Bradley? His brow furrows, but after glancing at the e-mail again he makes the connection with B. Dartmoor. His language was stiff and formal, but as someone with social anxiety Orion hadn't read too deep into the clipped tone. Arceus knew he was awful at e-mails. Still, Nikita had grown up around the man, so who was he to doubt?

He traps another apology behind his tongue, brushing aside platitudes in the hopes of something productive he might say to salve her grief.

But nothing would bring her family back.

"Whatever you're feeling, you can say it to me." It's the best he can offer her. "I know it's not the same as ⁠— someone who knew them." Who'd known her since she was a girl, who should have been there for her. "But you don't have to be without an outlet. That's what friends are for."

They didn't know each other terribly well, and yet Orion felt Nikita understood him in a way few others could.

"You don't have to decide right away. They can't force you."

Not with a barrier around the region and the world ending... but he keeps that morbid addition to himself.

"It's a kind of tree. It doesn't really look like her tree, but it sounded nice. I got the name from a book about the stars."

Though it had never been something he'd thought to pursue as a career, having hated the school experience, he'd had a passing interest in astronomy since he was young. It was another reason he liked Verdanturf over Lilycove; the stars were brighter in the countryside.

"That's where I got my name, too."

He doesn't normally talk about that, but he doesn't mind with Tam.

Speaking of Tam, the suggestion that they split up and he'd be forced to go door-to-door and confront strangers alone is mortifying. His eyes widen, lips parted on an objection when it occurs to him that Tam would probably hate that idea just as much as he does.

"Together. Please."

He knows how it feels to fall apart.

Not in this way, not for this reason, but the fear and uncertainty reflected in the glassy sheen of Nikita's gaze is one he's seen in the mirror one too many times. When life threw complications and your world shattered.

He didn't grieve for his own family, when one of his older brothers had perished in the Three Day War. They didn't deserve even a passing consideration in his mind. But he'd grieved for Annie Mei, for Ruby Walker, for others friends whose lives had been taken too early.

And he'd grieved for himself, for the person he'd been before Rocket's trauma.

He pieces together these scattered experiences and tries, in whatever way he can, to empathize.

"You're going to feel whatever you feel," he says, after a pause to find the words. "There's no right or wrong way about it. If anyone tries to tell you otherwise, well, fuck them." It's not the most eloquent, but hell. "You don't have to explain how it feels. Not to me, or to anyone." You just have to feel it, and endure it, and keep on living.

"I don't know much about running a company," he admits, with an apologetic grimace. "I was Council, but I wasn't Silph, if that makes sense. But isn't there someone else you could appoint, if it's not what you want?"

The Elite wants to handle it alone. Of course he does. They always do. Hell, Orion had been much the same way when he'd worn the blue armband. A lone wolf. He grunts, unhappy but compliant, and leans against the wall of the warehouse.

A scream splits the air, and the fur rises along Altair's spine as the Absol snarls. He doesn't leave Orion's side, but a glance at his trainer says it all: We're going in, aren't we?

Of course they are.

He's surprised to find the Elite unconscious, the smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh sharp in the air.

"Fuck that," Orion spits. Of course it was a fucking trap. "Hand that over and take your own advice."

Altair remains poised to DETECT any imminent thread to his trainer, and Orion sends out a second Pokemon. Silvally were a rarity, a scientific marvel, and this one looks ready for a fight. Its crest shines the fuchsia hue of psychic energy.

Orion's prosthetic arm pulses with a far darker hue, a NASTY PLOT forming courtesy of its Rotom inhabitant. It's that hand Orion holds out in expectation, expression unflinching as he stands guard over the fallen Ranger.

He had stalked her, too? "Caleb." Though scolding, Nikita's own amusement toward the situation softens his judgement. It seemed she'd felt more amused than threatened by his friend's attempt, but still.

His friend elaborates, not in a way that helps change Orion's opinion, but he does save himself with an offer to start over.

His cheeks flush when the topic shifts to him, and he busies himself with his glass of lemon water as an excuse not to interrupt.

Orion takes a delicate, polite sip of wine, anxiety discouraging a more heavy indulgence. Nikita looks as if she's on the verge of some kind of breakdown, and he wants to ensure proper ability to support her should his intuition prove correct.

Her request feels abrupt, but he doesn't protest.

He reads, quiet, an expression of concerned confusion softening to one of shared grief as he delves further into the e-mail's contents. He's heard of the attacks on Galar in the wake of Hoenn's own Darkest Day. He hadn't realised that Nikita's family were in danger.

No, not in danger anymore. Deceased.

"I... I'm so sorry." That doesn't quite feel like the right thing to say, but other words fail him as he opens and closes his mouth. He sets the tablet down gently and regards her with his emerald eyes wide and sad. "I don't know what to say," he admits, quietly frustrated with himself, "but, ah, I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

Even if it's just to get hopelessly drunk with a friend.

"So, what's the plan? Just go door-to-door and ask, or..."

Orion trails off, frowning as he looks at the Phantump clutching its pumpkin-shaped prize.

"Ceibo, where did you get that?" His expression contorts with sympathy when the spirit lets out a soft wail and clutches it tighter with her spectral limbs. "No, I'm not going to take it away," he assures, soft, and says to Tam, "Hope some kid's not missing their basket, too." He couldn't possibly rob the Phantump of her fleeting joy.

He shrugs at mention of the Skitty. "Might be used to it. This neighbourhood does have a lot of kids."

The place is grand, exquisite in its decoration. Orion feels dwarfed by the floor-to-ceiling windows as he follows Nikita inside, unsure of where to politely settle his gaze.

"This place is — really nice."

That feels inadequate, but he can't find better words.

It seems he's not alone in this, for Nikita doesn't offer up any clue to her condition beyond the immediate pouring of a second glass of wine so soon after she'd finished the first. He doesn't press her. Instead, he offers a fleeting smile in response to the question.

"Oh, yeah, sure."

Early evening casts its pink-and-orange hues along the silhouettes of buildings in Slateport's lower district, the setting sun hiding behind rows of mismatched houses and squat apartments. If there were train tracks running through the city, this would be the wrong side to be on.

But for as poor as the neighbourhood was, there was no lack of Halloween spirit in the pumpkins that glow from porches and windowsills, fake cobwebs stretched amongst the branches of barren trees. Children in costumes roam the streets in groups or with their parents, and laughter echoes through the neighbourhood at a time where many would normally be inside.

Orion quietly envies those kids their childhood.

"Some kid's Skitty was stolen?"

He and Tam Fawley are on the job, and it's Tam he turns to now with searching green eyes.

Altair lopes at his side, and on the Absol's back rides a shy Phantump clutching a little pumpkin-shaped basket. Seems Orion wasn't the only one feeling nostalgic.

Orion's a night owl. He prefers late shifts and evening hours, so he's not disturbed from sleep when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. He is surprised, for most he knew kept to regular schedules and wouldn't be up at this time. He knows it's not a Ranger emergency; it's set to ring, then, and loudly.

Nikita...?

His brow furrows as he reads the text a couple times over, processing. A personal matter. That didn't sound good. Anxiety and empathy for a situation he's not yet sure the status of war in the tightness of his chest.

He wants to ask for more details, but doesn't want to press her over text if she's not comfortable.

In the end, he offers a simple reply.

be there in a few

He checks himself over in the mirror to ensure he doesn't look like a half-drowned rat, digs through his pokeballs for the one belonging to his Alakazam, and TELEPORTS to the Pokémon Center in Mauville Hills.

Faced with the daunting sight of her apartment door, he has to take a moment to compose himself. He rings the doorbell and then rings his hands, rocking back on his heels to dissipate the nervous energy that builds. It's not long before Nikita opens the door, and he can tell immediately that something is wrong.

"Are you—" He stops short of asking if she's OK. People didn't ask their friends over in the middle of the night and answer the door with a wine glass and on the verge of tears if they were OK. Looking awkward and apologetic, he amends, "Of course, it's no trouble at all."

Orion mulls over @nikita's input as their food arrives, taking a bite into his sandwich and closing his eyes. It was delicious. Swallowing it down with a sip of iced lemon water, he clears his throat.

"Patience is different between humans and Pokémon, I think." Both friends might be able to pick on his discomfort as he speaks, as well as his attempts to disregard it for the sake of a nice social outing. "I'm very patient with Pokémon."

Not so much with people, goes unspoken.

He thinks of Raziel Beckett. Maybe we should talk.

He brightens as the subject switches to the Banette, softening around the thought of a mischievous ghost, but Caleb's off-hand addition catches him off guard.

Oh. That explained so much.

"Honesty doesn't mean you should always say what you're thinking," he teases Caleb Harcourt, to lighten the mood. "You're shameless."

Orion's attempts to flirt sail directly over the captain's head, and he can't decide whether to be exasperated or endeared. He settles on a little bit of both, his smile fond even as he rolls his eyes with a laugh.

"Of course I know," he fires back.

Then Tam kisses him again, and whatever cheeky thing he might've said next is lost to the moment.

Clover's quiet bark rouses him from heat and nerves, his wide green eyes a little dazed as he draws back just enough to catch his breath, but not so much as to disengage from the other.

"Timer's on," he says. "We could wait upstairs." After a pause, as if he's genuinely worried Tam won't take the hint, he adds, "I still haven't shown you the bedroom."

Halloween is Orion's favourite season.

Thus, while he'd usually take the opportunity to call night shift on holidays to avoid having to party and interact beyond his social boundaries, he does everything in his power not to draw night shift for this.

He'd spent a long time on his costume. Too long. Cosplay regular levels of long. The result is a well-crafted resemblance of an occultist, with the symbols of various legends wrought in metal decorating dark robes, a book and vials of 'potions' hanging from his belt. He'd spent just as long on his make-up, crafting scars, and had spent ages etching runes onto his prosthetic with glow-in-the-dark paint.

Altair, too, wears a few medallions around his neck, though Orion hadn't forced his Absol partner to suffer an entire costume.

Nerves hit him on the way to the party; he feels silly, all dressed up, but at least they'll all be. He'd never been allowed to celebrate Halloween like this as a kid, and as an adult it's the first time he's had the friends to do it with.

Stepping around the Pumpkaboo pumpkin he'd carved himself, he enters HQ. He gravitates, unsurprisingly, toward Tam Fawley.

"What's your costume?" He teases, "Cat burglar?"