"Still look pretty young to me," John echoes del Mar's thoughts aloud. It's bolder than he'd usually be, but maybe it's the drinks bolstering him. When he was his boss's age he was barely out of the circuit and still thinking this office gig was just a strange kind of sabbatical. Young and dumb.

Maybe it's not fair to compare himself, so average, to someone so exceptional though. A CEO. A skilled trainer. The kind of person you might recognize on the street.

He nods along as del Mar sings the praises of that great Kalosian city. There's not a lot John can offer in reply. There's little and less he knows of foreign lands outside of pictures and wiki entries. All he knows is Lumiose is beautiful and the people supposedly of a different breed -- sophisticated and ritzy.

The same can be said for Jubilife (the lack of knowledge, not the impression). So John finds something else in the sentence to reply to.

"Tech . . . you know, I've been thinking you must be some kind of boy genius but that just about cements it," he says. In another mouth it might have been sarcastic or teasing, but coming from John it's earnest and fond. He wonders for a moment if it's inappropriate to be proud of your boss.

John doesn't think he needs to justify the "pro trainer" gag with a response. The eye roll and the fact he spends 70 hours a week in the office is an answer better than any he could vocalize. And he doesn't want to vocalize it beside. As much as he sets himself up for these jokes, they sting. No matter how much he tries to build calluses over it that bit of his skin is thin as it ever has been.

So instead he finishes his drink, orders another, and follows the line of conversation his boss has so graciously laid out for him.

"Where was the last place you lived?" he asks over the sound of his third glass clinking against the first two, "Man like you, had to be some place like . . ."

He thinks, his fourth drink arriving just in time to swirl while he does.

"Lumiose."

"Don't give me too much credit, now," John sighs, weariness creeping back into his tone even as his own small smile tugs at his lips, "It's not exactly 'through thick and thin' between Slateport and me."

It's moments like this that John wishes bar stools had backs, so he could lean back and swivel around while reminiscing. As it stands he has to settle for the inverse. He settles onto his elbows and swirls his drink in its glass. An appropriately pensive position, he thinks.

"I left like any other kid to do my turn on the gym circuit daydream," he says. He can remember it like it was yesterday. He and Dess, just a little Whismur then, heading out into the big wild world. His hair was still long and he still wore that god awful jacket.

"But then I came back like most kids, too. When it didn't pan out. That's when I became a lifer," he nodded and finished off his drink before tapping on the bar and hailing the bartender over ('whiskey. cheap. neat, please.'). Still, John played with the empty glass a bit longer. It scraped gently against the bar top as he slid it back and forth.

"Didn't leave again until Rocket, but I don't think you can hold that one against me."

His whiskey shows up and he holds it up to Martin in another, admittedly somewhat sarcastic, toast before draining most of it.

"Beautiful city though. As good a place as any to spend your time."

John doesn't immediately turn to look at the person addressing him.

"Ah, yeah, I guess that makes sense," he replies, words chopped up by his attempts to dig his fingers in and twist this damn berry off the branch it's affixed to. It's only once he manages this great task and drops the spoil in his basket -- and once he's promised a better pair of gloves -- that he turns his eyes downwards to see the person offering him gloves.

And even then he doesn't see. His eyes land on the gloves (which he takes) and then his basket (which he puts down so he can put on the gloves) before he turns his attention back to the actual young man who's been so helpful.

"Thanks, I'm new to all this . . ." his voice trails off as he looks past the large hat the stranger is wearing. His mouth goes dry as his friendly, conversational smile changes to an open mouthed expression of shock and awe.

Holy shit.

"Holy shit," he breathes. Speak of the damn devil. Think of the damn devil? That's Cian Maher.

"You're Cian Maher."

The call to drink to Hoenn's chaos is met with appropriate zeal. John downs the rest of his first whiskey sour after a small toast in his boss's direction. The whiskey and lemon burn and bite in a way that forces some pep into him. He straightens up slightly before reaching for the second.

'Things have been pretty crazy as of late.'

Understatement is right. Not just because the latest event has been potentially the worst of it (it's hard to say outright if economic pressure and looming dread beats out cannibal aliens and titans from space) but because 'as of late' is doing a lot of work in that sentence. The initial Rocket invasion was damn near four years ago and it's been non-stop ever since. Just one thing after another.

John takes a long drink that drains his glass down to half. If this is going to be the mood of this conversation he needs to get off these froufrou cocktails and onto something straight and neat.

"Born, raised, all that good stuff," he replies after swallowing, fondness slipping into his voice despite himself, "Right here in Slateport, even."

Another sip. Another swallow.

The laughter from Gideon emboldened John as it often did. When Gideon went to move his arm he made a great show of pretending to fight the adjustment, pretending to try and press down on his arm at the same time it was lifted and giving up with a huff once it was about halfway to where he knew Gideon wanted him pointing. He "resigned" himself to his fate while leaning heavily on his other hand.

When the arm was released and the bartender arrived John kept up with the antics. He used his now free pointing hand to cover his eyes childishly so as to hide the drink. But he would only be so difficult. Once Gideon got into the spiel he always gave with these drinks he did part his fingers so he could see the cocktail and the man singing its praises both.

In truth John enjoyed the stories Gideon told about the origins and histories of his bougie drinks and cocktails. John's ignorance to them was another part of the bit, although his distaste for the pricey beverages was not.

"Unova? No wonder there's no liquor in it, then -- gods know they can't hold it," he scoffed playfully before reaching out to take the drink. He swirled the liquid in its flute glass for a moment. He sniffed it. Sweet scents rushed up his nostrils.

"Gods, it's like fruit punch," he complained with a pouting lip, but then downed it in one go anyway. It was citrusy, sweet, and just a little bubbly. It went down smooth because really what other choice did such a drink have?

It wasn't awful. Was quite tasty to be perfectly honest. It wasn't worth the price tag though, and it lacked the warm rush John liked from a good shot or the heady rush from a tall beer. So, John still put on an unimpressed expression; mostly out of obligation.

Hobbies. They're all anyone ever seems to talk about. What their newest success is, what creation they've been working on, how John 'doesn't have any ' -- which isn't really true if you ask him. He watches the pro circuit. He takes notes on the latest matches. He keeps track of his favorite trainers.

CIAN MAHER is his top choice to watch right now, since John Sullivan has taken a step back to focus more heavily on his military duties. It's a commendable thing Cian did, leaving Rocket, and he's a damn good battler. Interesting in the minor leagues but glowing in the majors.

Weather. What a concept.

Anyway, point is John apparently lacks hobbies; so he decided recently that he would try out gardening. Helping a friend from the night market harvest berries counts as gardening, right?

Either way he can't say he loves it. Admittedly, it's hard to tell if the berry harvesting is the problem or the weather. What kind of plant blossoms in autumn? Berries, apparently. At least some of them.

"Can barely get a grip on these . . ." John quietly gripes, trying to use the thorns of a tamato to make up for the lack of friction his thin gloves give him.

It takes a little more time for John to clear his throat of the sweet cocktail, but the not-at-all bothered smile helps smooth the process along. Martin Del Mar has never been the most uptight of bosses but if there's anything John's learned working in corporate, it's that it's always better to be safe than sorry. It's a relief to know he made the right call but didn't have to.

Once he's got a functioning windpipe again he takes a slow breath and gives his boss a thumbs up to make it clear he's okay, before taking another sip of his drink. Once he's got a clean swallow on the board he replies to the question.

"Sorry about that. You took me by surprise, boss," he says with a polite, apologetic smile, "you're right, it's Nelson. You can call me John, though, if you'd prefer."

He sighs at the mention of work.

"Man, I wish," it's probably too casual a tone to be taking with the CEO of one's company but, again, Martin is not your average CEO.

"Forget a long day at work, it's a long life in Hoenn. I don't know how much more of this my nerves can take."

Another sip. Another swallow.

"Great night!" John replies immediately, standing perfectly upright thanks to the momentum throwing his arms in the air provides, "record profits, lots of drinks, beautiful Lilycove!"

As he speaks he gestures. It compromises his gait a bit. He pitches forward one moment and to the side the next as he does his best to walk a straight line to the man he's (apparently accurately!) guessed is a cabby.

"But my guys they leave, they leave so early," he says with a fond smile and a shake of his head.

"Now I gotta figure out my own ride home but you're here so . . . Good!"

John throws the man a thumbs up before dramatically leaning back and taking his chin in hand to think about his question. The movement almost sends him toppling onto his ass, but he somehow manages to hold the "thinking man" without actually toppling onto his ass.

"I stopped at the ol' latrine on the way out so . . ." he nods a couple of times before giving another, more serious, considered thumbs up.

"I'm good to fly, captain!"

With the monster no longer chasing him down John could finally relax into his computer chair. For just a moment he pushed the visor of his headset up into his hair to wipe sweat from his brow. How embarrassing. VR or not, to be this shaken up by a video game encounter . . . It made him feel ancient.

Every time he tried to cut himself some slack ('But it looked so real') John remembered his father getting all wound up over old horror games and how hard he'd rolled his eyes at him. He wondered if the kid piloting the character that saved him was rolling their eyes.

Whatever, the visor went back over his eyes in time to catch gallowsCalibrator in the middle of explaining something about the gear. He scrolled up and speedily read his way back down in time to reply only a second or two late.


Scrolling through the emote options he found a more spirited "celebration" gesture that saw his avatar throw his hands in the air and release a poof of confetti from nowhere.

While he picked up the gear (and confirmed that, yep, each attempt to equip it was met with a pop-up and an angry sound telling him to level up first) he read over the last question from gallowsCalibrator. He turned to face the avatar again and tilted his head.

Theatrical pride lit up John's face at Gideon's "confirmed" scheming. He leaned heavy on one elbow, propped on the bar, and shook his head while the smile on his face only widened. What a good sport his buddy was. How lucky was he to run into him on the way out?

"Don't worry, Giddy. I could never hold it against you," he reassured the man next to him with more sincerity than he had his coworkers earlier. Despite the fact that the whole conversation was one long gag John found he meant it. Even if Gideon was some kind of sly fox tricking him into drinks, he didn't think he could find it in himself to be irritated. Not when things always ended so pleasantly.

Well, maybe he could hold some things against him. A little bit. Gideon was so reckless with his money! The moment he offered to buy him something John straightened up and let out a put-upon sigh.

"Another overpriced cocktail," he groaned with too much affection for his words to be believed, but leaned over the bar to point as far down the shelf as he could anyway, "right there, Giddy. That's the good stuff! But I guess if you're paying I can entertain your prissy palate. You did go through the trouble of tailing me after all."

It isn't often that he gets together with people outside of Slateport, not often at all. It's usually not worth the cost or the hassle but sometimes his workers deserve it dammit. Sometimes they smash a record and he decides treating them is the way to go. And it was! They loved it!

The only issue is he didn't think that hard about the after. For how he'd get home when he was inevitably the last one "standing". Which is why he's stumbling about Lilycove's streets past dark trying to figure out what his next play is. Maybe a hotel for the night? But he's got work tomorrow . . . Ah, they've gotta have flying taxis somewhere. Everywhere does now, have since they built ties with those other regions.

Sure enough he spots someone tending some kind of big bird under a street lamp, and they look kitted out too! Goggles and everything.

"Hey! Buddy!" he slurs, shouting through cupped hands, "How . . ."

John lists to the side, suddenly very sleepy, before shaking himself and standing as straight as he can currently manage.

"How much for uh . . . from here to Slateport?"