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A bottle of solvent. A few rags. An old toothbrush, its bristles frayed. And, utilizing the three, a pair of deft hands manipulating them quickly yet gingerly over the surface of the small firearm on the table. The man attached to those hands, though, wore an expression akin to boredom. When he required only one hand for his task, the other reached for the coffee he had ordered upon arriving at the cafe. Lucas moved almost mechanically as he dissembled the gun and cleaned its interior, two more waiting at his side to receive a similar treatment.

The sudden movement caught Lucas' eye and snapped him out of the almost trance-like state he had entered. He saw the hot coffee as it found skin and instinctively set everything down and turned to offer his assistance. "You all right there, guy?" He began to stand when the other Rocket mentioned his firearm. "Ah, that? It'll be fine... probably." He scratched at his head curiously. Honestly, Lucas had never considered the possibility that one of his guns would disappear so simply.

Boat mission? He had heard about it in passing but wasn't very clear on the details. The young man in front of him, though, didn't seem inclined to divulge any more information on the matter, and Lucas wasn't going to press it. Instead, he looked down at the gun in response to the posed question. "Taurus 24/7... I think? Or was that the other one..." He glanced over at the other two handguns curiously, though it was indeed the one in his hand that bore the name he had given. He hadn't consciously purchased the things, so it was difficult to remember their models.

Lucas could only laugh helplessly. He wished he knew more about his guns, such as where and why he got them and how he knew how to fire and maintain them. At the mention of the superiors, he hummed thoughtfully. "They checked my stuff when I was first coming in. Never rightly brought it to their direct attention, but..." He reassembled the Taurus and selected another of his remaining two, a Walther P5. He began the cleaning process without as much as glancing at the sleek metal, instead responding to the young man who had joined him. "Do you think I should? Tell an elite, I mean..."

"That makes sense..." Didn't Galactic have a similar policy? It was easy to forget that he had lost his position and his freedoms were limited. He was already halfway through cleaning the Walther, though, so he figured he may as well finish it off. Lucas sipped idly at his coffee with an inclination of his head not unlike a nod, "Thanks for the tip, guy. Guess I'll keep these things to my room, huh..."

"Ah, right," he held out a hand in greeting. "Lucas Bristow, at your service." Strange how no one else ever gave their full name, he observed. Didn't the Rockets trust one another at all? Understandable for it to be made up out of a bunch of folks with reason to hide their names, though...

He chuckled a bit, rotating his hand slightly to swirl the contents of his own mug. "Rough night? Or a rough day ahead?" Or maybe he just liked the taste of coffee. That was all the reason Lucas needed, after all.

"I know how that story goes," Lucas said with a slight sigh. It was a story he'd even told himself, as a matter of fact. Hell, he would even go as far as to call it a rough couple of years. Members of criminal organizations, he found, rarely had lives that were all sunshine and rainbows.

"I've been around, uhh..." Lucas glanced around, as though searching for a calendar or a newspaper headline with the date. "A week or two? I mean, after training. Probably more like a couple months if you count training." Not that he actually remembered much about training. He hadn't had a lot of free time to wander around and meet his teammates during that time, either. "How about yourself?"

Lucas frowned at the first point of advice. Were the elites so unapproachable that newbies were dissuaded from acquainting themselves with them? Scary elites seemed to be a standard, but Lucas had always thought it best to be friendlier, more casual and laid-back. He had enjoyed going out for drinks with agents and having trainees come to him of their own volition for life advice and chatting in the cafeteria with grunts. He was aware that he had been an oddity in his attitude towards his underlings, but he had hoped Rocket would be a little closer to his own ideal. No dice, huh?

He could sympathize with Panther's words on pokemon, though. Putting the gun in his hands back together, he nodded, "True enough. I've only got the one right now. Chimecho. Name's Merry. She's got my back, and these guys," he indicated the reassembled gun and its companions, "have got my front." Ooh, that sounded cool, didn't it? Too bad he didn't actually have any memories of firing the guns to back up that suave statement.