How did it happen?

Do you dream like your limbs are still there?

How long did it take to accept?

(Has she even accepted it at all?)

Orion smiles at her, tight and brief, before shaking his head.

"No questions. Thank you, Miss Wells."

Orion doesn't expect sympathy. Ordinarily, he even resents it, but the stark reality of Nikita's own prosthetics soften the defensive tightening in his chest. She knew, in ways that most who expressed their hollow sympathies did not, how it felt to lose a part of yourself that you could never get back. Pokémon were like that, too. Irreplaceable.

So he nods, accepting the reserved condolences of she and her Rotom both, before eagerly moving on when the screen is presented to him.

He doesn't balk at the price tag; he'd looked into how expensive such things could become if there was want for customization, and WPT's prices were more reasonable than many he'd viewed before. He's not hurting for money, and this is an investment in his ability to heal. If there was one good thing about his time served on the council, it's that it let him build up a nest egg for situations exactly like these.

"It does, yes," he affirms, nodding again.

Orion nods, accepting the risks. His features pull tight with sorrow as he shakes his head.

"Not any more. It was stolen when I was attacked." One of the many Pokémon that Rocket had taken from him, and not one that he'd managed to recover during his escape. The thought of his beloved Pokémon enslaved in the service of those who'd mutilated him turns his stomach, and he's quick to add, "But I've been looking into acquiring another. I specialize in Ghost-types."

He strictly avoided the Black Market unless the Pokémon came from a League bust, so the acquisition of a rare and sought-after Pokémon such as Rotom was taking more time than he'd like. (And, perhaps, grief means he's not searching as hard as he could.)

"It's recent," Orion confirms, and then laughs nervously. "I guess you already knew that."

It had been over a year ago, but at thirty, that was not too long ago in the span of one's life.

Orion's used to working alone. Rangers work best in pairs, in groups, but as one of the Elite he'd enjoyed the luxury of making his own rules. I need no partners but my Pokémon.

Now, he has no choice.

Tam Fawley has been gracious and even kind, in his own way, so Orion doesn't put up a fight when he's assigned a partner for a mission he's certain he could accomplish on his own. The copse of trees bordered by two well-worn paths connecting Verdanturf and Mauville are home to a variety of Pokemon, but it's a group of Ledian that capture the attention of the Rangers as the summer winds to a close. Dust shimmers delicate and beautiful in the setting sun, signs in place to warn travelers against disturbing the air. Of course, signs won't stop those who refuse to read, and thus patrols are put in place to protect the sacred spawning ground.

It's against the signpost that Orion leans as he waits for Caleb Harcourt, orange sunset catching on the metal of his prosthetic arm. At his left side, an Absol sits attentive.

mission: sparkling spawning

He's doing you a favour.

It takes Orion a moment to grasp beyond the agony of change, but Tam's meaning sinks in as the captain breaks Orion's gaze to retrieve something from his desk. His punishment could've been worse. His suspension could've been longer. He might not have been allowed to rejoin the rangers at all, or been forced to redo qualifications and training to properly sand down his ego. Tam is doing the least amount of damage to his pride and his job without costing himself anything in the process.

Though instinct screams at him to break the discomfort of eye contact, Orion holds it for a long moment out of respect.

He didn't have to ask.

Quietly, Orion decides that he likes Tam Fawley.

"That's — that's fine, yeah." He looks away, embarrassed when his voice cracks. Hold it together. He doesn't start crying, at least, and though his cheeks flush he clears his throat and persists. "Thanks."

Orion nods as the benefits of titanium are explained; they all sound like positives, and the picture is more visually appealing to him than the flesh-coloured one had been.

He expects to shut down the idea of any custom features besides a particular one he'd heard about from others, but the mention of pokeball storage does startle a genuine laugh out of the former ranger. "That sounds kind of convenient, actually." His smile lingers only briefly, but its presence does serve to soften his ordinarily rigid features. "I've heard some prosthetics can interface with Rotom, to provide additional functionality. Does your company offer anything like that?"

He glances instinctively toward the monitor where her own had inserted itself, curious.

A glance is spared when Nikita crosses her legs, unable to avoid a glimpse of the prosthetic, but Orion is kind enough not to stare. She exudes an air of confidence that he can only dream of, but ogling was unkind no matter one's outlook.

"Kind of," he admits. "I mean, I don't know much, but I know I'm not trying to make it look..." He frowns, brows knitting as he tries to find a better word, but finally shrugs and settles on the original, "...real."

He had lost the arm. He would never get it back.

Look at it as a step forward, not sideways. The advice of his therapist. Technology these days is amazing.

"I am — I was a Ranger." That's in his file, but what he hadn't included was that he'd lost his job due to a poor attitude and an utter inability to cope with his newfound disability. This was a part of trying to rectify that. "I need something heavy duty enough to return to work without being a," he grimaces, "hindrance to my squad."

Orion is nervous. Palm sweating, dry mouth, racing heart.

It's not a big deal, he tries to convince himself as he glances around the meeting room, scraping his gaze over potted plants — anything to avoid looking at the smiling faces of customers on the TV screens. He can't share in their happiness. In a sense, this feels like giving up. He's been in denial for so long, as if avoiding prosthetics might some day return his arm to him.

He startles when someone enters the room.

"Go — good morning," he returns, awkwardly clearing his throat when his voice catches. He shakes her hand, unsure of where to look. He settles on eye contact, even if it made the back of his neck prickle, for he worries that she might not take kindly to him staring at her own prosthetic limbs. "That's right. I, uh, heard about your company from a friend."

Several people had, not unkindly, suggested WPT as a solution for the elephant he so often brought into a room. He'd sworn to avoid it, yet here he is.

That's one thing the two have in common: a lack of care. Orion could ask what Tam's reason for joining had been, if not the obvious, but instead he simply lets the comment die in the air between them.

"Those are my reasons," he insists, stubborn.

Truthfully, he can't imagine doing anything else. He'd tried his best at the council job and it had run him ragged and lost him his left arm, so whatever hell the Rangers want to put him through has got to be easier than that.

Or so he thinks, until the words click.

Orion wears his heart on his sleeve, so the flashes of shock, dismay, and anger are fairly plain to read. His right fist curls at his side, nails digging into his palm, but a soft chuff from the Absol seems to stop whatever foul comment might've followed his sharp intake of breath. He feels like he's going to tear up, for a second, which only angers him more, and proper words choke in his throat as he's quite literally forced by his own biology to process this with more dignity.

What did you expect? A promotion?

They could have refused to give him his job back at all.

He closes his eyes, exhales, and nods his head.

"Yeah," he grumbles, resigned. "I could. Can."

The worst part? Orion is in therapy. He's on his third therapist, actually, because the first one didn't like his attitude and the second one moved to Kalos because Hoenn was a fucking mess. Third one might've done the same if not for the barrier enclosing the region, so that was a blessing in disguise. Maybe. Orion doesn't really like therapy. Shocking, right?

"Tam. Right."

Just like Lars. It had taken years to break his bad habit of referring to the head ranger as Anderson, but Tam benefits from that long-term conditioning with immediate acceptance.

He doesn't expect the hard-hitting question right out the gate, but there's no accusation in the Captain's tone. A quick glance at the other man reveals a calm demeanour, so Orion's infamous anger remains flickering embers for now.

"I've been a ranger my whole life." A tad defensive, and not really the answer Tam was looking for he's sure. "Protect the Pokémon, save the environment; why else would anyone be a ranger? Not like I'm in it for the bureaucracy." Watch your mouth, Lykos. That's what had gotten him suspended in the first place. Rocket seemed to have robbed him of his filter as well as his arm. "Sorry," he mutters, begrudging. "Not in it for my social skills either."