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He takes the opportunity to work one with his teeth. It breaks apart in his mouth, somehow leaving his teeth riddled with stresses but whole. “Shale, n the like, oui. Limestone’s fairly crunchy. Granite is more for sucking on. Most gems are tasteless but opal is spicy.”

anon i want you to know that i really appreciate you trying to hook me up with other people also interested in the same obscure ships as me...like that is actually very sweet of you amidst all my kvetching...

but balsamina....is literally MY BLOG.......

Mala’s eyes narrowed at the other woman’s tone. She covered by closing them entirely and grinning. “Good girl.” She assured Soapy, as she approached the other Type curiously. She got close enough that her visor fogged up with the breath of the other, circled slowly and sat down mirroring them to let them examine her now.

“Does it matter? Fine.. From the incinerator at work. I wen fix her up when Capo Faba say a sickly, twisted thing like her is worthless. She is very strong. It took years of work for her to be able to be here like this.” She bit out, her tone raising Soapy’s hackles. Mala reached out to pat her haunch through the thick fabric, fixing her tone to a soft soothe. “No no, it’s okay, cara. I innoculate her, work on her resistance, make her one suit so none of the bacteria of world hurt her, and got Fa- Someone to straighten her spine. She’s not for battles. She’s for loving.”

Work. This one is surely not a product of RKS Laboratories, then; instead, an apparent labor of love. Studying the Type: Full in her spacesuit-like protection, Oleana is as perplexed as she is fascinated. She has to wonder if it is truly kind to go to such lengths to keep the creature alive—but Soapy seems functional and content enough as she interacts with Evelyn, and it is not Oleana’s time in danger of being misspent.

“Is that right?” she replies blandly. “My apologies, Ms. Mala. It was a surprise, is all... I’ve not seen anything quite like this one’s make before.”

Evelyn’s tail begins to sway, dark scales gleaming, as Soapy nears. It remains in a downstay, gentle as commanded, until Soapy decides to sit, prompting it to stand. It moves with care and grace, walking a semicircle around Soapy before leaping away with an exhuberant, tinny cry.

A small gasp escapes her lips. It was capable of imitation? “Isn’t that wonderful.. Good job! You have to be very gentle with Soapy, okay? Gentle. I know you can do it, Dolce.” Mala bumped her nose on the helmet, kissing it in a way, and stood up.

She glanced at Oleana for approval, before taking out a specialist pokeball. Not one readily available on the market, but purpose-built. It would do the pokemon such good to socialise. “Okay. One Soapy.”

From the flash of data came a similar shape to the type full, though swathed in soft edges. Another type full, clad in what seemed to be a space suit complete with a rounded enclosed helmet and oxygen tanks on the back. Her claws were enclosed in plastic caps, with sculped replacements. “Hi girl. Come say hi to a new friend.” Soapy yawned in her helmet and blinked. Then sidestepped behind Mala and peaked out over her shoulder. “Good girl. Bene. She’s a prototype of the type full, and much healthier than when we start, oh yes. One good response for the treatment.”

As if understanding the request, Evelyn stays put, watching carefully as the other Pokémon materializes. When at last she does, Evelyn cocks its head with a curious, tinny sound, and slowly drops down onto its belly in a show of docility.

Oleana’s features seem to sharpen. The proper connections—and, later, her ownership of Evelyn—had granted her access to much of RKS Laboratories’ notes and data on the Type: Full project. This model, however, doesn’t seem to fit into her memory of them. A prototype, Mala called it.

Clair isn’t expecting Oleana to be so blunt, every prepared protest, counterargument, and insistency dying immediately on her tongue. Out of surprise (and perhaps with an added hint of respect), the wounded Gym Leader decides to begrudgingly drop her “invincible” façade, leaning back against the cavern wall and sliding down into a sitting position. She bites her lip as she does so–her ankle feels like it’s on fire, starting to swell against her boot. Oleana’s headlamp illuminates the surrounding dirt and blood, prompting Clair to hiss out a frustrated curse from under her breath. It had been years since her last significant injury: a crushing swipe from the Dragon Den’s temperamental Gyarados. Why had she been so careless…in unfamiliar Galar of all places? Stupid!

“…It’s probably nothing serious. Just needs a quick patch-up, if anything,” the dragon expert mutters, still stubbornly clinging to the vestiges of her Blackthorn pride. She raises her head to fix Oleana with a narrowed, wary gaze, a fresh question popping into her mind.

“If you’re not a medic…then who are you?” she asks, her tone more uncertain than accusatory, blue eyes glancing over Oleana’s weirdly pristine attire once again. “I’m assuming that you’re not a mine worker or a typical trainer, though I suppose I could always be mistaken…” 

At least the woman’s resistance ended there. Choosing to ignore her first comment, Oleana approaches, stepping carefully in her platform heels, and kneels beside her. She is already acutely aware of how out of place she looks in the mines (the bolder of the full-time workers had always been sure to remind her), and so does not begrudge Clair her skepticism—though her tone remains blunt as ever.

“Actually, I am a worker. I come here to perform community service when I’m able.” Her light drifts over Clair’s skinned knees to her foot, swollen inside its boot. Best not to remove it, she figures, until she’s sure she can get the woman to a proper medical professional safely. “I do not generally work at the rock face myself, however, if that is what you mean. My duties tend to be more in line with engineering and office work—progress reports, maintaining machinery, and so on...”

Mala notes the hood, and smiles. “Benebene~” she says, scratching a hard to reach spot on the back of it’s neck. “Such a gentle beastie~ wonder if you would like to meet a friend. I have a Soapy. Made her outfit myself.”

Evelyn coos and kicks its back leg. In response to Mala’s suggestion that it meet a friend, its eyes flicker inside its helmet, machine-like. From its throat comes an imitation of Mala’s voice: “Beeenebenebene—!”