@sixteentxns
The dirt is more irritating than the stares, fine-grained and abrasive, kicking up from the ground with his footsteps. It’s possibly paranoia, but he can near feel it starting to coat his throat, so Cyrus presses a handkerchief over his mouth and nose before venturing further into the mines.
The miners recognize him, pull to the side as he walks by--Cyrus doesn’t need the Galactic uniform to be recognized, and anyway a wool coat and riding boots seemed more appropriate for Oreburgh. Maybe it’s the Galactic lapel pin, or the fact that his face has been plastered across every news station in Sinnoh for the past few months, the old Galactic leader (practically) risen from the dead.
He pays them no mind. His quarry is at the end of the mines, as the gym trainers had informed him, and Cyrus stops just short of him.
“Leader Roark.” He lets the handkerchief drop, bows his head and shoulders forward, briefly, stiffly, then straightens up. Cyrus’s tone is cordial, though any outward friendliness doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met, though I doubt I need to introduce myself. I suppose I should preface this by saying I’m here out of personal curiosity, not business. I’m in need of a rock expert--I have in my possession a few unusual samples, and was rather hoping you would deign to take a look.”
