It's odd how different something can look when you take a step back from the minute details. Cleo blinks, head turning slightly in response to the sound. The sound of someone speaking, probably to her. But the words don't quite register, not when there is still more of the scene to process. The physics of the wind on the tent, the light filtering through the flaps. You wouldn't have guessed the file sizes of half these textures, the compression having surprisingly little impact on the them. It's honestly quite impressive. Visually stunning. But it should be, for a first impression.

Speaking of first impressions... At the clicking of the pen, the rest of Cleo turns. Only the last of the Professor's words register. Cleo inhales as if to respond, but the puzzle has not pieced together, the words still meaningless with her foregone context, and her breath hangs in the air between them. Subtitles would've been nice right about now.

Anyways. An interview. But not. But it really is, in reality. Probably for… Her eyes flit to the poster, then back to the Professor. "Right, yeah. Of course! Sure. I'll just, um, right." Just think of it a game, she said. You can't pause in this one, you don't get predetermined options in this one. But think of it like any other game. "I love games." She smiles back, more a toothy grimace than anything, and walks to the seat across the desk. Instead of sinking into it, her hands find purchase on the top rail, gripping it for support. "So, um. Ask away, Professor!"

Cleo returns the nod, fingers dancing along the top of the chair in nervous anticipation. Tap, tap, tap.

"What were you like as a child?"

She pauses, caught off guard by the nature of the question. Lonely, pops up first. Then mom's words—lazy, disrespectful—and the teacher's uncertain glances as they carefully label her as keen but awkward. Her lips purse. Tap, tap. She considers the question carefully, and when she does eventually answer, it is with slow uncertainty. "I was… I was eager to be… be lost. To just be myself. Happy. Not so scared, 'cause I didn't know what people thought." Too much? But there are more questions, and it's just a game. Just a game. Don't think too hard. Don't linger on your answers.

"What do you do when you make a mistake?"

Like the one she'd just made, speaking so personally? She chews the inside of her cheek. "Depends on the mistake, I think." Tap, tap, tap. "Sometimes, um, y'know, you fix them. You gotta just, head down, take it apart, make it right." Like at work. Those were nice mistakes, the kind you can do something about. "And then sometimes, sometimes it's just… there, and you can't fix it. But you can, well, sometimes you can make the after better." Those were always harder, the mistakes you can't fix. The mistakes that linger in the air as you struggle to look someone in the eyes and apologize. She hates those kinds of mistakes.

She steels herself for a final, insightful question, tapping reaching a crescendo. The Professor's mouth parts to speak and she flinches.

"Knife, fork, spoon… What kind of cutlery are you?"

She stares blankly. The question bounces around in her head, almost taunting. Somehow, this three-choice question feels the most severe of all. She weighs each option, diligently comparing herself to each utensil – their form, their utility, their frequency in her life. She considers the lack of other options. What about the mighty spork? What about the different sizes of cutlery? "Um, that's… probably a spo… no, no. A fork? Mmm. No. You know what. It sounds weird, but a knife." Tap. "Y'see, it's sometimes the sharpest but, um, knives are very good at one thing. Cutting. And everything else they're kinda. Not. I guess you can stab a food like a toothpick and eat off it, but it's not really practical, and you can't use it to scoop liquids like a spoon. And even in the realm of knives they get pretty specific what they can or can't do. A steak knife won't help much with spreading butter, but a butter knife will be useless against a steak. It's… they're very niche. And I'm kind of very niche." She pauses, as if there's more. The pause balloons as she thinks. "No, yeah. A knife." A final, certain nod.

And then several more, nervous ones after it. "Is that… um, did you get what you need?"

The near-anxious energy bubbling in her comes to an outright boil as the Professor plucks out the Pokeball. Her tapping fingers curl into the chair, then release, then twine together, nervousnervousnervous, right up until she remembers to actually put them out to receive the gift.

She turns the ball in her hands. "Mudkip," she reads. Her brows furrow together, trying to piece together how her answers had led to this result, eyes flitting between poster and Professor. The ball spin ever faster as her hands fidget. "Huh. Um, alright. I guess that, I guess it could make sense. Not that it's, um, well. You're the expert, so you know best. I. Thank you, is what I mean. I'll take go—"

The ball near slips. In her hurry to catch and secure it, she sinks her fingers into the release catch. A click, some light, and then… "Oh! Um, wow! Hi, hello."

The Mudkip sits at her feet, head craning to look at her. Two beady eyes blink at her. <<Hello.>>

Cleo sucks in a breath, squinting at the voice she just heard. Right. This was a reality they'd coded - being able to know exactly what your pokemon were saying. "Ahah. Nice to meet you." She clears her throat, then looks to the Professor. "I'll take good, um very good, care of them." She rocks back on her heels. "But. Where to from here?"