need me to tell you."

Then he does actually rub at the back of his neck before offering a hand to shake.

"Anyway, my name is John, it's an honor to meet you."

The beach is far from John's favorite place.

Sand gets everywhere, the throng of people all hours of the day are exhausting, and the noise. Wingull, children, partiers -- it's all too much.

But most of that falls away once night comes.

Practically no one cares to be by the water after dark; when the chilled air of night is made all the colder for proximity to the ocean. And that's why John loves it.

The noise of people and screaming 'gull is replaced by silence, broken up only by the crash of mild waves. Without his other senses being so abused John feels like things look better and he can smell the salt on the air in a way that makes his blood rush for reasons he can't possibly explain.

The sand still sucks, but what can you do?

It's this love for the beach at dark that draws him to it this evening, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He stands ankle deep in the water with his trousers rolled halfway to his knees with eyes shut. He's at peace. At peace and completely oblivious to the stars in the sky growing closer, and closer, and closer.

"I sure hope so," John sighs. Half out of exasperation at the idea of it -- it feels like he's always mentoring someone in the office, it never ends -- and half out of relief that his off-hand statement didn't ruin the mood of their little heart-to-heart. The last thing he needs tonight is to be the reason one of his team gets sacked.

With no drink in front of him to distract him it's impossible to miss the way his boss reaches into his suit. The gleam of his key stone (which he tries not to stare at, or be jealous of too obviously). Etiquette dictates that John should argue when the wallet comes out, but to be honest? He doesn't have it in him right now. The man is richer than him by who knows how much -- let him cover the bottom-shelf liquor he's been drinking.

There is a line, though, and it's drawn at the offer for a ride.

"Nah, I'll get a cab. Or walk, now that I think about it," that actually sounds really nice . . . walking home under the moon; knowing there's no dome separating him and the celestial body. The cool air on his skin in a Hoenn safer than it was yesterday. A chance to soak it in before the sun explodes or whatever is next for the region.

"Yeah, I think I'll walk. But thanks for the offer, boss."

It's an interesting answer del Mar gives him: 'skills'. Not necessarily the answer he wanted to hear, too, but when is anything so simple for him? He runs through the portrait of his younger self looking for skills that might have been desirable. By the end there weren't many.

His confidence had dried up, his battle tactics had gone rigid, his ability to talk to others took years to recover. But before the end?

Used to be, you put a pokeball in his hand and John could try anything. Fight any pokemon, face any trainer, talk himself up. Maybe if he had met his boss earlier -- if he wasn't his boss, but instead his friend or his rival -- that part of him could have been saved.

It's a nice thought. A daydream at best, but the picture of himself in his prime with someone who could help him realize his strengths and put them to work? What he wouldn't give to see that timeline -- maybe it's just life in one of those universes they're supposed to be connected to now.

Too bad he's stuck in this one.

"Please, sometimes I worry half my department would forget how to find their feet if I weren't there to direct them. They have a ways to go before they can start acting like assholes -- or I guess until I have to tell them not to because they're just so good," he throws out easy, with a lopsided grin that very abruptly vanishes as he remembers who he's speaking to.

"Not that any of them are underperforming. They're all doing their best just . . . ya know. They're on their way."

John wonders if maybe it's time to stop drinking and head out. He's getting a little too comfortable with the boss.

John isn't sure what he's expecting when he asks for his boss's secret to success. Or rather, he isn't sure which of things he's expecting are going to come out. A joke, in line with some of the other conversation they've had tonight? Something prepackaged and insincere, or frustrated? A bunch of obvious fucking bullshit?

He never imagines that the answer he gets will be as earnest as it is. Equally brimming with the enthusiasm and unwavering confidence of someone speaking their will onto the world. John goes from grinning, to thoughtful, to sipping his drink in rapt attention as del Mar goes from point to point.

What a guy. To speak so sincerely to some middle manager in a seedy bar.

Neither does he expect how much the words affect him. Where they hit, and how hard. Del Mar doesn't just give him the secrets to business, he gives John his philosophy on success as a whole. On the way one needs to act to be rewarded by the world in whatever they pursue. He can't help retroactively applying them to his past self.

Memories flood to the surface of weeks of training ending in pain. Of his energy and creativity and confidence slowly draining out of him like blood from an open wound every time the wall ahead of him refused to budge. An old bitter ache and anger at himself blossoms as he's read a laundry list of tools for success that overlap very little with his mindset by the end of his dreaming.

But then his boss says the most surprising thing. Just as John's resigned himself to accepting that he's not the kind of person who could ever do what del Mar did he slams his foot into the proverbial door.

'The most important thing, though, above all, is . . . you’ll never get anywhere all on your own.'

And he also remembers another part of the end. Nights studying, alone. Friends who'd given up long ago and peers who felt too far ahead or behind to help him. Inadequacy that choked him so bad he couldn't bring himself to talk to another trainer after the fifth, sixth, seventh failed attempt. It chokes him now.

"Allies . . . huh," he says on a laugh meant to hide the shining in his eyes, but just moves the water from his eyes to his throat. He turns away and blinks a couple times. Buries a cough under the last of his drink before turning back around like nothing happened.

"And what do you look for in your posse, boss? What singular trait do you look for before any other?" he questions with a smile.

The question is in line with the last but secretly, horribly selfish. Del Mar has admitted to appreciating John as an employee behind a desk, but part of John wants desperately to know if all those years ago -- if their ages were in sync -- if someone as bedecked with victory as him would have ever picked poor, struggling Johnny for his team.

John responds to the playful warning with an equally playful wink as he takes a slow mouthful of whiskey and swishes it around his mouth a bit. After a couple seconds he swallows it with a contented sigh. Heat radiates from his core -- the drinks are finally settling.

"I am an old man," he finally replies, grinning. It's only half in jest. Plenty would argue thirty-five is nothing (most people have more than half their life left still) but John still can't help but feel he's over the hump these days. Like his fire's gone out and now all that's left to do is bide time.

"Boy genius," John repeats emphatically, "Recognized in university, worked tech in your early twenties, and now hauling a whole bank further and further towards the top before you're thirty. Don't know what else to call you."

It's about now he decides he doesn't care if it's inappropriate. What a story his boss has got; he's proud whether he should be or not.

He leans in conversationally, conspiratorially, and quirks an eyebrow at del Mar's response.

"What else goes into it? If you don't mind sharing your secrets to success with this geezer."