Pokémon Version Orange

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 1
​

---

Smile.

I hate that I've gotten skilled at such a simple thing. At least the fake kind, the one you wear like a mask that's just convincing enough to pass for customer service. I've practiced it in the mirror, adjusted the curve of my mouth, and even learned how to tilt my head slightly for maximum awww factor. Mom says it makes guests feel welcome. I say it makes my face hurt.
"We hope you enjoy your stay at the Kumquat Grand." I slid the room key across the polished counter with just the right amount of cheerful energy to keep me from collapsing on the inside. "Room 218 is all set. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. If there's anything else you need, please, don't hesitate to call the front desk."

The woman of the couple, mid-sixties, wrapped in enough silk and perfume to stun a Weepinbell, let out a delighted coo. "Oh, aren't you just the cutest little bellhop! Such manners! What a helpful young man!"

I smiled harder. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

(Otherwise, I might say something not so "customer service".)

"Just doing my job, ma'am." I have to bite back the sigh trying to crawl up my throat.

The pair headed off toward the elevator, still chatting about how adorable the "little staff boy" was. The moment the doors dinged shut behind them, I dropped the act like a rock.

With a loud thud, my forehead hit the front desk.

"If one more person calls me precious today, I'm going to set the nearest luggage cart on fire."

My forehead hadn't been on the desk more than ten seconds when I heard the distinct shuffle of loafers and authority.

"Head up, Mr. Cashion," came Chilton's smooth, clipped voice, like velvet-lined disapproval. "This is a resort, not a crime scene."

I groaned but still peeled myself off the wood. "Yes, sir."

Chilton stood on the other side of the desk, arms crossed in his usual pressed blue suit, every inch the picture of resort professionalism with his neat brown hair and crisp white gloves. The man looked like he'd stepped out of a hospitality brochure and had never stopped being in one.

He leaned in and ruffled my hair under my pillbox cap, in a soft, quick gesture I didn't have the energy to dodge.

"Only another hour, Travis," he said, his voice kinder but still firm. "Then you're free for the day."

I gave him a dry look. "Which means I'll be asked to do two more things before then."

He didn't deny it. Just gave one of his patented hums, the kind that somehow said, "You're probably right, but don't start mouthing off about it," and turned to check on the luggage trolley nearby.

I slouched where I stood, shifting on the step ladder behind the desk as I tried to get comfortable without toppling off. The ladder was sturdy, custom-made with rubber treads and side rails, but that didn't make standing on it for hours any less awkward. Especially when my legs barely cleared the top rung, and my dignity was already clinging to life support.

Slow hours were the worst. There weren't enough people to keep busy, but there were enough that I couldn't just sneak off and read something, which meant I was stuck with my own thoughts.

And that was always…exhausting.

Because the truth was, I wasn't really a kid.

I'd had another life. The usual kind with boring college classes, a caffeine addiction, and far too much time spent trying to pay rent and not get crushed under the existential weight of modern capitalism. Then, one day, poof, lights out. No last words. No grand hero's death. Just…gone.

That probably should've been it.

But no, the universe, in its infinite wisdom and cosmic sense of humor, decided that a second life wasn't quite enough.

No, mine had to be special.

Specifically, I'd been reborn into the world of Pokémon.

You know, creatures with superpowers, ten-year-olds playing professional gladiators, laws that made exactly zero sense, and an entire ecosystem powered by friendship and anime physics.

Yeah, that Pokémon.

And just to make things extra interesting, I hadn't landed as a blank slate or some random trainer. No, I'd come back as the canon son of Luana, the Orange League Gym Leader of Kumquat Island.

The overly affectionate, occasionally deranged, pineapple-scented hurricane of a woman who once tried to adopt Ash Ketchum because he vaguely resembled her kid.

At least, that's the story Mom, Luana, decided to stick with after things got weird, and by weird, I mean mind-reading psychic Pokémon scans and existential crises at age three kinds of weird.

See, I wasn't born with my memories. That would've been much easier, or at least more convenient, but no, I got to be a baby. A drooling, squealing, bite-the-furniture toddler, where everything was sunshine and Poképuffs until my third birthday.

That's when I died for three minutes.

It started with a fever and ended with my heart just…stopping.

Then, just as suddenly, it started up again, and I came back, gasping like a Magikarp out of water. Everyone called it a miracle.

But I wasn't the same.

The doctors thought it was trauma. One second, I was this cheerful, laughing kid; the next, I was quiet, staring at nothing, and barely interacting with anyone or anything.

What really happened? Twenty-plus years of memories slammed into a brain not even finished wiring itself.

It didn't feel like remembering at first. More like being run over by someone else's life and waking up with the tire marks across your soul. Faces I'd never seen. Names I'd never said. Books. Shows. Regrets. College essays. A thousand thoughts I shouldn't have known how to even think.

I wasn't me anymore, at least not just me. Whether I'd always been this, or whether the "original" Travis had been overwritten, I still don't know. Honestly, that question haunted me for a while.

Was I a soul hijacker? A reincarnation with leftover files? Maybe even just some guy experiencing an Isekai granted by some cosmic entity for shits and giggles?

It kept me up at night when I was four. Trust me, nothing says "blessed childhood" like trying to unravel metaphysical identity crises in your Spinarak pajamas.

Eventually though, the change was too much to ignore. Even Mom noticed, and she once spent two days trying to convince a hotel inspector that our Gyarados-themed waterslide was "therapeutic hydrotherapy."

She tried everything from doctors, medication, to even singing me lullabies that included real battle strategies in the chorus. In the end, it was her Alakazam that finally cracked the case.

A psychic scan that performed a deep-level mind check. The kind that could tell you what kind of sandwich someone was craving before they even got hungry. What he found inside my head made him and Mom rethink everything.

They didn't talk to me about it directly, not at first, but I could hear the whispers. Heard Mom's voice breaking behind a locked office door. Felt Alakazam's telepathic turmoil vibrating the kitchen tiles. It wasn't hard to guess what they'd found.

Eventually, therapy was introduced. I was "encouraged" to talk to a professional…and by "encouraged", I mean bribed with Poképuffs and new toys until I sat on a leather couch and started using full adult sentences in a four-year-old's voice.

And through it all…Mom let me stay.

She didn't treat me like a stranger, or a freak, or even some body jacker who might have very well stolen her child. She treated me like her son.

Not because I deserved it, but because she'd decided I was her son, no matter what had happened. That she didn't need to understand it fully to love me completely.

It was frankly a terrifying amount of loyalty and familial love, and I'd never forget it.

Even if she did still make me pay for it all in learning "life skills" and "character building" instead of actual money.

(Because do you really think I would willingly deal with a customer service job before I hit double digits after the horrors of my first go at life?!)

My grip tightened on the edge of the desk, knuckles pressing into the smooth wood. Not out of panic, just…grounding.

It was easy to get lost in those thoughts sometimes. In the tangle of lives, old and new, past and present, thrumming in the back of my head. Especially when the lobby was quiet, and the only sound was the distant hum of the fountains outside the glass doors.

That is, until the bell above the entrance chimed with the grace of a collapsing Snorlax, and in stepped a set of tourists who practically radiated "first-time in the tropics."

The man was wearing socks with sandals and an Alolan print button-up that might've been classified as a visual hazard. The woman had three oversized bags and a sunhat that could've doubled as a parachute in high wind. Both of them were clearly sweating buckets.

What caught my attention wasn't them; however, it was the kid trailing behind them.

Fourteen, fifteen at the most. Pale, sunburnt, and wrapped in a black hoodie like he was trying to cosplay a stereotypical Dark-type specialist in the middle of a tropical island. He looked like the kind of guy who'd monologue about pain being his only friend right before sending out a Haunter.

I could see where this was going already.

"Helloooo there!" The likely father of the group called out far too loudly for even the size of our massive lobby.

I kept my voice as neutral as I could manage. "Welcome to the Kumquat Grand. Do you have a reservation?"

The dad had a big smile as he stepped up. "Yup! We're booked under the Gym Package! Says here we get a free room if our boy wins the Gym Challenge!"

He clapped his son on the back, who didn't even flinch. Just exhaled a slow sigh and muttered something that sounded like "Whatever."

I didn't blink. I'd seen the type.

"Of course," I said smoothly, already typing into the terminal to find the reservation. "One Gym Package confirmed. The room will be pending until the outcome of the match."

Translation: You're gonna have to pay if you lose.

I gave the moody teen a quick once-over. Four standard Pokéballs clipped to his belt, barely any scuffs on his shoes, and not an ounce of "presence" to be seen. I'd bet good money that this was his first League challenge outside his home region, where he didn't even compete past the fourth badge mark.

And he thought the Orange League was going to be easy.

He wasn't the first.

So many kids came in from Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, heck, even Unova, thinking the Orange Islands were some sun-drenched beginner's circuit. That because we didn't have a massive League tournament with fireworks and full stadiums, we must be soft.

They all learned.

The Orange Crew weren't just Gym Leaders; they were survivors of the sea. Trainers who specialized in their favored field of battle and abused that privilege extensively. They didn't play by standard League rules, and they didn't go easy on someone just because they had only been a trainer for a few weeks.

But hey, who was I to stop another trainer from learning that the hard way?

As I confirmed their booking and retrieved the keys, the woman leaned in slightly, eyes wide behind coral-tinted sunglasses.

"Oh my goodness," she cooed, "you're just so precious! Look at you, working the desk! Isn't he adorable Roger?!"

Then she reached over and booped my nose.

Booped. My. Nose.

It was only Chilton's voice rising from across the lobby that stopped me from attempting to bite the woman's finger off.

"Travis."

I turned, already bracing for a new assignment, but he surprised me with a small nod.

"You can guide them to the Challenge Arena yourself. You'll be performing referee duty, but after that, you're off for the rest of the day."

I blinked. That almost felt like mercy.

Then I caught the slight smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. Ah, he knew I was close to my boiling point. Probably figured the battle would amuse me more than checking in another dozen sunhat-wearing tourists.

I offered him a salute and stepped off my platform.

"Right this way," I said to the trio, gesturing toward a corridor that did not lead directly to the arena.

This was going to be fun.

​

---

The interesting thing about working at a resort run by a Gym Leader?

You learn how to sell disappointment before it arrives.

We didn't head straight to the Challenge Arena. No, I took them the long way, past every glittering, resort-brochure-worthy corner of the Kumquat Grand. I smiled. I gestured. I pointed out every single activity that looked just expensive enough to be worth staying for, even if their "free room" ended up not being so free.

"And over here," I said, sweeping an arm toward the spa wing, "you'll find our battle recovery baths, open to both people and Pokémon, with a certified Aromatherapy Specialist on staff."

(That would be Sal, a former Contest Coordinator whose essential oil blends actually worked. Turns out, if you know what you're doing, a properly diffused Sitrus-Mint infusion can ease confusion in more than just your love life. Don't ask him how he figured that out. You'll regret it. I know I did.)

"To our left, we've got the rooftop battle courts, which are fully equipped with reinforced platforms, psychic barriers, and, if a qualified referee is on shift, the possibility for Bet Battles."

(Guess who that someone tended to be. Spoiler warning: I got my referee license at age 7.)

"And if you're interested in fitness," I added as we passed by the indoor rec deck, "there are yoga classes held every morning on the pool veranda, sometimes with Pokémon partners!"

(Yes, I've been a stand-in instructor. Yes, I have done synchronized downward Houndour with a Machamp. No, I don't want to talk about it.)

The parents cooed and whispered to each other, clearly imagining themselves sipping martinis while their son crushed the Gym Leader. The kid stayed silent, hoodie still up, occasionally mumbling what might have been the chorus to a self-written breakup song.

It wasn't just for show; however, well, okay, it was mostly for show as it gave them time to imagine themselves sipping Moomoo milk lattes by the pool after their "free" Gym Package fell through, but it was also a timing trick.

See Mom didn't just sit on a velvet throne all day waiting for challengers to show up. She ran this place. Scheduling, supply lines, staff disputes, inspections, beach maintenance, a resort's worth of chaos, and Gym Leader duties on top.

So when someone takes the scenic route with a challenger, it's not just a sales pitch. It's a signal.

There were cameras tucked into the corners of every hallway. Little security measures that relayed location and context directly to the back office. By the time we passed the second fountain, Mom would've gotten the alert: Challenger en route. Start prepping the stadium.

By the time we reached the Challenge Arena proper, the tourists were wide-eyed and clearly impressed. Even the kid boggled at the sheer scale of it.

To be fair, it was impressive.

The indoor stadium was walled off from the world like a high-security League facility. It was massive, with wide stands circling the battlefield like a traditional arena, but that was just the ground floor.

What made it special, what made it Kumquat, were the walls.

Because the walls weren't walls at all, they were hotel rooms.

All along the perimeter, one face of every suite in this section of the resort had been built with reinforced, floor-to-ceiling glass balconies. Not to look outward, toward the beach or the waves, no, here, the luxury rooms looked inward, toward the battlefield.

It was showmanship and functionality rolled into one. A little bit of marketing genius that would allow guests to watch live Gym battles while sipping drinks in their robes. Some even ordered room service and treated it like dinner theater.

And on the arena floor, challengers would feel a hundred eyes watching them from above.

I stepped onto the platform near the referee podium and keyed the intercom panel.

"Challenger registered. Leader Luana, standby for arrival."

The lights shifted across the arena. I glanced upward just in time to see a few balcony doors opening, curious heads leaning out, and the quiet hum of interest beginning to rise.

I turned back toward the kid and his parents.

"Feel free to wait on the red line." I nodded toward the challenger's box. "The Gym Leader will be here shortly."

The dad gave me a thumbs-up like we were teammates in a Pokéathlon. The kid muttered something into his hood again. Probably about destiny. Or betrayal. Or how nobody got him.

I leaned against the podium with a sigh, watching the light cues fade in.

After another minute of waiting, a ripple appeared on the other side of the arena.

Not just a shimmer or heat haze, this was a full distortion, like reality being twisted in place.

FWUMP

In a single flash of light, Mom and Alakazam appeared together, side by side on the home platform.

Mom stepped forward with a dramatic swish of her tropical-green battle dress, sunlight-patterned fabric catching the arena lights. Her gold-rimmed sunglasses sat perched atop her head like a crown, red bob perfectly in place despite the teleport. She looked like someone ready for a beach party and a battle, in that exact order.

She instinctively glanced toward the ref podium first, and when she saw me?

"Ohhhh! My baby's refereeing today!" She gasped, hands coming together in a delighted clap. "Look at you up there, so serious! So professional! I could just eat you up!"

She turned slightly to the balconies above and waved with unbridled pride. "Doesn't he look so grown-up, everyone? He's nine, you know! Nine!"

Some of the hotel guests chuckled. One guy actually gave me a thumbs-up from his balcony like I'd done something amazing just by standing still and looking mildly annoyed.

"Gym Leader Luana has entered the field. Final call before the battle starts," I said calmly, ignoring Mom's antics.

Across the field, Hoodie Kid visibly exhaled, probably with relief. To him, Mom probably looked like an overenthusiastic resort host, not the strongest Gym Leader in the Orange League.

Behind me, the air shimmered again as Alakazam reappeared in a flicker of light, hovering calmly just behind the ref stand.

He folded his legs like he was sitting in midair, arms crossed, spoons floating loosely at his sides.

"That hoodie is offensive," said a voice in my head.

The voice was dry, sardonic, and unmistakably young. Maybe early twenties, if I had to guess. Way younger than I'd expected the first time I heard it.

"Good afternoon to you too," I thought outwardly, keeping my tone flat.

"Do you think he cries to Giratina songs, or is he more of a Gengar-core artist?"

I covered my smirk with a cough, before tapping the mic and letting my voice roll across the arena.

"This match will pit the visiting challenger-" I glanced down at the reservation paperwork and had to stifle a sigh-"Danny 'Raze' Morrison against Kumquat Island Gym Leader and Orange Crew member Luana Cashion."

There was a faint beat of silence. Somewhere in the balconies, I swear I could hear someone choking at the cringeworthy nickname.

"The format is a one-round Double Battle. Victory will earn the challenger a Jade Star Badge and a complimentary room at the Kumquat Grand Resort."

I glanced at both competitors and, upon receiving nods from both, raised my hand.

"Battle! Begin!"

"Let's give our guests a good show," Mom beamed, tossing two Pokéballs into the air.

In twin bursts of white light, her Marowak and Farfetch'd landed on the field with practiced ease. No showboating or dramatic posturing, just clean, experienced movement, the kind that only came from years of real battles.

Both Pokémon held themselves with quiet confidence. You had to look closely to see the small scars, the slight asymmetry in muscle from repeated strain and recovery, which were all signs of long-earned strength. Marowak's grip on his bone club was casual but tight. Farfetch'd balanced on the balls of his feet, eyes focused and ready.

They didn't just look trained. They looked seasoned.

On Danny's side of the field, a Houndoom landed heavily on all fours, letting out a low, deliberate growl. Beside it, a Murkrow started to fly, circling low with a faint glint of mischief in its eye.

I spared them a glance.

Decent, but nothing to write home about.

The Houndoom had solid footing but lacked the tightness of true discipline. Murkrow's movements were decent but twitchy, probably used to unstructured battles, maybe street-level scraps. Together, they had synergy on paper, but not much to suggest they'd hold up under real pressure as a team.

I could already tell how this was going to go.

"He's going to start with a combo move and panic when it doesn't land. Five bucks says the Murkrow gets overwhelmed first."

I didn't dignify that with a reply.

(Not because I was against betting mind you, I just didn't take sucker's bets.)

Danny didn't waste a second.

"Flamethrower Houndoom! Murkrow use Gust! Boost it!"

The kid had the smirk of someone who thought they'd just called a championship-winning play. Houndoom reared back, jaws lighting up with a stream of orange flame, a classic straight-shot attack.

As the fire blazed into the air, Murkrow flapped its wings hard and fast, stirring up a rushing wind that caught the Flamethrower mid-flight. The stream of fire stretched, thickened, and surged forward with added velocity.

And Danny, naturally, couldn't help himself.

"Fry 'em!"

I twitched, holding in my exasperation.

Mom didn't even look fazed.

"Farfetch'd," she called easily over the roaring flames, "use Air Cutter!"

Farfetch'd shot forward with a short flap and a sudden, sweeping leek slash. A wave of compressed wind burst out and sliced straight through the Gust-empowered Flamethrower like it was smoke before a fan. The burning stream broke in half, fire scattering wide and fading harmlessly onto the sides of the field, missing both of Mom's Pokémon entirely.

"Marowak, Bonemerang please."

Marowak didn't hesitate and hurled its bone with a sharp flick of the wrist.

The spinning weapon soared straight through the gap created by Farfetch'd's Air Cutter, whistling past Murkrow and slamming into Houndoom mid-inhale to continue the Flamethrower. The Dark-type let out a surprised yelp as it staggered back, eyes wide. The bone arced behind it midair…and came back around for a second hit right to the back of its head before flying back and snapping back to Marowak's hand with a soft whump.

The look on Danny's face, the way his smug grin had vanished like someone flipped a switch, said everything.

"Murkrow, keep the Marowak busy with Wing Attack!" He barked. "Houndoom, shake it off and hit that dumb bird with Thunder Fang!"

It wasn't a terrible call. Murkrow dove sharply toward Marowak, wings glowing faintly white, while Houndoom snarled, sparks crackling along its fangs as it surged toward Farfetch'd with bared teeth.

Mom didn't even flinch.

"Switch."

That was it, one word, and both her Pokémon moved.

Farfetch'd shot forward in a tan blur, a streak of motion carried by an Aerial Ace that launched it diagonally across the battlefield, away from Houndoom entirely and straight into Murkrow's path.

The impact happened in midair.

Murkrow tried to adjust, but it was too late as the speed and angle of Farfetch'd's strike clipped it clean across the chest. Not enough to knock it out, but enough to completely kill its momentum and send it spinning back.

Houndoom, meanwhile, lunged forward even as it tried to hit the already gone Flying Type, and ran right into Marowak.

The ground-type ducked low and met the descending fangs with a rising Bone Club uppercut that cracked against Houndoom's electrified jaw just as its attack made contact.

Houndoom stumbled back, blinking in shock as his fangs sparked uselessly.

Danny's mistake was classic: assume the biggest threat, focus on that single opponent, forget the other typings on the field.

Behind me, Alakazam gave an audible mental sigh.

"They always forget about the Ground-type on the field."

"Yup," I muttered under my breath.

Mom smiled, not smug or cruel, just pleasantly amused, and called across the field in that ever-cheerful voice of hers:

"You've given it a good try, now, let's finish strong. Marowak, delayed Earthquake! Farfetch'd, let's ground that birdie!"

Marowak gave a small grunt and slammed his bone club into the ground with a sudden, forceful crack. The arena floor trembled, subtly at first, then with a growing pulse as stone tiles began buckling and shifting outward in jagged waves.

Danny immediately panicked. "Dodge it Houndoom! Murkrow, stop the Marowak!"

Murkrow wasn't even given a chance, as Farfetch'd was already gone, bursting into the air and rising quickly to meet it mid-flight.

The two clashed in the center of the arena skyscape. Murkrow lunging with Pecks and glancing Wing Attacks. Farfetch'd parrying and circling, its counters and strikes keeping it airborne even without a wingbeat. For a moment, it was a dance, and Farfetch'd clearly knew the steps better.

Then Farfetch'd spun midair, leek glowing dark and wide and swung.

The Brutal Swing connected hard with Murkrow's side.

The smaller bird Pokémon squawked and spiraled downward, feathers scattering as it hit the ground with a thud, just as the intentionally delayed Earthquake hit full force.

Houndoom, still off-balance from the repeated hits to the head, couldn't even attempt to follow its trainer's orders. It caught the brunt of the wave and was thrown off its feet entirely, slamming onto its side with a pained whimper. Murkrow, grounded from the fall, had just enough time to flinch before the tremor rolled over it.

The shaking settled, and both of Danny's Pokémon were down.

I raised my hand.

"Both of the challenger's Pokémon are unable to battle. Victory goes to Gym Leader Luana of Kumquat Island."

Mom smiled sweetly and waved to the watchers above.

Danny, meanwhile, just stared at the field like it had personally betrayed him.

Alakazam's voice floated back into my head, drier than Unova's Desert Resort.

"I give it… ten seconds before he claims it was rigged."

I gave it seven.

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 2
​

---

The elevator chimed like a lazy bellhop as I followed Mom into the penthouse suite with all the enthusiasm of a Slowpoke.

"Drinks?" Mom chirped, already halfway to the kitchen. "I'm thinking Oran smoothies with a Citrus twist!"

"Water's fine," I muttered, kicking off my shoes and collapsing onto the couch like gravity owed me a favor.

Alakazam floated past me and took up his favorite hovering spot near the balcony window. A bowl of Wiki berry ice cream was already floating its way from the kitchen. "You could've called that match before it even began," he noted alongside a bite of berry-flavored goodness. "He had the same combo, even the same panic pivot. Kid needed more than hoodie-based confidence."

"Yeah, well, at least he didn't cry," I grumbled, grabbing a nearby throw pillow and burying my face in it. "That was new."

"Yes, such wonderful progress." Going by his tone, he probably just rolled his eyes. "Maybe next time we'll get a challenger who doesn't think Gengar-core is a battle strategy."

From the kitchen came the whrrr-whrrr-CLANK of a blender being slightly overpowered by frozen berries. Mom's voice soon joined in the mechanical chorus. "I know that face, babycakes. That's your 'I'm exhausted but pretending I'm not' face. You want Bliss to do a Heal Pulse?"

"I'm fine Mom."

"Too late! Bliss!"

A ding came from the hallway as Blissey soon waddled in with a basket of laundry in hand and an expression of maternal concern across her face. She offered me a protein bar, a chilled towel, and a pat on the head before I could even sit up properly.

"I'm drowning in affection," I grumbled even as I placed the towel across my forehead.

Mom settled beside me a moment later, drink in one hand, remote in the other. The battle replay was already queued up on the big screen, though she paused before hitting play.

"Oh, before I forget." She nudged me with an elbow to make sure she had my attention. "You remember what next week is, right?"

I groaned loudly. "Please don't remind. I've been trying not to think about it!"

Mom giggled at my dramatics.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, it's just our year to host the Family Gathering." She grinned like a woman who didn't care that she was dropping a Thunderbolt on our collective calendar. "We've gotta make sure everything is perfect!"

Muffled curses into the throw pillow were my only reply.

I knew what she meant, of course. The annual parade of palm-leaf business cards and passive-aggressive compliments. A full-blown summit of hoteliers, businessmen and women, and more high-strung individuals than a Beedrill hive.

Because, of course, my family couldn't be normal. No, we were resort owners, world-class architects and artists, and business-class battlers with beachfront empires and enough decorative fountains to irrigate a small town. The kind of people who argued over pool tile colors while wearing Versace and prepared to fight over it with a Pokéball in hand.

And they were all coming here.

"…Please tell me Chilton is at least handling logistics," I pleaded.

Mom just laughed. That wasn't encouraging.

Before I could continue questioning the wisdom of inviting a whole army of hospitality moguls into our home turf, a soft ding sounded from the wall beside the kitchen, drawing attention to the dumbwaiter.

Mom perked up immediately. "That'll be Marowak and Farfetch'd. I had them sent down for a post-match pamper."

She got up and opened the hatch to retrieve the two Pokeballs from the padded compartment inside. I recognized the faint decals etched along the surface. Marowak's had a stylized bone crest, and Farfetch'd's bore a silver leek flourish that he insisted on polishing himself.

"Home sweet home~" Mom sang, giving the balls a little twirl before popping them open in the middle of the living room.

Farfetch'd materialized with a practiced flick of his wings, chest puffed just enough to suggest he knew he looked good.

Marowak arrived with far less flair, simply emerging mid-stretch. He rolled one shoulder, then the other, before settling into a squat against the wall like he was two seconds away from taking a nap.

"Evening fellas. Enjoy the spa package?" Pretty sure I already knew the answer, but it was still polite to ask.

Farfetch'd gave a satisfied kaaa and trotted over to the fruit bowl, clearly expecting it to be replenished since his last raid. Marowak grunted in agreement, absently grabbing up some high-quality sandpaper nearby to temper his weapon of choice. He didn't look at me, but that was normal. Marowak's love language was more about proximity than communication.

Mom clapped her hands once, clearly delighted. "Oh, look at you two! So refreshed! Marowak, your shoulders look looser already. And Farfy, your feathers are glowing! Did you get to try the new conditioner from Kalos?"

Farfetch'd paused mid-melon skewer and nodded with the gravity of a spa connoisseur.

I snorted. "You know they act spoiled because you let them."

Marowak, still squatting, tilted his head at me and gave his club a casual tap against the floor.

I sighed. "Okay, more spoiled."

The truth was, they'd been around me since before I could spell my name. Technically before I could even spell my new name. Marowak was the quiet sentinel, the one who'd stood outside my nursery door like a club-wielding bouncer the week after I got sick. He'd never said much, but I'd caught him more than once adjusting the thermostat when I woke up from an existential nightmare.

Farfetch'd on the other hand had been a menace since day one. He used to swipe my flashcards and hold them hostage until I traded snacks. Once, he'd stolen my homework and returned it graded, in Alakazam's handwriting mind you, but they were still partners in crime.

Mom flopped back onto the couch beside me with an annoyed sigh as she turned on the replay of the battle. "I swear, if I had a Pokédollar for every cocky first-timer who tried that Gust-boosted Flamethrower trick..."

"Right? It looks cool, sure, but the minute your Flying type can't control the updraft, it's just flaming confetti."

She beamed at me. "Classic rookie mistake. I told you, sweetie, that combo's only useful if they've actually trained it."

"Yeah, yeah." I waved her off and took another bite of my protein bar. "Still. You wiped the floor with him. I can already tell the smug levels in here are about to be unbearable."

Farfetch'd squawked in exaggerated offense and immediately pointed his leek at Marowak as if to say, It was all him!

I snorted at the attempt. "Nice try. At least Marowak pretends to be humble."

Marowak shrugged, not even bothering to look up from his tempering.

Mom hummed. "You know," she started slowly, "I was thinking. With the Family Gathering coming up, maybe we can do a team showcase this year? Some friendly duos, add in a little flair, something to show off the Grand's battle staff?"

I shot her an exasperated look. "Mom. Half our family are hoteliers. You know, businesspeople. They don't care about team synergy or move efficiency. They just want to one-up each other with wine lists and how many fountains they installed this year."

She wiggled her fingers. "Exactly! Which is why we have to remind them that our fountains have combat applications!"

Farfetch'd flared his wings in agreement. Alakazam tilted his head and gave me a look that said, 'You're not winning this one.'

I sank further into the couch.

The Gathering was coming, and with it, the full might of the Cashion clan was going to be crammed into one building.

Blissey waddled back in with a tray laden with dinner and gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as she passed.

"Thanks, Bliss. I'll need it."

---

The next few days passed in a blur of logistics, linen samples, and way too many pastel-colored spreadsheets.

With the Family Gathering looming like a Sharpedo fin on the horizon, the entire resort had shifted into high gear.

And by "resort," I mean an actual ecosystem of moving parts. The Kumquat Grand wasn't just a single building after all. It was practically a small town.

The main resort complex alone housed well over a thousand rooms, nearly two hundred suites, a League-grade stadium, two spas, three restaurants, a rooftop garden, a dozen sets of exercise rooms for all your various needs, and an indoor-outdoor pool system that spanned the entirety of the southern wing. And that was just the core.

Surrounding it was an entire beachfront boardwalk lined with specialty shops and vendor stalls, all technically part of the property. Everything from the guest robes to the room soaps was locally produced: artisan linens, small-batch lotions, hand-carved incense diffusers. You name it; we made it. Mom liked to call it "in-house luxury," and it made her very popular with the island's public sector.

It also meant we didn't just have a front desk to prepare.

We had a supply chain.

I spent the better part of one morning elbow-deep in inventory records, helping Chilton cross-check delivery times for custom Moomoo milk soaps while also tracking down a box of misprinted invitation envelopes that had somehow been rerouted to the water filtration annex. (Yes, we had one of those. It was next to the staff-only saltwater therapy bay. Don't ask.)

Blissey, who doubled as senior nursing staff and part-time logistics coordinator, made sure I was hydrated and not dead on my feet. She had an uncanny way of appearing with snacks right when I thought about skipping a meal. She never said a word, just handed me a protein bar, patted my head, and walked off like she'd performed a sacred duty.

Then there was Momo.

Momo the Machamp had been part of Mom's team longer than anyone but Alakazam. Built like a brick house in motion, Momo ran heavy lifting, onsite construction tweaks, and occasionally helped move stubborn guests who thought "no Pokémon in the western spa pool" was just a suggestion.

I ran into Momo twice that week, once while hauling half a dozen crates of tropical centerpiece arrangements through the main lobby. The second time, she was helping the maintenance crew reinforce the aerial platform seating in the stadium, with one arm, while also eating an entire durian fruit.

Between that, running errands for Sal in the spa wing, coordinating delivery drop-offs from our island-tailored vendors, and serving as a glorified runner for Chilton, I barely had time to breathe. Farfetch'd mocked me from the rafters. Marowak pretended to be asleep on the lobby chaise whenever I passed by. Even Alakazam had stopped offering commentary, probably because I no longer had the brainpower to be witty in return.

By the fourth day, I was back at the front desk again, wrist-deep in laminated welcome packets, double-checking room assignments, and printing fresh name tags for relatives I technically saw every year but still had to greet like they'd stepped off a private jet from another timeline.

Chilton swept past with the poise of someone who organized guest logistics like it was a competitive sport. He set a color-coded folder on the counter beside me with all the grim finality of a man delivering a sentence rather than paperwork.

"It appears that the Riches will not be able to make it this year."

For a moment, I just stared at him, then at the folder, then at the stack of name tags I had just finished for the aforementioned relatives.

"What is it this time?" I asked, dumping the name tags in a nearby trash can with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. I really shouldn't be surprised though; the Riches always had something come up.

They never missed intentionally, mind you. They just lost more battles to the universe than most members of the Family.

Chilton winced. "Unova had a bit of an incident. Their storm legendaries decided to get into a curfuffle right outside Undella Town. The Riches and most of their neighbors have been pulled into emergency response, evacuations and damage control, that sort of thing."

I sucked in a sympathetic breath. "Right. That would definitely do it."

Chilton gave a small nod, the kind that said he did not enjoy being the bearer of bad news, even when it technically made my workload lighter.

I glanced down at the stack of welcome packets still to sort. Thirty-seven badges to go. Possibly more if Rayna brought her art team again. Or if Uncle Walton sent the wrong guest list like last time.

Then the lobby doors opened up like the heralds of further bad news.

I didn't even need to look up. I felt it, that distinct aura of someone who didn't come for the amenities, the view, or even the signature Moomoo Milk lattes. No, this was a Challenge Energy™ entrance.

Sure enough, a couple walked up to the counter. The guy of the pair walked up with a swagger and was wearing a black tank top under a half-unzipped travel jacket, trying to look like he hadn't rehearsed this exact moment in a mirror. Behind him, his probable girlfriend strolled in with the detached energy of someone tagging along for the free ride.

"Welcome to the Kumquat Grand," I said with my best front-desk smile. "Are you here for a room or the Gym Challenge?"

The guy smirked in that way jerks always seem to manage naturally. "Challenge. Heard this place was tough, figured I'd see what all the fuss is about."

Of course.

"Standard format?" I asked, ignoring the small dig with practiced ease. "Or do you want to attempt the Gym Package, where, if you win, you get a comped suite. If you lose, you still get a room, just with a bill."

He chuckled snidely. "Nah, just the challenge. We're heading out after I win."

Well, someone was confident.

I tapped the system terminal and triggered the automated notification to the Gym Office. A moment later, the front desk comm lit up with a soft buzz.

"Gym Office to Front Desk. Go ahead."

I hit the mic. "Hey, we've got a walk-in challenger requesting Standard Format."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Mom's voice came through, slightly muffled and very much in the middle of something. "Seriously? Now? Of course it'd be now. Tell them they'll have to wait—no, no, wait—Bliss, where's my blazer—Travis, change of plans. You'll be taking this one."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"I've got a video conference in three minutes with the Mandarin South terminal about travel itineraries, and I can't reschedule again. Bliss says I'm out of grace periods. You're up, kiddo."

"You sure?" I glanced over at the challenger who was busy checking his reflection in the chrome elevator panel. "He looks like the type to try and take a swing at me when he loses."

"You'll be fine," Luana said breezily. "You have permission to go all out. Make him regret wasting our prep time."

I hesitated, then leaned into the comm mic. "Okay…can I use Marowak and Sandy?"

There was a pause.

"Oh-ho-ho, you want to run that combo?" Mom's voice was bright and just a little wicked. "Brutal. I love it. Go have fun babycakes."

The comm clicked off.

I exhaled through my nose, then turned to the boyfriend. "Looks like you're in luck."

He looked back, confused. "Yeah?"

"You'll be facing the Leader's son."

"…Wait, you?"

"That's right." I fished two familiar Pokéballs out of a nearby dumbwaiter that connected up to the Gym Office. "I'm certified as an Acting Gym Leader. Got my license last year. I'm allowed to accept and conduct matches in the name of the Kumquat Gym…as long as Mom says so first."

He stared. "But, wait, are you even old enough to be a Trainer yet? Do you even have any Pokémon?"

"Nope," I said, popping the 'p'. "But I do know how to use hers."

I walked past him with a nod toward the shortest arena route. "Follow me. Battle will begin shortly."

---

The arena was bathed in late-afternoon light, a soft golden light filtering down through the glass-paneled dome. The stands were mostly empty, just a few early arrivals watching from balconies and one curious little girl peeking through the stairwell railing with an Igglybuff plush in her arms.

I took my place on the home platform while the challenger swaggered up to his own.

"Seriously," he chuckled snidely. "She's got her kid filling in?"

"Only when she's double-booked," I answered dryly. "I wouldn't take it personally. Think of it as us going easy on you."

He snorted. "You gonna use that Alakazam and Marowak combo she's famous for?"

I paused, thumb resting over one of the Pokéballs.

"Nah," I replied with a growing grin. "I'm gonna make this interesting."

I looked up toward the Gym Office's observation window, half expecting to feel a disapproving psychic hum from Alakazam, yet got nothing.

"Marowak," I said aloud, "and Sandy."

The challenger blinked. "Sandy?"

I tossed both Pokéballs.

Marowak landed first, bone club already spinning in his hand like a baton of impending regret.

The second flash hit the battlefield with a low, sandy ripple. A tower of ghostly sand rose up from the platform's edge, eyes glowing like buried embers under a hood of sediment.

The challenger's smirk faltered at the latter's appearance. "What the heck is that?!"

I just smiled. "A Palossand. Mom doesn't use Sandy all that often. Says it's too one-sided for casual matches."

Mom's voice came through the overhead PA, filtered but unmistakably cheerful.

"Have fun, sweetie!"

A pause.

"…Also, try not to flatten the poor boy too hard. We still want good reviews!"

A soft click followed as the intercom shut off, and the arena lights shifted, pulsing outward from the center to draw attention toward the field.

The referee stepped up onto the central platform. A stocky guy in a resort uniform with aviators, broad shoulders, and a whistle around his neck. I recognized him immediately, Big Wayne, one of our resort's groundskeeping supervisors who'd gotten way too into the idea of "helping out" after earning his referee license during the off-season a few years back.

He raised one hand with performative enthusiasm, his voice booming across the arena like he was auditioning for a local league spotlight match.

"This match will pit visiting challenger Rocky Magnum," Oh no, that name's real, "against Acting Gym Representative Travis Cashion, standing in for Kumquat Island Gym Leader and Orange Crew member, Luana Cashion."

"Standard Double Battle Format. One round. Victory will result in a Jade Star Badge and challenge credit."

He looked between us with the kind of theatrical seriousness usually reserved for surf competitions and resort-wide water balloon fights.

"Trainers, send out your Pokémon!"

Rocky Magnum (yes, really) snapped two Pokéballs from his belt and flung them overhead with a spin that would've been more impressive if he hadn't nearly hit his girlfriend on the return catch.

In twin flashes of light, a Poliwrath landed with a grunt of challenge, its fists already pumping, while a towering Rhydon slammed down beside it, letting out a low bellow that shook the platform beneath us.

Both looked strong. Not Gym Leader-tier, but solid. Their stances were steady with little wasted motion.

Not that it would matter.

"Battle! Begin!"

"Poliwrath, Bubblebeam wide!" Rocky called immediately. "Rhydon, Rock Slide up!"

A blast of bubbles and a cascade of shimmering stones shot across the battlefield in unison, the first barreling low to the ground while the stones arched high and were meant to rain chaos across my side of the field before I had time to breathe.

I sighed internally.

Combo moves. Always combo moves. Mom had clocked it years ago, and I had been quick to notice. Nine out of ten trainers opened with something flashy and wide-area, hoping to hit something before the field settled. It looked good, it sounded good, and it worked against half-trained teams who panicked early.

But we didn't train for looks.

"Marowak, Sandy, Bulldoze!"

In perfect tandem, both Pokémon slammed their respective limbs into the arena floor, causing twin ripples of earth to surge forward like twin tidal waves of dirt and stone.

The Bubblebeam barely made it halfway across the arena before the wave slammed into it, the bubbles popping like watery grenades against the rising quake. The Rock Slide fared slightly better; some of the stones made it over and even connected as Marowak was forced to smack some away and Sandy outright tanked his, but the wave stopped any more from being formed.

Then the Bulldoze struck.

The enemy team stumbled, not fully toppled, but caught off guard. Instead of meeting a flat battlefield, they were suddenly "surfing" the last broken edge of the wave, footing thrown off and balance compromised. It wasn't enough to do serious damage, but it was enough to leave them stunned for a few precious seconds.

Pulling out a pair of goggles I kept on hand, I felt my lips quirk up.

"Sandstorm!" I ordered, snapping the goggles over my eyes.

Both of my Pokémon responded immediately. Marowak struck the floor again with a sharp twist, and Sandy's body pulsed with unnatural light as loose particles began to rise.

Dust and grit lifted into the air. The wind stirred. Then it howled.

A roaring cyclone of earth and grit surged into existence around the battlefield, blinding and furious, thick with storm-churned sand.

From the balconies above, I heard a few guests groan.

Yeah, this was why Mom didn't use this team combo unless she was feeling mean. Sure, it was brutally effective, but the guests couldn't see anything once the Sandstorm really got going, which was obviously bad for audience scores.

I didn't care, not today.

Let them write whatever they wanted on the comment cards; I had a badge to protect.

The Sandstorm raged, whipping across the arena in violent gusts. Visibility dropped to almost nothing, just silhouettes and motion through a grainy curtain. Somewhere across the field, Rocky cursed before shouting a command that the wind swallowed whole.

From the grit came a shrill burst of water pressure as a Hydro Pump streaked blindly through the storm in staggered volleys. One blast struck a far pillar of the arena and cracked it with a wet snap. The others fizzled against the floor, missing everything.

A moment later, jagged pillars of stone ripped through the ground, what I thought to be Rhydon's Stone Edge erupting like geysers in different directions. One slammed into the edge of Sandy's last known location. Another slammed into the stadium barrier high up enough to draw a startled yelp from a guest who ducked back on instinct.

Still, none of them hit.

Perfect.

I stepped up to the edge of the platform and spoke low enough that my opponent couldn't possibly hear:

"Sandy. Left front quadrant. Close to me."

There was no sound or visual cue, but I could just make out a faint ghostly moan in the sand filled air around me.

Good.

The Palossand had flattened itself against the edge of the field, just near my platform, its form half-sunken into the sand-blasted earth to look like part of the terrain. The way the grains shifted around it, you wouldn't know it was there unless you were looking, and even then, it was doubtful.

"Sandy, drain them wherever you feel them close enough."

There was another faint moan.

Then two flashes of dark green burst from opposite ends of the stadium nearest me. Sandy's no doubt flattened and stretched out limbs sending out tendrils of Grass Type energy that arced through the grit and slammed into unseen targets. One gurgle and grunt came through the sand filled air. Giga Drain had hit home.

"Pass the word along and tell Marowak to hit and run. Keep them guessing," I added, mouth threatening to quirk upward into a smirk.

Another silent ripple through the field.

After all, even if Marowak could hear any shouted orders over the howling storm, thus revealing said orders to the opponent, that didn't matter with Sandy on the field. His senses extended like a sand-enhanced sixth sense, allowing him to pass the message across the battlefield with ease.

Seconds later, a shadow darted in the haze of swirling sand and cracked forward with a thunk of bone-on-rocky flesh. Marowak emerged just long enough to land a Bone Club against Rhydon's thigh before vanishing back into the storm.

Another flash of dark green light impacted the opponent, and Marowak leapt in to deliver a sharp Brick Break across Poliwrath's chest before they could shake off the supereffective hits.

Rocky growled loud enough for me to hear through the storm. "What is this hide-and-hit garbage?! Poliwrath use Surf! Flood the whole damn field!"

My lips twitched. Wrong choice pal. "Sandy! Form up and block it!"

The wind shifted.

The sand moved.

Like a living thing, the entire storm surged inward, gathering and spiraling into a single point.

The outline of Palossand grew from a crouching dune to a rising fortress. His body grew with the weight of all the excess sand their combined storm had produced.

The crowd watching gasped as the sandstorm died out and revealed Sandy in his new titanic glory.

Then the Surf slammed into Sandy's massive, now towering form with a thunderous splash and didn't move him an inch.

Instead, the water vanished into his body, swallowed up by ghostly sediment. Sandy's form rippled and shifted, glowing faintly with the effect of his Water Compaction ability. His physical Defense spiked as his body solidified into something closer to stone than sand.

Rocky cursed.

I pointed forward.

"Sandy. Body Slam."

The massive Palossand fell. Not quickly, he wasn't built for speed, but like an avalanche made living. A wall of momentum, crashing forward with a roar of sliding grit and force.

"Poliwrath, Rhydon, stop it! Double Ice Punch!"

Twin figures charged in desperation, fists glowing bright blue as frost formed mid-strike.

"Marowak! Protect!"

And Sandy's body split open, revealing Marowak like a fired projectile from where he had been hidden inside.

The attacks struck the hastily made barrier with a resounding crack, yet the barrier held firm, repelling both with a flare of energy.

And that was all Sandy needed.

Marowak mock saluted them as he fell backwards into a shallow Dig, allowing him to dodge as Sandy slammed into duo like a living landslide.

Rocky attempted to throw out an order, but the words were easily swallowed under the mountainous crash that shook the field. Sand and debris hung in the air for a time as we all waited to see the result of the attack.

It was the shifting of sand that revealed the truth. The attack had broken Sandy's body into enough pieces that his more malleable form was what rose up to reveal the knocked-out forms of his opponents.

He threw the silent crowd a hesitant wave.

From the central platform, Big Wayne blew his whistle with a sharp trill.

"Both of the challenger's Pokémon are unable to battle!" he called. "The Round goes to Sandy and Marowak, and Victory goes to the Kumquat Gym!"

A polite round of applause swept out from a few balcony guests at the nearly anti-climactic ending. One kid in a novelty Slowpoke onesie did give a full standing ovation. It was adorable.

"Good job guys!" I called to my teammates for the match. Marowak huffed from where he had popped out of the ground in front of my stand, while Sandy gave me a hum and full-body nod.

Across the field, Rocky just stood there, hands at his sides, staring at the wreckage of his team.

"You…that was cheap," he muttered as I walked across the field with my Pokémon.

I tilted my head. "It was a Sandstorm. You watched me set it up."

He scowled. "Yeah, well, I couldn't see a thing!"

"That was kind of the point." I shrugged. "You came in swinging. I built the field to last. If you weren't ready for that…maybe come back when you are?"

He looked like he wanted to slug me, but stopped himself upon a small smack sounded from Marowak resting his club in his offhand. Rocky just ended up sighing and recalled his fainted Pokémon without another word.

Good call.

From the overhead speaker, Mom's voice chimed in again, cheerful and sing-song:

"Good job baby! Be sure to offer him a coupon on his way out! We like to lose them gently!"

I rolled my eyes and stepped away.

The walk to the Gym locker room was mainly spent trying to shake sand from my clothes, Sandy being a helpful guy and pulling what little he could feel with his senses.

The locker room was quiet and mercifully cool after the heat of battle. I took a moment to lean against the wall and let out a slow breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

One match. That's all it had been.

And yet, looking down at my hands, I couldn't hold back the wild grin that had threatened to cover my face the whole match.

I could still feel the adrenaline humming in my fingers. The faint echo of howling sand and blood roaring in my ears.

It wasn't my first time standing in for Mom, yet it always felt like a reminder that someday soon, I wouldn't be borrowing anyone's team. Thar soon it would be me and my team out there, battling it out and letting our emotions run wild-

A scaly hand touching my arm pulled me back to the present. Marowak, looking at me with fondness in his eyes, but also an exasperated shake of his head.

Flushing a bit at getting caught out, I breathed deep a moment before straightening up and returning the duo. Chilton would probably have another stack of name tags waiting for me after all, and Blissey would no doubt insist I drink some water. Someone, probably Farfetch'd, would inevitably try to trip me on the stairs.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, the Family will start arriving.

A whole clan of resort tycoons, smiling assassins in sunglasses and silk, here to judge everything from thread counts to battle finesse.

I sighed and shoved my hands in my pockets.

One battle down.

One Gathering to survive.

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 3
​

---

The breeze down at the dock was cool, salty, and just strong enough to tousle hair in a way that looked deliberate. It was the kind of morning that belonged in brochures.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to enjoy it.

The ocean was calm, the weather was perfect…and that meant family was arriving early.

"Uncle Manu could've flown," I muttered as I stared out at my newest source of annoyance. "He owns a fleet of Flying-types and literal planes. Kahili's flying in later on a Pokémon like a reasonable person. But nooo, he wants to dock a floating island right in the middle of our docks."

Chilton didn't look up from his clipboard. "You're talking to yourself again, Mr. Cashion."

"I've earned the right to complain," I replied flatly. "That yacht's bigger than our stadium twice over."

To be fair, Uncle Manu at least had the decency to double up. He'd picked up Aunt Jacki and Rayna on his way through the Seveii Islands, which spared us from multiple supersized vessels fighting for dock space, so small mercies.

The said yacht began its final approach, slicing through the water with a slow, graceful authority. Sleek, multi-decked, and shining under the tropical sun. The nautical vessel looked like it had been carved from obsidian and chrome. The name Ka Pali Aloha shimmered along the side in smooth, polished script: "The Beloved Cliffs," in Alolan. Very on-brand.

Uncle Manu (he was actually my great-uncle, but semantics) was first off, because of course he was. Tall, wind-swept, and perpetually tan, he wore his age like a badge and his wealth like a tailored breeze. His thankfully tasteful Alolan print shirt was open to exactly the point it could be without being impolite, and his sandals probably cost more than our VIP suites.

Following close behind was Aunt Jacki, all pearls and precision, her summer gown fluttering slightly in the sea breeze as if nature itself respected her status. She moved like someone who had never had to push her own luggage.

Following her mother in sharp contrast, Rayna was dressed like a well-off college art student. A black beret covered her bubble gum pink hair, an oversized sketchpad was held under one arm, and her Smeargle clung to her shoulder like a proud co-pilot, tail-tip already twitching like it wanted to use the dock as a canvas.

And then came the entourage.

Dozens of staff poured out: the yacht crew, stylists, culinary aides, luggage managers, Rayna's personal art team, and at least one guy whose entire job, near as I could tell, was making sure Rayna didn't lose her favorite brush.

Thankfully, we'd been prepping for this all week, so while it was doubtless going to be chaos, it was at least organized chaos.

"Travis!" Rayna bounded down the dock, Smeargle flapping in the wind in her rush to nearly tackle me in a hug. "You grew again! You're almost…uh…medium height!"

"Thanks, Rayna," I deadpanned from between her noodle arms that were trying and failing to spin me like in a cartoon. "I'll aspire to reach short king status by the end of the year."

She laughed easily, releasing me and spinning in a half-circle even with her failure to bring me along for the ride. "Did you hear that? He's aiming for royalty!"

Smeargle barked once in agreement before smearing a tiny crown across the dock's welcome plaque with its tail.

Chilton sighed beside me. "We'll sandblast that later."

"I'm not even going to pretend we won't."

Uncle Manu approached next, arms open and smile wide. "Travis my boy! Good to see you! Your mother keeping the ship afloat?"

"Only because I've been patching the hull."

He laughed like a man who owned every boat in the marina. (Because he did.) "That's the spirit!"

Aunt Jacki followed behind, offering a crisp nod. "Our accommodations?"

"Fully prepared and waiting," I replied smoothly.

She gave the slightest of approving nods, which was the Aunt Jacki version of a beaming smile.

As more of the entourage filed in, Chilton began issuing orders for unpacking with quiet efficiency, and I took the chance to step aside.

Uncle Manu turned to glance back over his shoulder. "Your least favorite uncle and aunt are coming on the afternoon ferry. Leo didn't want to dock his ship in the same bay as mine again. Said it made him feel poor."

"Thank Arceus," I muttered under my breath, ignoring his attempt at humor, before asking louder, "Kylie and Roman are with them?"

"Of course," Uncle Manu huffed. "Rebecca wouldn't miss a chance to complain about the humidity, and you know Kylie loves to gossip with your mother."

"And Roman?"

He snickered like a man in his twenties instead of the sixties he was. "Roman will do what Kylie tells him."

"Smart man."

"Hey! Hey, someone stop it!"

We all turned as a cluster of yacht crew began scrambling around the gangplank, yelling over one another and pointing at something darting between their legs.

Then I saw it. A blur of yellow and sparks.

Small, fast, and wild-eyed, a Pichu tore across the pier like its tail was on fire. It didn't just run. It launched, springing off crates, ricocheting off railings, and, at one point, vaulting off the back of a man's head like it was competing in a parkour league.

"Oh, for-" Uncle Manu clicked his tongue. "That damn thing's a stowaway. Been onboard since we left home. Nobody could catch it. Slipped through every net, trap, and food lure we tried."

"You couldn't catch a landlocked Electric-type on a boat? In the middle of the ocean?" I asked in genuine bewilderment.

He gave a helpless shrug. "It disappeared into the ventilation system. Do you want to be the guy who tears apart a luxury yacht to catch a half-pound electric rat?"

Aunt Jacki made a sharp, unimpressed noise. "So you knew your vessel had vermin."

"Not vermin, just a highly mobile and emotionally unavailable guest," Rayna corrected with a snicker.

The crew had formed a loose perimeter now, assisted by some of our dockhands, but it wasn't working. The Pichu juked through them like it knew what they were doing before they did. One unfortunate staffer lunged too slowly and wound up face-first in a pile of luggage.

Which is also just about the time the little blur changed direction outright.

Namely, our direction.

"Oh absolutely not," Aunt Jacki snapped, already reaching for a Pokéball. "I am not getting zapped before breakfast."

Everyone reached for something. Uncle Manu's hand was already up, summoning a flash of steel and wings as his Skarmory burst from its Pokéball. Chilton, ever the professional, released a Sandslash, already curling to brace for impact.

Then Rayna stepped forward with her hand outstretched. "Wait, wait, wait! Let me try first! Smeargle use Spore!"

Smeargle leapt from her shoulder and twirled its tail like a wand, releasing a cloud of shimmering powder across the dock.

And what occurred next could only be described as cartoonish in nature as the Pichu hit the edge of the cloud at a sprint, then flipped.

It twisted midair in a corkscrew spin, just barely changing trajectory…and it was enough that the Spore cloud swept directly into the lunging Skarmory and Sandslash before either could react.

Both Pokémon immediately slumped where they stood.

"What!" Aunt Jacki's voice pitched upward to somewhere between outrage and offense. "Rayna!"

"I-he-he dodged it!" Rayna flailed. "He's got movement tech!"

And then the Pichu was on me.

I barely had time to blink before something scrambled up my pant leg, kicked off my chest, and launched directly off my face. Feet in my eye, tail in my mouth, the whole package.

As it sprang, there was a sharp and hopefully unintentional Zap that lit up my nerves like a broken power socket. I stumbled backward with an undignified sound that I refused to call a yelp.

By the time I recovered, the Pichu had already bounced off a mooring post and vanished into the marina's foliage, a flicker of yellow and sparks streaking into the distance.

Silence fell.

Uncle Manu sighed. "Well. That happened."

Chilton knelt beside his unconscious Sandslash with a look of mild exasperation. "I just polished him."

Aunt Jacki had one hand on her chest and the other curled into a fist. "That's it. I'm declaring a personal war on electric rodents."

Rayna was still watching the horizon like the Pichu might come back to pose for a sketch. "He was so cute, though."

I slowly rubbed at my face and looked at my palm. Dirt, possibly soot, and the faint smell of singed linen lingered.

"Dear Arceus, I hate mornings."

---

Later that afternoon, the Kumquat Grand's largest ballroom (aptly named "The Grand Ballroom") had become a battlefield of its own.

Not in the literal sense, but in the way only extended family reunions could be. Half the room was polished marble floors and chandeliers. The other half was polished egos and passive-aggressive commentary.

There were nearly three hundred people scattered around now, clustered at linen-covered tables or mingling near the indoor fountain that someone had definitely spiked with berry wine. These weren't the names I grew up with. These were the orbiters, the "once removed," the "third cousins by marriage," and the "long-lost uncle who owns a boutique property in Scissor Street near Celadon City, and thinks that qualifies them for some kind of inheritance."

I stood near one of the food tables, trying to look busy even as a woman in a sapphire sarong attempted to corner me.

"I'm sure you don't remember me, but I held you when you were this big!" She pinched the air like she was crushing a bug.

"Ah," I hummed politely. "So…yesterday?"

She laughed like I'd just made her month. "Still a firecracker, I see! You know, I helped your mother plan the very first Kumquat Christmas gala."

I nodded like I hadn't heard similar stories a dozen times over the years. "She always said it wouldn't have come together without your Swanna-shaped ice sculpture."

"Oh!" She gasped, delighted. "You do remember!"

I didn't. I just knew that this relative was obsessed with them.

Thankfully, or maybe unfortunately, I was saved by the arrival of someone worse.

"Travis! Good to see ya lad!" Boomed a tall man in a wide-collared floral shirt that clashed with itself. "Still keeping that hair a little too short, I see."

"Uncle Walton," I said evenly, offering the blandest smile I could manage. "Your shirt is…confident."

He beamed. "Custom print. I had it made after we closed the deal on that Sinnoh cliffside retreat. Only six rooms, but the exclusivity is the real seller. I've got a waitlist five months long!"

"Impressive," I said, and meant it in the most neutral way possible.

Behind him, I spotted his eldest daughter, my cousin Trina, and her partner, whatshisname, engaged in a very intense conversation with one of our resort chefs about gluten-free Poffin plating. To their left, his youngest son was showing someone his photos of a beach he was thinking of buying. Thinking of. It wasn't his yet, mind you. He was just emotionally invested in it.

Still, I had to admit, the ballroom had turned out nicely.

Chilton and Blissey had outdone themselves on décor. The white tablecloths had purple and gold runners styled after the Kumquat Grand logo, and soft tropical jazz played gently from the speakers set into the arches overhead. Waitstaff moved like synchronized swimmers between social clusters, distributing drinks and snacks with unsettling grace.

I clocked Mom across the ballroom holding court, or more accurately, being cornered by a knot of relatives who didn't know how to attend a family event without bringing a clipboard.

They weren't here to catch up. They were here to evaluate.

I could see one man gesturing toward the ceiling moldings, lips moving with the precise movements of someone suggesting "an elegant ceiling mural that reflects regional heritage." Another woman was holding a tablet sideways and doing some kind of rough linework over an image of one of the soda fountains, probably trying to show how "with just a few tweaks, it could tie in the whole atrium experience."

I held in a sigh. These were the ones who never quite relaxed. The people who turned every vacation into a pitch meeting. Their conversations always started with "Now, have you considered…" and ended with the cornered relative coming up with some excuse that saw them not talking to that particular relative for the rest of the night.

I glanced toward the main entrance.

Still no sign of Uncle Leo, Aunt Rebecca, Kylie, or Roman. They were due in minutes, assuming the ferry hadn't hit another delay. Once they arrived, the real event would start.

Until then, I prepared to survive the prelude.

I began edging my way toward the far end of the ballroom, where the lighting was a little warmer and the voices a little weirder. Where Rayna had planted her flag. Or easel rather.

The "Fun Table", as Reyna dubbed it every year.

You could always tell where the artists congregated. The people who were more in touch with art, music, and even architecture for the sake of looking good than being totally functional. There were fewer pressed suits and more flowing sleeves, and the scent of ink and lavender oil lingered in the air. I could already spot one guy sketching a waiter in motion mid-pour like it was part of a speed challenge.

Rayna had claimed the corner with the confidence of someone who knew no one would try to reassign her seat. She was half-reclined on a lounge chair which she had definitely forced one of our staff to move from another part of the building. A palette of macarons were arranged in a gradient on the table beside her like an edible color wheel, and Smeargle lounged at her feet with a wet cloth draped over its head like a headband.

It was, by comparison, a peaceful haven.

Rayna spotted me and beamed. "Did you finally abandon punch bowl duty?"

"Temporarily," I mulishly corrected, pulling out a chair. "It got too crowded, and someone was taking selfies with the centerpiece tower like it was a wedding cake."

"We do not talk about the Unova brunch incident," said one of our various cousins (who I was pretty sure was named Marcus on the Hoenn side and an architect), without looking up.

"Wasn't going to," I returned dryly. "But now I'm thinking about it again."

Rayna slid a pile of pale blue macaroons toward me. "Here. Artisanal amnesia."

"Bless you."

The conversation at the artist's table soon drifted toward impromptu collaborations, something about a commemorative mosaic installation in the pool courtyard at Resort Gorgeous made entirely from recycled Poké Balls and sea glass.

Rayna was sketching ideas between bites, Smeargle offering the occasional tail-flick of approval like a mildly invested art critic.

I was just starting to feel like I might survive the evening when the lights around the upper arches dimmed slightly. Not enough to disrupt the vibe, but enough to signal attention.

The staff member stationed at the ballroom's upper landing entrance let out a polite yet loud harrumph. His name was Derek, and his sole job this evening was announcing people. He wore a gold-trimmed vest and the expression of a man who took great pride in pronunciation.

He tapped his mic once and spoke with all the reverence of an opera usher:

"Now arriving: Leonardo and Rebecca Cashion, Heads of the Grand Lake Estate."

A few heads turned immediately. Conversations quieted. The entrance doors opened wide.

The older couple walked side by side, composed and regal, like they'd just stepped out of a promotional shoot for Sinnoh's Most Prestigious. Great Uncle Leo's cane was more decorative than functional, etched with a stylized Salamence mid roar, and Great Aunt Rebecca's gown shimmered like it had been woven from Lake Valor's moonlight. Neither looked rushed, despite their nearly late arrival.

They didn't need the fanfare to turn heads. Presence and reputation did the work for them.

"And accompanying them, Miss Kylie Cashion, Heiress to the Grand Lake Estate and owner of the Seven Stars Street, and her fiancé, Master Chef Roman Célestin, head chef of the Seven Stars Restaurant."

Then came Kylie, quiet confidence in motion. She wore a tailored blue-and-white dress that subtly echoed her estate's signature colors. Her hair was pulled back into a polished twist, and her posture struck the perfect balance between formality and intent.

Beside her walked Roman, all calm precision. His chef's whites were clean-cut and custom-embroidered to look more like a dress uniform than something the help would wear. He had the bearing of someone used to scrutiny and was unbothered by it.

The whispers started before they even exited the doorway proper.

"She's running the whole of Seven Star Street herself right now. Impressive-"

"-handpicked staff from what I hear. Cleaned house in under six months."

"-Roman used to be a Connoisseur. You can taste it in his pairings!"

It wasn't just admiration. It was awareness. They were a power couple in progress, and everyone was watching.

I leaned slightly toward Rayna. "Cue the social hierarchy reshuffle in three…two…"

"I bet twenty that three tables realign themselves," she cut in. "Maybe four."

"I'll take that bet and raise you another ten."

Before I could see the result of our bet; however, it appears I had work to do.

I locked eyes with Mom across the crowd, and she gave a two-finger point, a slight tilt of her head toward the main entrance, and a look that very clearly said 'You know what to do.'

I sighed, pushed back from the artist table, and made my way through the throng.

These weren't just guests.

They were our people. The inner circle of success stories. Of the entire extended family, only a few names carried real weight:

Leonardo and Rebecca Cashion, owners of the Grand Lake Estate, easily the most prestigious resort in all of Sinnoh. Their Lakeside Hotel was practically a national landmark, and the Seven Stars Street? A street containing over a hundred high-end establishments on top of the multiregional famous Seven Stars Restaurant? You don't even try booking without knowing someone.

Uncle Manu, of course, with his Hana Grand Hotel in Alola, which was equal parts luxury resort and cultural ambassador hub. Helped along the way with his ownership of basically the entirety of Alola's public airways.

Finally, of those actually present for the Gathering this year, there was Aunt Jacki, founder and owner of Resort Gorgeous in the Sevii Islands. Her own success was of particular note considering the woman had built it from scratch. She had bought the land, raised the funding, and designed the concept. She didn't inherit greatness. She created it. That alone earned her a seat at the metaphorical (and literal) high table.

These weren't the relatives who floated along on connections or nostalgia. They ran things.

So yeah, Mom wanted the welcome to be official. Coordinated.

Which is why I nearly face-planted when Uncle Manu ignored all of it.

"LEO!" he bellowed, striding past the forming reception line like a Tauros in a china shop. "You wrinkled bastard, you actually showed up on time for once!"

Uncle Leo barely had time to brace himself before Uncle Manu clapped him on the back with a grin wide enough to be a security concern.

"Still dressing like a retired professor on holiday I see." Uncle Manu stepped back to give him a once-over. "Please tell me that cane's just for show, or I'm going to start having existential concerns about our generation's shelf life."

"Hello to you too, brother," Uncle Leo replied dryly, adjusting the shoulder Manu had nearly realigned. "Still wearing shirts that look like they lost a bet with a fruit stand?"

Ignoring the near traditional snark contest between brothers, Aunt Rebecca leaned toward Mom as she arrived to officially greet the group.

"Remind me why we allow them in the same hemisphere?"

Mom grinned cheekily. "Mostly comic relief. And some plausible deniability."

She reached out and pulled Aunt Rebecca into a hug with genuine warmth. "Welcome back to the Grand, Rebecca. Leo. Kylie, Roman, it's wonderful to have you here."

"Everything looks spectacular," Kylie said sincerely, her eyes already scanning the architectural updates near the ceiling. "You remodeled the archwork?"

"Last spring," Mom nodded. "We used coastal stone. It keeps the temperature down during peak sun hours."

Kylie gave an impressed nod. Roman was already eyeing the drink trays with the quiet focus of a man evaluating garnish technique.

I stepped up beside Mom and offered a similarly warm smile, the attempts at 'high end courtesy' obviously ruined from the start. "It's good to see you all again. Your luggage will be delivered to your suites, and I promise no one's added a rooftop maze or gravity-defying water feature since your last visit."

Uncle Leo gave me a look of exaggerated disappointment. "Where's your sense of ambition Travis?"

"Buried somewhere under the poolside cabana bar."

He gave a small chuckle, and Aunt Rebecca cracked a smile, just in time for the next wave of arrivals to step through the ballroom doors.

Their entourage wasn't as large as Uncle Manu's or Aunt Jacki's, thank Arceus, but they carried themselves with the kind of quiet efficiency that said professional, high-functioning, and don't touch the luggage. Coordinators, stylists, maybe an assistant chef or two trailing behind Roman. Most had the well-practiced calm of people used to high-profile travel.

Except one.

Near the back of the group, a young woman hovered just behind the main cluster, looking a little overwhelmed by the opulence. She wore a pale lilac dress with understated accessories, her brown hair was pinned back in soft waves, and her eyes flicked across the ballroom like she wasn't quite sure if she should be here.

Kylie was the one to turn, gave a warm wave, and beckoned forward with a smile that said 'You're going to be fine, now get over here.'

The young woman took a breath and stepped into the open.

There was a ripple through the crowd, as a slow, collective recognition of her features came into clearer view.

Kylie answered the collective question before it could become an awkward silence.

"This is Daisy, Daisy Oak," she said brightly, clearly not caring about the wider family's reaction to that bomb shell as she introduced the young women to the inner circle. "We met during the Grand Festival Welcome Party last season!"

'Ah, that makes sense,' I thought faintly, even as I tried to hide my own reaction to just who this was.

The Grand Festival was hosted at the Grand Lake Estate's famous Lakeside Hotel, overlooking Lake Valor, yearly, and was a hotspot not just for tourism, but for Sinnoh's entire Contest circuit. The Wallace Cup. The Grand Festival. Every major Coordinator who mattered passed through its halls at least once in their lives.

And apparently, so had Daisy Oak.

"Oak's granddaughter?" Aunt Jackie was the one to ask, having finally arrived to join the high table in our reunion within a reunion.

Daisy gave a small, sheepish nod. "Yes, mam. That Oak."

"Cool!" Rayne chirped in, skipping from behind her more intimidating mother to finally give Kylie a patented 'Rayne glomp'. "I hope you don't mind if I ask questions, because I've got a ton!"

Before anyone else could get a word in however, Mom stepped forward while throwing the wider family a Smile. "Whatever the case, we're happy to have you. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to come to those of us right here."

The way she said it, light, steady, and with just enough steel beneath the smile, cut straight through the low buzz of curiosity and quiet ambition starting to stir in the air. The kind of tone that made certain relatives, the ones already eyeing potential connections or soft targets, instinctively back off.

Message delivered and received: This one's under protection.

Daisy's shoulders eased a fraction. "Thank you, Mrs. Cashion. It's an honor to be invited."

Mom winked, her smile brightening into something actually pleasant. "Please. Call me Luana, sweetheart. Anyone who makes it through a boat ride with Leo and Rebecca without diving overboard has more than earned their seat."

Uncle Manu burst into laughter. Uncle Leo gave Mom a small scowl while Aunt Rebecca and Jacki smirked at his Look, and Kylie gave Daisy a small, supportive nod, like they'd all rehearsed this exact moment more than once.

---

By the time the usual speeches and toast wound down, and the wine started flowing in earnest, I had retreated back to the only corner of the ballroom that didn't make me want to strategically disappear behind a potted plant.

The 'Fun Table' was the safe haven that kept on giving.

Still safely tucked along the far wall, near the softer lighting and beneath a massive oil painting of the original Kumquat Grand, the corner had become a semi-official buffer zone for the creatively inclined. A rotating mix of painters, interior designers, boutique florists, and, more recently, a few of the more Coordinator-aligned cousins had joined the cluster. Easily identifiable by their grandstanding motions and habit of introducing themselves with their full contest titles.

Rayna held court as always. Smeargle curled at her feet with a ribbon tied around its tail now. No one knew when that had happened, and no one was brave enough to ask.

Kylie had claimed the seat beside her, chatting casually with a sharply dressed woman I vaguely recognized from last year's Kalos performance circuit.

They looked more like sisters than cousins. The same easy posture, same ability to gently shut someone down with a raised eyebrow. Rayna spoke with her hands. Kylie counterbalanced it with the occasional dry aside, keeping everything flowing without it ever spiraling off into total chaos.

And seated on Kylie's other side, sipping quietly at a Sitrus spritzer and watching everything with wide but alert eyes, was Daisy Oak.

She hadn't said much since she arrived, but she was clearly listening and taking it all in. One of the younger Coordinators had asked her a polite question about Kanto's contest scene, and Daisy had responded with a measured answer that was just informed enough to make everyone at the table pause to take it in.

Kylie nudged her once or twice to keep her engaged, not pressure, mind you, just an anchor in the sea that was the Family Gathering.

I was sitting a seat or two away, comfortably in observer mode with another plate of color-coded macarons and a fizzy drink I hadn't actually ordered, but which Blissey had definitely sent over as part of her unspoken "hydrate or I'll find you" policy.

It wasn't a bad place to be.

Better than the other half of the ballroom, where two cousins were currently loudly debating whether the Kumquat Grand needed a weather-controlled greenhouse to "compete with Galar's spa-terrain resorts", as if they had any actual say in how we ran the place.

Not that this table was any better.

Rayna gestured broadly with one hand, nearly swatting her drink off the table. "How many times do I have to say it!? If we turn the sun deck into a rotating sculpture garden, we'll need a structural redesign of the railing—"

"You'll also blind half the guests if you use actual mirror tiles," Kylie cut in dryly.

"That's why I said angled mosaic."

I just rolled my eyes at the argument I knew wouldn't actually go anywhere. They both knew better after all.

Something Rayna proved by ending the discussion by setting her drink aside and turning her gaze toward me.

"So," she started, tone light but loaded with expectation, "as a soon-to-be trainer and heir to the Kumquat Grand…what's your plan?"

I blinked slowly, already knowing where she was going with this but asking all the same, "Plan for what?"

"Your journey, duh." She outright rolled her eyes. "You've got to be thinking about it by now, right?"

That earned a few nods from the table, half curious, half teasing.

I took a sip of my drink to buy half a second of time.

I'd been planning my journey since I was five. Since before this life even.

I knew what region I wanted to start in. What starters I liked. I had spreadsheets. I had backup spreadsheets for my spreadsheets. I had an old notebook in my room with ideas for themed nicknames from a dozen different sources.

But I couldn't exactly say that out loud.

"Nothing solid yet," I finally said, shrugging at the half-truth. "It's still a bit early."

"You say that like you aren't more put-together than half the Trainers I've met at official showcases," Kylie said dryly.

"He does carry himself differently," said one of the more Coordinator-aligned cousins thoughtfully. "Very…present."

"Not like my brother," Daisy added suddenly, drawing attention as she sat forward. "Gary's got a mouth and an ego, but you put him at a table like this, and he forgets what a napkin is for."

A round of quiet laughter followed, and Daisy smiled in relief at not overstepping.

"I honestly thought you'd already started your journey," she continued, emboldened by the positive reactions. "You act old enough."

I shrugged again. "I've just been around a lot of Trainers, I guess."

Which was true. Technically.

"Well, if you're still figuring it out," Daisy went on, "my grandfather runs a summer camp for younger kids who haven't started their journeys yet. It's in Pallet Town, more of a foundation week, really. A standard introduction to battling, some wilderness safety, bonding exercises, all the usual stuff."

"Cool," I dryly replied, already making plans on how to avoid that idea being brought up again.

"Actually," Daisy added thoughtfully, ignorant of how much I wanted her to stop talking. "I think there might still be a few open slots left—"

"Summer camp?"

I froze.

I didn't have to look to know Mom now stood behind my chair, her expression aglow with dangerous enthusiasm. She'd somehow materialized mid-conversation like a hospitality specter summoned by the mere idea of structured youth programming.

"Oh, I love that idea," she said brightly. "A whole week of skill-building, nature bonding, and time away from the resort? I'll write to Professor Oak personally!"

I turned to her slowly, as if hoping that if I didn't move too fast, she'd forget the last minute.

"You're not serious?" I half asked, half pleaded.

She leaned in, smile weaponized. "Oh, I'm already picturing the scrapbook."

I stared at her, mute with horror.

Summer camp.

With actual children.

Daisy, bless her, at least looked apologetic. Kylie was trying to stifle laughter behind her glasses while Rayne didn't even bother; she was already falling out of her chair, cackling all the while.

"I'm going to die," I muttered, horrified.

"No, you're not, babycakes." Mom ruffled my hair.

"You're going to make memories!"

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 4
​

---

The penthouse was dim and calm, lit mostly by the flickering fireplace and a few soft sconces set to "late-night cozy." The kind of atmosphere that allows you to finally kick up your feet and relax.

I was sprawled across the long couch like a half-melted Vanillish, head tilted back, hair tousled by the ocean breeze curling in through the balcony doors. I'd gone the distance and played my part. I had survived the front lines of the Reception Wars.

"…He's out," Aunt Jacki said dryly, sipping something pink and fizzy from where she was lounging in one of only two recliners in the room. She didn't like sharing.

"He's not out," Mom corrected, perched on the other recliner with one leg tucked beneath her. "He's recharging. Big difference."

"He can hear you," I sniped back, not bothering to lift my head.

That got a laugh from the room. Not forced or performative, the real kind. The kind that only happened when the ballroom doors were shut, and the decorative masks came off.

This was the Inner Gathering. The real one. Not the one with clipboards and business cards, but the one that happened every year after the first-night festivities, after the wider family had filtered out, and the inner circle had peeled away from the fanfare.

Only the trusted few were here.

Rayna was sprawled upside-down on the adjacent loveseat, her sketchpad balanced precariously on her knees, and her Smeargle dozing at her hip like a fuzzy, paint-stained puddle. Momo sat at head level with a look of quiet focus, gently weaving her long pink hair into a braid. Rayna sighed contentedly every few seconds, the picture of spoiled relaxation.

Taking up a large portion of the center floor space, a Salamence lay coiled like a dragon pretending to be a rug. She had one eye lidded open, half-watching the room with predator-level boredom. Uncle Leo and Aunt Rebecca sat on the couch behind her, legs resting comfortably across her sides like they'd done this a hundred times before, which they obviously had. Salamence didn't seem to mind. She even shifted once to allow Aunt Rebecca's ankle a better angle before resuming her faux-nap.

Bliss hummed something wordless as she continued her work in the kitchen while Alakazam hovered behind Mom, eyes half-lidded as he got into a staring contest with Uncle Manu's Xatu, who himself was perched on the back of said uncle's chair. Across the room, Kylie's Munchlax was staging a slow-motion raid on one of the various fruit platters, creeping forward with cartoonish stealth. Each time he reached out, one of the two Psychics present would casually levitate the platter inches farther without even looking.

"You guys are cruel," Kylie said without real heat, sipping something red, sweet, and probably alcoholic. "You know he'll try all night."

"That's the lesson," Alakazam replied dryly to the room at large. "Persistence is no substitute for actual effort."

Xatu's twitching head was his own sign of agreement.

"Still cruel," Roman concluded, flicking a grape at Munchlax in consolation.

Uncle Manu himself lounged near the balcony doors, the sheer curtains fluttering behind him. His Sensu form Oricorio was perched on the chair's armrest, her eyes half-lidded as her trainer slowly worked his fingers through her feathers.

And me?

I was the exhausted prince of the castle. Longstanding member of the high table who'd been doted on since toddlerhood by this exact group.

…Which didn't make my current half-conscious state any less pitiful.

"I remember when he used to bounce back faster," Uncle Manu chuckled. "You've gone soft in your old age Travis."

"I'm nine," I muttered mulishly. "And we were hosting this year, give me a break."

"He didn't flinch when Cousin Margot suggested a geothermal sauna suite as a penthouse addition," Roman pointed out helpfully.

"She's been making that pitch to anyone who would listen since I was five. Her slideshow hasn't changed." I pointed out dryly.

"I still think you broke her brain when you asked her about lava flow insurance," Kylie tittered with a smirk.

"Not my fault she never checks zoning laws."

Rayna kicked her feet against the back of the chaise. "He's still got the best 'you're an idiot, but I'm too polite to say it' face in the family."

"I learned from the best," I chuckled tiredly, cocking a thumb toward Mom.

Said mother took a bow while seated, and lifted her glass like a trophy. "And what a cute little protégé I have!"

Aunt Jacki gave a throaty chuckle. "I still remember that guest from the Johto branch last year who didn't realize my 'little helper' was actually correcting his booking errors."

"I gave him a coupon," I grumbled. "That's called diplomacy."

"You're still recovering slower this year," Uncle Leo noted, peering at me over the rim of his tumbler. "Is the body finally catching up to the stress Travis?"

"No," Mom said before I could. "It's the fact that his system's growing like a Bellsprout in a marsh. All those years of mental stamina don't mean much when his metabolism clocks out at eight-thirty."

Aunt Rebecca raised her glass. "To cursed biology."

"To cursed biology," everyone echoed, glasses raised.

I could feel the love.

"Don't let him fool you, though," Mom added after lowering her glass. "He fielded five different investment pitches and defused two passive-aggressive floral disputes before they got to me."

"True," Roman added helpfully. "And he stopped that intern from putting the sparkling cider in the same bucket as the Santalune vintage. Honestly, I almost cheered."

"He did?" Kylie blinked. "That was you?"

I raised a tired hand in a vague wave. "You're welcome."

Aunt Rebecca gave me a nod. "Good instincts, that's a bad pairing. Cider contaminates."

From the floor, Salamence snorted.

"She agrees," Uncle Leo explained calmly.

Rayna, still upside-down, waved her sketchpad toward me. "He also blocked Grandma Trina from pulling the old 'let's do an open Q&A about real estate taxes' trick. Didn't even blink."

"She's losing her edge," Aunt Jacki said with a frown. "He's nine and still saw it coming."

"She started with 'so I was just curious…'," I huffed. "Amateur hour."

That got a fresh wave of laughter.

It was good. Familiar.

This wasn't the show for the rest of the family. This was…us.

"Think we'll survive the rest of the week?"

"No," said the room at once.

That was when the elevator dinged! open, and a cool wind blew out.

From what I knew of the air flow of the room, such a phenomenon should have been impossible, yet it was tangible in a way that couldn't be ignored. It could only mean one thing.

Kahili had arrived.

Her bright blue mane of hair was windblown, and her flight goggles were pulled down to her neck. Her shirt was half-unbuttoned from the flight, her boots scuffed, and her smile crooked in that way that said, 'Yeah, I'm late, fight me.'

Beside her strode Touckey, her Toucannon, tall, sharp-eyed, and utterly unbothered by their combined lateness as well.

"Did I miss anything?" Kahili asked, dropping her travel bag beside the coat rack.

"Only everything!" Rayna instantly quipped.

"There was the usual toast," Uncle Manu said, actually being helpful.

"Three, actually," Uncle Leo added dryly. "One by Walton, so Kalosian poetry was involved."

Kahili grimaced. "Ugh. Glad I missed it."

"You're just in time for the good part," Rayna said, finally twirling around to sit upright. "The part where we make fun of each other, a majority of the family, and eat whatever's left."

Bliss waved a spoon at her from the kitchenette.

"Also, Bliss is making homemade pudding."

Kahili chuckled at Rayna's antics before her eyes finally found me on the couch. Her smile grew.

"Long day Tray?"

I groaned faintly. "My feet are dead, and my brain is unconsciously trying to file overtime paperwork."

She walked over and ruffled my hair. "Then you're doing it right." She then grinned wider, "Shift over couch gremlin."

"I was here first," I grumbled, but dragged myself upright all the same.

Touckey gave a low, rumbling tooouuuu and flapped up beside me in the kind of movement that somehow took up more space than his actual body required. Kahili followed right after, claiming the other side. I pulled my knees in, wedged between talons and denim, a child-sized concession in a family of champions.

"You smell like clouds and winning," I muttered in childish annoyance.

"You smell like half a nap and salt," she countered, tousling my hair again. "We all have our battles."

"Children," Mom said sweetly.

"Dibs on not being the child," I tried instantly.

"Denied," the room replied in perfect chorus.

Kahili snickered at our antics, then let her gaze sweep across the penthouse. The amusement faded into a familiar line of tired annoyance. "The Riches not make it again?"

Her father supplied the answer with a wince.

"Apparently, the Storm Brothers got into a fight right outside Undella Town," Uncle Manu said, looking genuinely worried. "It was all hands on deck."

The entire room winced with him. You did not shrug off two storm Legendaries trading blows anywhere near civilization.

Kahili's frown deepened into a grimace of her own. "Yeah, that would do it."

Her eyes swept the room once more. "The Grump make another excuse?"

Aunt Jacki rolled her eyes and stabbed an olive from her 'fancy' food tray with far more force than necessary. "Yes. That idiot brother of mine decided he, once again, had more important things to do than, and I quote, 'Spend the week with a bunch of suck-ups and whiners.' End quote."

The room responded with a unanimous wave of grumbles and shared eye-rolls. A classic Grump response.

Sensing the dip in mood, Uncle Manu raised his brows and redirected the conversation. "So. The tournament?"

"Won it," Kahili replied instantly, already helping herself to the nearby fruit platter.

"Shocking," Rayna drawled.

"Truly unprecedented," Aunt Jacki added, deadpan.

"You're all very proud of me, I can tell," Kahili snarked.

Roman cocked his head, looking genuinely curious. "Do you even still face anyone below Master Tier nowadays?"

"Only when they send me gift baskets first."

Uncle Manu chuckled before taking an obvious glance at her discarded bag. "Did you at least bring back the trophy?"

"Wrapped in a towel next to my clothes," Kahili huffed, gesturing to her travel bag. "Might be sticky. Don't ask."

Then, from where he sat with his legs spread across Salmence's back, glass half-full and tone deceptively mild, Uncle Leo spoke:

"So, what's this I hear about a Summer camp?"

The pause was nearly unanimous as even the air seemed to blink at the abrupt shift.

As one of the few aware of the source of the question, I couldn't help but groan as my head fell into my knees. "You weren't even in the room. You were talking to Aunt Wen about fountain chlorination on the terrace!"

"I was multitasking," Uncle Leo returned blandly. "When your mother's voice jumps an entire octave, I pay attention."

"It was a trap," I muttered mulishly. "Daisy just mentioned it offhand, and Mom pounced like a Luxray on a battery."

"She really did," Rayna confirmed, flipping a page in her sketchpad. "I saw the whole thing. Daisy looked so alarmed."

"I didn't pounce," Mom argued, ignoring how she absolutely alarmed the young Oak. "I was enthusiastic."

"She had the application filled out on her phone before the conversation even finished," I deadpanned. "It auto-filled the emergency contact field with 'Good Luck, Kiddo.'"

"I still think it's a great opportunity," Roman offered diplomatically.

"Oh, it is," Mom beamed. "Exposure to the Kanto field curriculum, a chance to make age-appropriate friends-"

"-and a charming bunkmate who chews with his mouth open and snores through his Voltorb alarm clock," I cut in with a grumble.

"I'll begin researching suitable travel containers for your sanity. And bug repellent."

"Thanks, Al," I snarked back.

"Don't let him change the subject," Aunt Jacki cut in before I could begin a verbal tennis match with Alakazam. "He's just trying to avoid round two of the Tuition Tantrum."

"Hey now-"

"He won the last one, remember," Kylie cut in, clearly amused at my misery. "Who else gets to test out of the entire League academic circuit at six?"

"I had legitimate arguments!" I argued hotly. "After all, why should I waste time being taught basic mathematics when I was already writing hotel logistics plans on napkins?!"

"He was six," Mom repeated fondly. "And tested out of the trainer prep standards after only a year of self-study."

"And thus," Uncle Leo continued, raising his glass slightly, "you were homeschooled for a year, finished all your prerequisites, and, if I'm remembering this correctly, are now technically a high school graduate working on a partial business degree and a hotel management certification."

"I'm only on the intro courses," I corrected with an eye roll. "The electives are trash. I dropped Photography the minute I could."

"You failed your Photography Class," Alakazam corrected.

"I hated Photography."

"There is a difference," Kahili agreed.

"Regardless, he's going to the summer camp," Mom cut in, clearly ending the debate.

There was a beat of silence.

Uncle Manu raised his glass with a snicker. "To educational whiplash!"

Everyone clinked drinks. Bliss offered me a personalized pudding cup like it was a participation trophy.

I accepted it with a sigh.

"Why do I feel like this is payback for last year's egg brunch?"

"Because it is," Aunt Jacki replied, perhaps a bit too vindictive. "You're still on record as the only under ten-year-old in the family history to refuse to attend an outdoor buffet due to 'environmental integrity and airborne egg temperature fluctuations'."

"You were serving frittatas in the open air during a windstorm, Aunt Jacki! I don't care that psychic barriers were in place, that's not a brunch, that's a natural hazard!"

"You make it so easy to forget you're not seventy." Kahili nudged my side with her elbow to stop my rant in its tracks. "You're like a tiny old man trapped in a childish frame."

"I contain multitudes," I quoted grumpily around a spoonful of pudding.

"That's true," Kylie said thoughtfully, ignorant of the quote. "And speaking of multitudes-"

Here it comes.

"-what are you thinking of for your starter?" she asked, casually enough that it would have only fooled people who didn't know her.

I groaned loud enough for the whole room to hear. "When is that question ever not going to be a trap?"

"It depends." Aunt Jacki sat forward with interest. "Are you going to say something sensible, or something like 'I want to raise a Smeagle in the penthouse and teach it to operate our rice cooker'?"

"That was Rayna," I shot back.

"I regret nothing," Rayna snickered, giving said Smeargle a fist bump, then yelping when said fist came back covered in paint.

Mom gave a knowing hum. "You have been dodging the question for a while, babycakes."

"Because you all ask like I'm bidding at an auction!" I snapped, throwing up my hands in exasperation. "Most kids don't exactly get a starter list."

Uncle Manu snorted. "Well, sorry for being curious. Most ten-year-olds are praying they don't get handed a Trubbish from a donation box, while you could walk into a high-end breeding facility and point at whatever's behind the glass. Half the trainers in the world would trade places with you just to see the catalogue."

"He could have an Eevee with an understood evolution path," Uncle Leo noted.

"Or a Bagon from a documented pedigree," Aunt Rebecca continued after her husband, nodding toward her own draconic starter, who gave an exaggerated snort at the obvious insinuation.

Kylie waved toward me. "So? What are you thinking? Because I've heard at least three different theories passed around tonight. One was that you wanted a Porygon with Pokenet integration, another was about going the old standard of the regional starter, and someone mentioned that you were talking about a Zorua because 'mystique sells.'"

"That last one was mine," Rayna cut in proudly. "Mystique does sell."

I shook my head with a tired sigh. Lugia below was I starting to hate this line of conversation.

"Okay, look," I sat up and gave them all a look of annoyance. "Yes, I have some ideas, and yes, I've even made some plans."

Here I shot Mom a look that she pointedly ignored. She knew why some of those plans weren't feasible, or even delayed, and how it was her fault, but I continued with a tired sigh.

"Just, hear me out, okay." I wiped a hand across my face, both in an effort to rub away my exhaustion and also to give myself more time to formulate how I was going to say this. "You all keep pitching starter ideas like I'm building a marketing brand, or planning to steamroll a League with some overarching plot of maniacal proportions."

I exhaled tiredly. "The simple truth is. I haven't decided yet."

That got a few raised eyebrows. Mom sipped her wine like she'd been waiting for this all along.

"I mean, yeah, I could pick anything." I started to pick up steam, even gesturing vaguely around the room. "I've got the resources. I've got the support network. I could literally commission a starter team if I wanted to-"

"You aren't?" Kahili cut in, half-joking, half-serious.

"I could," I repeated seriously, "but…that doesn't mean I should."

There was a pause.

Not awkward. Just…considering.

"Well said," Uncle Leo murmured, breaking the silence. "A lot of young idiots in your shoes would've rushed off to buy the biggest, rarest thing they could find, then spent the next year wondering why it didn't listen to them."

"Or blaming the Pokémon for their own lack of preparations," Aunt Rebecca added, sharing a dry glance with her own Psudeo-Legendary Starter on the floor.

I didn't respond. Just stirred my pudding a little slower.

Then, obviously, someone had to call me out.

"You have a list, don't you?" Uncle Manu piped up, because of course he would be the one to see through my Tauros shit.

"I have several," I admitted instantly.

"Ranked by type? Region? Ability synergy?" Aunt Jacki asked, her grin growing sly.

"…yes."

"And color palette," Alakazam added smugly.

Mom beamed. "That's my boy."

The room collectively laughed once more. The elders in the room were clearly both fond yet exasperated at the no doubt familiar refrain, while the younger found themselves looking fondly at their own Starters.

"Alright then," Kylie cut in, leaning forward with interest. "If you had to name a few top picks."

"What's actually on the short list?" Roman finished, following his fiancée's lead.

I didn't hesitate.

"Something with Psychic potential."

The room fell into amusement at the immediate reply.

"Of course, you want a Psychic," Kahili said, rolling her eyes fondly. "You've been living with a spoon-wielding telepath since before you could walk."

Alakazam didn't even try to hide his smugness. "He has good taste. I approve."

"It doesn't have to be full Psychic typing either," I clarified. "It could just be some latent ability, future evolution, or even something with strong mental acuity. I'm flexible."

Uncle Leo raised a brow at the list. "Examples?"

"Noctowl," I said instantly. "Golduck. Maybe something like a Ninetails with a proper grounding in its psychic potential. A Stantler would have a lot of potential with the right handling."

Rayna tilted her head. "Are you talking about just a Starter, or do you want to be a Psychic specialist, because you've clearly done some research?"

"I want options," I answered firmly. "Even psychic-adjacent Pokémon offer versatility, battlefield adaptability, and, most importantly, communication potential."

Mom's smile went soft as she clearly figured out my main objective. "You want a partner you can talk to."

I didn't answer immediately, but my eyes slid toward Alakazam.

His gaze met mine, and for once, he didn't make a snarky remark.

There was a beat of silence, one of those rare, good silences that meant they all got it.

Not because they thought I had said something profound, mind you, or because I'd said something particularly noble, but because they knew what I was talking about.

Mom, who had raised me alongside a judgmental ice cream-eating master.

Uncle Manu, who'd taught aerial strategy classes to professionals across half a dozen regions with his Xatu right beside him.

Uncle Leo, who could watch the world in slow motion right alongside his trusted Bronzong, and who only spoke when it mattered.

It wasn't a matter of battle potential in the end, even if it would be a nice bonus.

Because in a world such as this, where the Power of Friendship was a real, tangible force, the ability to connect was worth its weight in gold.

"I've got a few ideas in mind," I repeated with the new understanding present to the room at large. "Plus, I'm not even totally set on a Psychic starter! I could just as easily get a teammate later who fits the same criteria."

"Then what are the top picks?" Roman asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Outside the brainpower starter, obviously."

I shrugged, eyes flicking to where Blissey was humming contentedly near the kitchenette. "Honestly? A healer would be nice."

Blissey turned, catching my smile, and beamed like she'd just won at life.

"Oh?" Aunt Rebecca hummed, seriously considering my response. "Following in your mother's footsteps with a Blissey of your own?"

"I wouldn't say no," I admitted. "But Audino's a good option too. Or an Indeedee. Even something like an Oddish, if I trained it up right," I gave a small shrug. "A Bellossom with the right support build could be a serious backbone for a team."

Uncle Leo raised a brow. "Not gunning for a pseudo-legendary then?"

I huffed, because obviously, "I'm not against it."

That earned a few laughs, until Salamence, still lounging on the floor like a giant reptilian throw rug, gave a low, pointed snort.

"She's amused on principle," Uncle Leo explained before a grin slowly grew across his weathered face. "Especially since she's been eyeing a frenzy of Garchomp that made their creche near Lake Valor for the last year."

Salamence reared up and snapped her jaws right in Uncle Leo's face. It was clearly a warning chomp, like a grumpy teenager being called out in public.

"She says 'mind your own business,'" Aunt Rebecca translated dryly, sipping her drink without a glance at her suddenly nervous husband.

That got a fresh wave of laughter.

The warmth lingered…but something else was rising with it.

Not a disruption, or even a warning, just the subtle shift you feel when the sky starts to change. When the clouds darken at the edge of your vision, and the breeze carries a new kind of weight.

A storm not here yet, but close.

Kahili leaned forward.

"So," she began, eyes locked down on mine. "How far do you want to take this?"

The question landed with weight.

It wasn't a, "How strong do you want your team to be?" or "What region are you conquering first?"

Just: "How far?"

The room went quiet at the question, and I held my tongue from saying my first response.

Not because I didn't know, but because saying it out loud was different than in my head.

Wetting my lips, I made sure to meet her gaze.

"Most people don't make it past their fourth badge," I started, voice low. "They travel for half a year, maybe a full one. Then they go back to school, take the tests, get a diploma, even settle down."

I glanced around the room.

"I get why. It's expensive. It's hard. It's unpredictable. Most people just want the experience and rite of passage. Something to say they did it."

"But I've been living at that particular finish line since I was six."

"I've already done the studying and passed the tests. I've got the certifications, the prep, and the tools. And yeah, I could just coast through a journey and call it good enough. Come back here and take over someday…"

I closed my eyes-

"...with that said."

-and half the room flinched away from the fire I could feel blazing in my eyes.

"I remember standing in the Kumquat arena running the mic," my voice rose, my blood began to burn." I remember calling the match, remember the roar of blood in my ears as the ground trembled when a Giga Impact landed."

"And then I got a taste," I said with relish, my grin growing into something wild and free. "I got to fill in for the first time when Mom had a scheduling clash, and I stood out there. I sent out her Pokémon, and the crowd was watching me."

I closed my eyes, the memories calling to me in a way that nothing in my last life could compare to.

"The roar of the stadium. The pressure as a hundred eyes watched me. The utter focus and confidence required to make sure every call was the right one. That moment when the Pokéball hit the field, and I realized just how much of a rush it was."

"I want that. I want that moment. For myself. With my Pokémon. My team."

I once more opened my eyes, and Kahili looked down at me with utter delight shining in her eyes.

"I don't want to just experience the journey. I want to test myself. I want to see how far I can go, not just across islands or through Leagues, but to the limit and then past it."

"And if that path leads to becoming a Master…then so be it."

The room was silent as I ended my impromptu speech. Many of them looked at me as if truly seeing me for the first time.

I understood why. It was one thing for a child to claim "I want to be the very best, like no one ever was", and another thing entirely to outright state that becoming a "Master" was just an inevitable outcome.

Because this wasn't the storybook version of a "Pokémon Master" tossed around by kids who would probably never even see the inside of a League stadium.

No, a Master, a real one, was something else entirely.

They were someone who had achieved total synchronicity with their team. Someone who had risen beyond League matches, beyond competitions, and even beyond fame.

A Master was someone whose control over a specific Type or discipline had passed from skilled to instinctive, and from instinctive to absolute.

A Master was a weapon. A warning. A walking deterrent that could rewrite the terrain of a battlefield with a single command.

They were this world's nuclear deterrent.

Kahili didn't need to introduce herself when she traveled to new regions. She arrived. Her presence meant something, not just in arenas, but in entire ecosystems of competition, politics, and reputation.

She wasn't just a Pokémon Trainer. She was a Pokémon Master.

She was someone who had mastered her chosen style of combat. Someone who had looked the forces of nature in the face and decided I would be stronger.

She was the strongest Trainer in the Family.

And I'd just said that I wanted to walk towards that.

Kahili leaned back slowly. The teasing glint in her eye was overshadowed by the piercing nature of her gaze.

"So you plan to chase after all the big boys and girls, huh? Chase me," she drawled even as her entire presence seemed to weigh me down. The very air felt stifling to the point of being hard to breathe.

I'd seen lesser relatives crumble from such a gaze. How her very presence could make someone into a gibbering wreck that ran screaming in the other direction.

Yet I simply nodded. The roar in my ears and the burning of my blood were too great to be brought low by the rumbling storm before me.

"I don't expect to get there tomorrow, or even in the next few years." My voice was steady, even as my grin grew wider. "I'm just going to start walking, and I won't stop, will not stop, until I find out how far I can go. Even if it means I have to go past you."

Kahili blinked. Surprise flashed across her face.

Then she threw back her head and laughed. "Good! Good for you, Trey! Man, I can't wait to not be the only monster in the family anymore!"

Mom's grin practically glowed. "You tell'm baby!"

Blissey handed me another pudding. This one had a cherry on top.

Kahili chuckled at the nursemaid's antics, calming down.

"Well, when you've got a team of your own, one you've trained, not just filled in with borrowed power, come find me." Kahili leaned back, stretching one leg over the other with the same lazy confidence she probably used before wiping the floor with half a bracket. "We'll spar. No holding back."

If anything, that just made my smile grow even wider. "Deal."

Sporadic chuckles met that declaration. The rest of the room had to take a moment to process the whole scene that had just occurred. Which, ya know, fair.

Rayna was the one to finally break the newest silence. "Okay, new serious question beyond the last serious question," she lifted her sketchpad like one would raise a hand in class to be called on. "You've got the dream, the mindset, and the pudding; what's the actual first move?"

Uncle Leo followed, chuckling as he stared at me with a new gleam in his eyes. "That's a good question. Do you have any ideas for which region to start in? Which League? Or are you going to perhaps build up a specific team through some globe-trotting?"

I didn't say anything at first.

Instead, I turned. Slowly. Purposefully.

Our eyes locked.

Gym Leader Luana's face shifted from proud mom to knowing smirk in half a second.

"My first goal," I said, tone calm and sharp as a Scyther's arm, "is to crush the Orange League."

A beat passed.

Then Uncle Manu threw his head back and laughed.

Mom laughed with him, long and delighted. "Oh, honey. You can try."

"I won't just try," I said, voice firm. "I'll win."

Aunt Rebecca grinned around the rim of her drink. "Ambitious."

"No," I corrected her with a glare. "I'm starting at home, and if I can't conquer where I was raised…I don't deserve the road beyond it."

Uncle Leo gave a low chuckle. "I give it six months after he starts before he's holding court in the stadium downstairs."

Alakazam floated a spoon up and rotated it like a ticking clock. "Five. If the weather holds."

Blissey deposited another pudding in front of me. This one had two cherries.

I stared at it for a second, then looked up at her with the flattest expression I could manage.

"…I think I'm getting a little sick of pudding."

She, full tray-clutching, horror-stricken, betrayed-by-the-universe, gasped.

Then she spun on her heel and waddled off in huffy silence, the tray held to her chest like a wounded heart.

"I didn't mean your pudding," I called after her, now starting to panic. "Just-volume! Bliss. Bliss!"

That, apparently, was the cue for the room to once more burst into laughter.

Once everyone got that moment of humor out of their systems (I didn't find it funny! Come on Bliss!), the mood once more, finally, turned back to something more relaxed.

Aunt Jacki took a long, slow sip of her drink, then exhaled. "Well. Now that we've handled the dramatic life declarations and caused a dessert-based emotional injury-"

"I didn't mean it," I whined like the nine-year-old I physically was.

She rolled her eyes before looking around the room with all the dry grace of a woman who owned her own resort and answered to no one.

"Can we finally talk about how insufferable the wider family's gotten?"

The collective groan was immediate.

Rayna flopped back on the chaise with a full-body sigh. "Yes, please, someone else complain so I don't sound petty."

"I had three different nieces corner me about adding scent-themed guest suites to the Lakeside Hotel," Aunt Rebecca began, voice sharp yet pained from dealing with idiocy. "One of them actually said, 'Smell is the new touch.'"

Uncle Leo nodded grimly. "That brat Dominic tried to pitch 'Lake Valor 2.0' with 'vibrant Fairy Type energy.' I asked what that meant. He said it involved glitter cannons."

Kylie buried her face in her hands. "Dear Lord Arceus, is that what he meant!? He tried to pitch me the idea of a Fairy day for the Seven Stars, and when he couldn't answer properly, I just thought he was being difficult!"

"That's nothing! I had Aunt Wen visit a few months ago and try to book a psychic detox brunch at the restaurant." Roman shook his head with a shudder. "I asked what it entailed. She said, and I quote, 'kale water, foot grounding, and silent screaming into ethically-sourced cloth napkins.'"

Aunt Jacki rolled her eyes. "That's nothing. I had two different idiots tell me Resort Gorgeous should 'expand its target demographic to the rural elite.' What does that mean? Are they proposing platinum tractors?!"

"I had someone ask if the Hana Grand could build an indoor waterfall shaped like a Pelipper," Manu deadpanned, his Oricorio shaking her head beside him. "I'm already trying to replace the main roof dome, and now I've got brats with too much time on their hands showing me Pelipper statues like they're load-bearing."

"Someone asked if they could land a hot air balloon shaped like a Pyukumuku in our main pool two weeks ago," Kahili cut in flatly. "Not because they were crashing, mind you, but because they argued that a Pyukumuku deserves to be in the water."

A pause.

"You win," Reyna said flatly. "I thought 'edible beach gravel' was the dumbest suggestion of the week, but no. It's the balloon."

"No," I said, slumped between Kahili and Touckey, "it was when Uncle Walton tried to sell me on the idea of making Kumquat's gym battles 'more cinematic' by bringing in a fog machine and a guy in a cape who shouts commentary via rap."

There was a beat of silence.

"…Okay," Rayna said, slowly, "I kind of want to see that."

"Of course you do," Mom said with a sigh. "You're the reason we once had a themed buffet called Battle Brunch."

"I stand by it," Rayna shot back unapologetically.

We talked. We ranted. We laughed.

And when the last plates had been cleared, and the pudding cups abandoned (save one Blissey had left in silent protest on the arm of the couch), I leaned back, content, surrounded by the only people who truly got it.

We had several more days of madness ahead. But this?

This was the good part.

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 5
​

---

Breakfast at the Kumquat Grand was never quiet. But today?

Today it was the noise equivalent of a flock of Spearow trying to sing opera.

The Grand Ballroom had been converted overnight into a buffet-style feast with a population density that would've made a Snorlax nervous. Plates clinked, chairs scraped, someone's Delcatty was yowling for seconds, and a distant argument was taking place over the structural integrity of a fruit sculpture shaped like a Dragonite.

Welcome to the Family Gathering, Morning Edition, where a dozen morning people chatted and dined, a hundred other not-morning people wanted the first to die, and the Inner Circle was scattered like generals across a battlefield.

Mom had claimed the head table as was her right as event organizer, casually sipping her morning coffee while Chilton whispered logistics in her ear like a butler in a Galarian drama. Aunt Jacki and Uncle Manu sat on either side of her, the former pointedly ignoring anyone who approached with a "business proposal", while the latter was dead to all until he had his third cup of Tapu Cocoa, made specifically by the chef who I'm pretty sure was hired solely for his skill in that drink alone. The elders of the Lake Resort Estate were fielding questions about the Lakeside expansion project from five separate cousins, and Kylie and Roman had been trapped into discussing the Seven Stars wine list with people who didn't know the difference between "dry" and "please stop talking."

Kahili, in contrast to the rest of us, was seated alone in a far off corner like a queen who didn't need to announce her court. Touckey stood beside her with the silent vigilance of a sentry bird judging everyone's life choices.

And somehow, Rayna had ended up perched on one of the chandeliers in order to have a wide enough angle to paint the event in all its chaotic glory. I highly suspect Farfy was involved, considering his snickers from where he was perched on another light fixture beside her.

And me?

I was surviving.

There wasn't a better word. I was somewhere between a walking tour guide, glorified waiter, and disaster prevention technician. Every few seconds, someone would call my name, wave me over, or try to casually slip a business card in my pocket. I had deflected three internship pitches, one art commission, and someone trying to explain to me why the Grand should offer "sunset yoga with pseudo-legendaries."

I was halfway through politely declining a third consecutive offer to "help with the finances" (which, really people, grow some tact) when I caught movement near Kylie and Roman's section of the table.

Daisy Oak was waving to draw my attention. She looked hesitant, like she was debating whether now was the right time to stand up or vanish into the wallpaper.

I drifted her way, barely managing to politely ignore a half dozen people trying to drag me into other, no doubt more annoying, conversations.

Daisy offered me a hesitant smile as I arrived. "Hey, Travis. Do you have a second?"

I raised a brow at the question. She had obviously witnessed my linguistic dance just to get to her, so I felt that the answer should have been obvious.

Thankfully, before the air could grow awkward, Kylie noticed my presence in her domain. "Travis! Come sit," she said, already shifting her chair to make space. "Take a bit to relax. We've got protection."

Roman handed me a piece of melon like a peace offering. I took it.

Daisy fidgeted for a beat after making myself comfortable. "I just wanted to say sorry about yesterday, with the summer camp thing. I really didn't mean to make your life harder. I didn't realize how much you already had on your plate until after." Her hands nervously rubbed together in her lap. "It was supposed to be a casual suggestion. Not a trap."

I blinked. That was surprisingly self-aware.

"It's fine," I said, leaning back with a sigh. "You didn't sign the form. That was entirely Mom."

Daisy's face twisted into something guilty-looking. "Doesn't mean I didn't cause it to happen."

I shook my head, now more amused than annoyed at the whole thing. "It's fine, Daisy, really. I would have no doubt been attending some other summer camp or event anyway. At least this one should be interesting, what with being in another region and all."

Both Kylie and Roman snorted at my response, clearly remembering the multitude of events Mom liked to brag about. The woman loved to use what should have been work emails as her own family group chat. It annoyed Uncle Leo to no end.

Daisy thankfully took my words to heart, and a relieved smile spread across her rather pretty face. "Still. Thanks for not hating me."

"I save hate for people who suggest live bagpipe accompaniments during check-in," I deadpanned.

Roman nearly choked on his water. "Please. Never again."

Before the conversation could go any further, a voice from the far side of the room cut through the noise. "Shame some people couldn't be bothered to attend the welcome party last night!"

Eyes turned.

Not because the individual was particularly notable…but rather because of who he was addressing.

The speaker was one of those lesser relatives who was always trying to make himself relevant, dressed up with slick back hair and a smile crooked enough to hang off of. Something that instantly set off alarm bells, considering the target.

Kahili didn't even flinch. She just finished her current draw of coffee like it was Life Dew for humans, and stared back.

"You know, some of us were here for the welcome party last night, but I guess when you're too big for Family, you don't have to show up on time," the man continued with the kind of volume that deliberately drew attention.

Even across the room, I could see Touckey's feathers poof up slightly. Kahili didn't seem to care, and I vaguely heard something like "bad weather, what can you do?"

That would've ended it. Should have ended it.

Instead, I found myself getting up and starting to subtly rush over as the idiot didn't stop.

He gestured broadly, drawing attention to a young man who moved up beside him. Maybe early twenties, tacky in that 'trying to be stylish with wealth' kind of way, six black Luxury Balls hung from his waist, and a wide smile spread across his face that instantly told me that he didn't have nearly as many brain cells as he thought he had.

"Maybe it's for the best," the relative drawled, utterly ignorant of the numerous unimpressed looks now being sent his way by the actually important members of the family. "Your prestige is legendary, of course…but it's a new era now."

He clapped the young man on the back.

"Allow me to introduce Callum, Winner of this year's Silver Conference. Hoenn's latest breakout star."

Callum gave a shallow tilt of the head, a clear snub of a nod. "It's an honor, ma'am."

I could already feel my eyes wanting to roll. If he were really a Conference Winner, he should know better. Should know that standing across from a Master wasn't something you approached with smugness and a sponsor.

"You know!" The relative nearly shouted, clearly wanting everyone to see and witness his utter idiocy. "Some of us just prefer to support the next generation. Strong, grounded battlers with modern tactics. Not just flappy little birds in pretty packaging."

Oh.

No.

He did not.

The room didn't so much go silent as it tightened, like the air itself was readying itself for a storm to drop on top of us.

Kahili's easy smile vanished. Touckey's feathers ruffled, sharp and slow.

"Is that so?" She said, her face blank yet voice like the eye of a storm. "Flappy little birds?"

The dead man walking audibly swallowed as he finally got what he wanted:

Kahili's undivided attention.

"Just a figure of speech, I assure you!" The moron laughed nervously, adjusting his tie. "You know how it is, Flying-types have their...aesthetic appeal. But real battling takes grit. Muscle. Earth." He said like it was a punchline.

I'd seen Kahili smile in a lot of ways over the years. Smug. Smirking. Cheeky because she'd just sunk a thirty-foot putt from behind a sand trap after being told it was impossible.

But this smile? It was something one would normally expect to see on a Salamence staring down at its next victim of mass injury.

Kahili stood up.

"I suppose a battle would be the best way to prove that, wouldn't it." She said to the relative. She didn't question; there was no question in what she just said.

The idiot's expression faltered. "I-I wouldn't wish to embarrass either of us, of course. I'm just a sponsor. A patron of the sport."

His hand went to Callum's shoulder once more.

"But my Champion would be delighted to demonstrate what the next generation can do."

Kahili didn't even look at said minion. Her eyes were still locked on the ignoramus in a suit.

"Fine then, I'll only be using Touchey. Bring all of yours if you want."

---

Somehow, I ended up as the referee.

No, wait, I knew exactly how. Mom had just smiled at me and explained, "Darling, it would look better if the referee wasn't someone Kahili grew up training with."

Which sounded logical. Reasonable even.

Except for the part where that left me, a nine-year-old in formal wear and three hours of sleep, as the poor soul standing on the Kumquat Grand's central stadium podium, holding a mic and silently praying the Hoenn League didn't sue us for the emotional damage my favorite cousin was about to inflict on the poor soul across from her.

The stadium was packed.

Relatives, staff, guests, and more than a few eager social climbers had flooded into the viewing balconies once word got out that Kahili was battling someone who'd just won Johto's Silver Conference.

It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest to learn that at least a dozen people were already calling up any news outlet they had contact with.

Touckey was already waiting on Kahili's side of the field, unbothered by the crowd or the tension. Kahili stood tall behind him, arms folded, her expression the exact blend of calm and bored that I had once seen her have when Rayna had somehow convinced her to play with us at a mini golf course when we were all younger.

(She had crushed us, obviously, but it had been fun all the same.)

Kahili hadn't made any attempt to play mind games. No secret sendout. No hesitation in her pick. She wanted them to know she wasn't taking it seriously.

Callum, in contrast, looked like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. His jaw was tight. His shoulders were stiff. His expression was doing its best to scream "unbothered," but he was gripping his first Luxury Ball tight enough that his fingers were turning white.

It didn't help that the match had been publicly declared as Kahili's one Pokémon against his full team.

A fact I'd confirmed, on mic, under very clear orders.

He'd tried to talk his way out of it.

"I won't need more than one," he'd argued, eyes cutting toward the crowd. "Let's make it even."

Kahili's response had been a slow blink. Then:

"No."

And that was that.

Deciding I'd given the crowd more than enough time to settle in, I cued the lights to Battle Mode and turned on the buzzer to signify the match was about to begin.

"The match between Callum of Oldale Town and Master Kahili Cashion of Alola is about to begin! Trainers, are you ready?"

The crowd instantly quieted. The tension grew.

Callum gave a nod; his rage tempered now as he turned his full focus on the foe in front of him.

Kahili merely glanced at me from the corner of her eye, yet the message was received all the same.

I raised my hand.

"Release on my mark! Battle…Start!"

Callum chucked his Poké Ball like he was throwing a fastball, clearly trying to get it as far across the field and as close to Touchey as possible.

"Let's go, Golem!"

The hulking Rock and Ground-type slammed into the middle of the field with a thud that echoed. The crowd stirred. It was a decent choice. Most Flying-types hated that matchup.

Callum didn't waste time. His voice cut sharply across the field.

"SE!"

It was crisp. Trained. Short for Stone Edge, no doubt, a fast call for faster execution.

Golem stomped the ground. The arena cracked open, and light flared as jagged rock spires began erupting towards Touckey's position.

And then-

"Go."

-Touckey moved.

One moment, he was standing still; the next, he was blasting forward as a blur of feathers and fury. The Stone Edge spikes barely finished rising before he smashed through them like they were paper decorations.

Golem didn't even have time to blink.

Touchey's beak landed dead-center in his chest with a boom that cracked across the reinforced field and made the entire stadium flinch. Golem was launched backwards like a cannonball, crashing into the barrier so hard it cracked.

He dropped. He didn't get up.

Silence.

I stared. The mic in my hand buzzed faintly from where I'd clenched it.

I swallowed, then, attempting to hold in my own reaction to what I had just witnessed:

"G-Golem is unable to battle. The Round goes to Touckey the Toucannon."

Callum stood frozen, one hand still raised with Golem's Poké Ball. He hadn't even had enough time to return it to his belt.

After a few seconds of silence, I raised the mic again, voice now steady and official.

"Trainer Callum, you have sixty seconds to select your next Pokémon."

Callum flinched, eyes turning to the now murmuring crowd with slight panic in his eyes, then pulled a second ball from his belt with a sharp motion.

"Magneton, Shock and Awe!" He snapped.

The Electric and Steel-type materialized with a sharp hum, hovering above the field with a charged whine already building around it at the snap order.

Kahili raised a brow.

"Ground and Heat."

Touckey angled down and flew low, slicing through the air as close to the stadium floor as one could manage. His now silver, gleaming wingtips skimmed the ground with not an inch of resistance from the touch.

The Shock Wave surged outward in a stadium-spanning wave, lightning crackling as it impacted the Master Level Flying type and grounded instantly.

Before their opponent could even grasp this turn of events, Touckey shot upward like a flare, wings glowing white-hot.

Then the heat hit.

It rolled over the stadium like a physical wave, baking the air with an intensity that bordered on actual fire. The moment Touckey let the Heat Wave loose, the temperature spiked, sweat beading instantly on exposed skin.

The actual shockwave knocked Magneton backward like it had been caught in a volcanic updraft, scorching its metal plating and spinning its eyes in opposite directions before a second wing beat sent a stronger wave. Magneton slammed into the turf with a pitiful whine.

It twitched once, then stopped.

"Magneton is unable to battle. The Round once again goes to Touckey the Toucannon."

Callum's hand was shaking now.

He still had four Pokémon left, but everyone watching already knew the outcome.

Callum didn't say anything as he sent out his third Pokémon: a Glalie.

It didn't matter.

The Glalie's single attempt at a move was nixed from the onset, as the Blizzard it tried to summon was instantly reduced to a breeze by another stadium-spanning Heat Wave. The resulting alarm at its attack being so easily countered left it open to a Steel Wing that once more caused a member of Callem's team to be smashed into the stadium's walls.

"Glalie is unable to battle. The Round once again goes to Touckey the Toucannon."

Next came a Sceptile.

Surprisingly, this one didn't go down instantly.

Touckey opened with a Drill Peck, closing the distance in a blink, and a corkscrew of wind blazing his way forward, but somehow, somehow, the Sceptile tanked it.

Well, more like the Rock Tomb shield he raised, and then the interlocked Dragon Claw finger shield allowed him not to get sent flying like his teammates before him.

And when Touckey had to decelerate, momentum bleeding off just enough to leave him open for a heartbeat, Sceptile moved and landed a clean Night Slash across the wing.

Touckey recoiled, more surprised than hurt, but it was still a hit, the first one they had landed all match.

'Guess we know what his starter is.' There was a sureness in how it moved and how it responded. The kind that didn't even require its trainer to call out a command before it was fighting for its life.

It still didn't matter.

Touckey flared his wings wide and then, from near point-blank range, opened his beak.

What came out wasn't a chirp. It wasn't a cry.

It was a sonic detonation.

The Hyper Voice hit like an explosion without the fire. I could feel it in my ribs even at the ref stand. The very air in front of the Sceptile seemed to ripple, the force slamming into it like a wall.

It was flattened into the arena floor and didn't get back up.

"Sceptile is unable to battle. The Round once again goes to Touckey the Toucannon."

I watched each exchange, the rhythm of my calls becoming mechanical, but in the back of my head, one thought kept repeating:

These Pokémon aren't weak.

They were powerful, coordinated, and highly responsive. Callum had trained them well, had to have, if he won the Silver Conference. That wasn't a title they handed out with your League ID.

No, his team was strong.

Kahili was just stronger, so much stronger, it barely felt fair.

The fifth Pokémon Callum sent out was a Ninetales. A veteran by the looks of it, as it utterly ignored the usual pageantry associated with the breed in order to fix the Master Level Flying type with a glare.

"Scatter Pattern!"

The fox Pokémon instantly used Double Team, spreading its image into a circle of flickering illusions. Then came what I thought might have been a Substitute by the way some of them seemed to physically interact with the ground. An extra layer of deception flickered into place as its ethereal twins rotated steadily, moving with almost dancer-like precision to create a very debilitating visual effect.

It was a smart play. Stall and disrupt to give the trainer a few precious seconds to breathe, maybe even enough time to reset his strategy before the next blow landed.

Kahili didn't even shift her stance.

Her arms were simply folded, expression unreadable.

Then she gave the only command she needed:

"Touckey. Beak Blast."

Touckey responded with immediate altitude.

He shot upward like a rocket, climbing high above the illusions, wings spread wide as he hit the apex of the battlefield, far above anything Ninetales could touch. His beak began to glow, not just with heat, but with raw, building pressure. It shimmered with the kind of kinetic energy that made your bones feel too tight in your skin even from almost a hundred feet away.

Callum instantly panicked.

"Ninetales! Solar Beam!"

Green light surged from the doubles, drawing in sunlight and causing the battlefield to look like a sea of stars. The Ninetales all turned their heads skyward and fired just as the glow at Touckey's beak reached critical mass.

The mass of Solar Beams arced upward, hot and straight.

Then Touckey screamed a sound like a thunderclap and sonic boom fused together, and the sky dropped.

For a single moment, the two attacks collided midair…then, the Beak Blast swallowed the Solar Beams whole.

Then the rest of the blast hit.

The attack didn't just hit one target. It slammed into the entire field like a vertical shockwave. The ground shook like an Earthquake under the impact. Illusions scattered like ash. The Substitutes vanished in an instant.

And the real Ninetales?

It never had a chance.

The force hit mid-pivot and blasted it off its feet. It tumbled backward, skidding to a stop halfway across the arena floor in a singed heap.

Barely on its feet, it raised its head only to be met by the inevitable as Touckey rocketed downward into a Drill Peck powerful enough to look more like a descending tornado.

Before the attack could even land; however, the Ninetails disappeared in a flash of red.

"Trainer Callem has returned his Ninetales, thus forfeiting its use for the remainder of the match. The Round goes to Touchey the Toucannon."

Callum stood there, the fox Pokémon's Poké Ball still in hand.

He didn't return it to his belt. He didn't move. Didn't even seem to breathe.

Then, in a voice tight with everything he wasn't saying:

"…I forfeit."

There was silence. Then a click as I turned on the mic.

"Trainer Callum has forfeited both the Round and the Match. Victory by TKO: Master Kahili Cashion of Alola."

Kahili simply smiled, gave a nod of thanks, then turned her back on Callum and walked off the field. Silence left in her wake.

---

By the time I left the stadium, I was already halfway done with the day.

The match had ended hours ago, but the annoyance hadn't. If anything, it had gotten worse. Half the lesser relatives were tripping over themselves to dissect every second of the battle like they'd trained Kahili themselves, and the other half were pretending they hadn't silently backed the idiot who picked a fight with a Master.

(Because yeah, obviously people were backing the idiot. He wouldn't have had the confidence to pull his bullshit without at least a small chunk of the more cocksure members of the family backing him…or the more chaotic members wanting to see some fireworks.)

Whatever the case, the smug had been loud, and the schadenfreude even louder.

I needed air.

Which was how I ended up on a supply run to the docks with Momo trailing behind me like a four-armed shadow in sunglasses and a branded resort polo. She gave exactly zero fucks about family drama. I envied her.

The pier was hot from the late morning sun. Wingulls cried overhead in loose spirals while the tide washed gently against the piers.

I'd barely taken ten steps down the main boardwalk before I started hearing it.

"Hey Travis! How's the Family get-together going?!"

"Didn't expect to see you down here today, little man!"

"Tell your mom the new batch of Shuckle Wine came in, the first case is on the house!"

I gave a half-wave to the produce vendor, a nod to the liquor supplier, and a polite "Morning" to the guy unloading crates of bottled water. Most of them didn't stop working; they just grinned, happy to spread the good cheer and community.

I'd grown up here after all. I learned to run on these docks before I could talk in full sentences. I had personally fallen off Pier Seven at age three and been fished out by an angrily concerned Wingull and a very patient Poliwhirl.

All of that on top of being the veritable 'prince' of the island as both its future Gym Leader and eventual owner of the Kumquat Grand, the single biggest and most resourceful business on the island, meant that I couldn't walk down a single street without the community saying or doing something to get my attention.

Not that it was a bad thing, of course. In fact, it was almost a relief to receive so much unconditional support and affection from a group of people I knew had my back. People that I knew more of and about than over half of my 'supposed' family.

By the time we reached the pickup point, the tension that had been steadily building in my gut finally unclenched.

After signing for the lot, I double-checked the barcode with the foreman and stepped back while Momo lifted the boxes like they were empty.

Checking my watch, I pursed my lip as I realized this little errand hadn't even taken a half hour to complete, and if I started returning now, I would be arriving right in the middle of Family Bingo. (Which was much more cutthroat than it sounded. Some of the elders in our family were terrifying when they wanted to be.)

I then cocked my head a bit as I realized just what part of the pier we were currently on.

"Hey Momo, what do you think about stopping by the Dock for a little bit? Maybe see how the Terrible Twosome are doing?"

The Machamp looked down at me with a raised brow. I had no doubt that she knew my true objective here, but I also knew her own annoyance with the Gathering would make her more likely to agree. The nod moments later proved me correct and let me take the lead once more as we made our way closer to the edges of the docks.

Making our way down the boardwalk, and after a few more waves and calls of support from various familiar dockhands and sailors, we eventually found ourselves at one of the enclosed docks found on the pier.

More specifically, we found ourselves at our own private dock, the Gym's signature symbol imprinted on its side, and a quick keypad unlock allowing us access.

Inside was just as luxurious as one would expect, with various dry stations available for basic ship repair and maintenance, all of which were dedicated to the upkeep of the half dozen speed boats and small yachts floating in the middle of the aquatic-aligned building.

"Anyone home?" I called out. Momo joined me with a loud grunt as she set down her load.

After a few moments of silence, I started to shrug as clearly the residents of the dock weren't home, yet that didn't mean we couldn't use the spot as a short hideaway, only for a voice to call out:

"M-Magikarp? Magikarp! Magikarp!"

A smile spread across my face as I looked around, only to then spot the source of the call.

Bobbing away in the water, and now happily and gleefully wiggling at the dock's edge was a rather small example of a Magikarp.

That size did nothing to take away from his clear excitement at seeing me, and he even went as far as to start butting up against the dock boards in an effort to get closer.

Laughing aloud, I quickly rushed over before he could hurt either himself or the dock. "Nemo! Good to see you, buddy!"

"Magi-Magikarp!" Nemo cried out happily as I bent down and began to rub his head, scritching and scratching where his top fin met his body, like he loved for me to do.

The loud sigh behind me let me know Momo's general attitude toward my actions, but I ignored her in favor of heaping all the love and attention I could on my fish friend.

Nemo the Magikarp had been a rather big inevitability in my life as far as I saw it. I had loved using the danger noodle that were Gyarados during my early childhood playthroughs of the various games. That love had only grown as the years passed and the rage fish gained more potential and power over the generations.

Add on top of that my living on a tropical island in the middle of a sea-locked region, a Ranger corps that was the shining example of what a group of well-trained Gyarados could do, and one of the only known locations on the planet that housed a natural evolution location for the Magikarp line, thus leading to far less rage-induced evolutions, and I found myself in one of the rare examples of isekai/reincarations into the world of Pokemon where not only was my desire for a Gyarados understandable, but almost encouraged!

…well, if you didn't count my overprotective mother, who had made her own stance on my desire for a Gyarados known via various rants, threats of grounding, and one memorable occasion where she personally dismantled the resort's Gyarados-themed water slide to try and remove a physical representation of my wishes.

Her overdramatics aside, I had understood the source of her concern. Improperly trained Gyarados were known far and wide for their berserker tendencies, and I had heard enough horror stories over the years to know the dangers of trying to train a danger noodle of my own.

In the end, I'd settled for agreeing to not make a Magikarp my Starter (which had featured in quite a few of my earlier plans, admittedly), and in turn waiting to get a Gyarados outright until after I had at least two badges minimum in order to show my competence.

(The fact that she hadn't needed said competence displayed before she agreed to let me sit my Gym Leader credential test early was quite the spot of hypocrisy, but I wasn't gonna call her out on it…yet.)

Now, with all that said, my having made a friend of Nemo would obviously raise a few red flags…if my intentions for Nemo were to evolve him, of course.

After all, while I had agreed not to raise a Gyarados until I proved competent, nothing said I couldn't get a head start with their much more manageable pre-evolution.

"How's the vest feeling buddy?" I asked, patting down his rather dense sides, covered as they were by a bulky red vest-like accessory that I knew to house at least four Everstones. (Because redundancy was important, especially when it involved a potential berserker fish-dragon.)

"Magi-Magikarp Karp. Magiiiiiikarp karp," Nemo went on for a bit. A few 'uh-huhs' and 'hmms' came along as I listened, but since I didn't have a clue what he was actually saying, I instead performed a physical inspection to make sure the vest wasn't rubbing wrong against his scales or fins.

Thankfully, the designer's guarantee once more came through, and I didn't find anything wrong or in need of serious repair beyond a few manageable loose threads and tears.

The likely source of said tears made me frown, and I gave the still gabbering Magikarp a dry look.

"You've been overdoing the Tackle training again, haven't you?"

Nemo instantly went silent at my words.

It never ceased to amaze me how Nemo could make the normally bland and dead-eyed looks of a Magikarp so expressive as he turned away, whiskers twitching in obvious panic, and eyes pointedly looking at anything but me.

I gave a rather theoretical sigh at his antics before getting up and grabbing a sewing kit I kept in a toolbox nearby for just this particular issue.

"You know I told you not to overdo your exercises for a reason," I reminded him gently as I unbuckled the vest from around his body, revealing some rather large and cringeworthy scars that went from nearly his tail fin all the way into what appeared to be a chunk taken out of his left fin.

"Mag-Magikarp," Nemo muttered in what I knew to be an apology.

I shook my head. "I know you're sorry, bud. It just hurts to think that you could hurt yourself, and I wouldn't be around to help you get better."

Nemo deflated at the gentle chiding, and I had to hide my own feelings over the slight guilt trip I knew I was performing.

Then the memory of just how he got his rather prolific scars caused that guilt to vanish, so I instead took the time to sew up the few loose threads in his training vest while also talking aloud about all the things that had been going on lately.

"But seriously, Kahili was amazing today. Touckey was moving so fast it was hard to even see the afterimage!" I snapped my arms from side to side to my captive fishy audience. "And the look on the idiot's face when Kahili won, I honestly thought he was about to puke or start speaking gibberish." I snickered, rubbing Nemo's starry-eyed head as he nearly pushed himself out of the water and into my lap.

He was a heavy little guy. Much heavier than his size alone would hint at. His vest wasn't just to help keep the Everstones on him after all. It was a properly weighted vest used for training, and Nemo most certainly made use of it in the daily exercises I had given him, given the tears I was fixing.

Thoughts of what that future training would provide caused my thoughts to turn towards my favorite cousin, who had been the one to help inspire the idea. The memories of what I had witnessed of her rose to the surface.

It was only the third time I'd seen Kahili battle up close. The first had been when I was five, and Mom had offered up an "exhibition match" to help Kahili blow off steam before a major tournament. Mom had taken it seriously, going all out from the start in her preferred Doubles format with Al and Momo.

She lost six to two.

Even then, Kahili had moved like a storm on the field, her team utterly destroying any defense or obstacle in their way. She'd pushed Mom harder than I'd ever seen anyone before, and when it was over, she'd just straightened her gloves and said she was finally feeling warmed up.

The second time had been at the Hana Grand during the Family Gathering two years ago in Alola. I'd asked, half as a joke, if I could tag along while she trained. She'd surprisingly said yes.

What I saw that day still kept me up sometimes.

The way she moved in sync with her team. The commands she didn't speak out loud. The things her Pokémon did that shouldn't have been possible. I spent weeks afterward trying to sketch out modified move trees to explain what I had seen. I used up three different notebooks before we even left Alola.

She was a Master…but even she wasn't the Peak.

The strongest trainers in the world, the Champions of each region, were more than just League title-holders. They were Masters of Masters. Trainers who stood at the summit and stayed there, above the myths and legends. The kind of people who didn't just battle history. They became it.

"Are you still in Nemo?" I asked once again, looking down at the tiny fish that I knew held more energy and life in him than dozens of his own kind combined. "The roads are gonna be tough, and we'll face people that will make Mom and the others look like the amateurs that roll through here at the beginning of every season, so if you want to just-"

"MAGI-MAG! IE! KARP!"

I looked down in bemusement as Nemo went on a no doubt passion-filled rant. The contents of which I could only assume involved undying oaths of loyalty and speeches that would make any shonan protagonist weep with pride.

"Okay! Okay! I get it!" I chuckled anew as I scratched Nemo's happy spots, calming down the otherwise passionate goober.

Still, it was a relief to know Nemo was still with me. Considering the events that led to his scars, I couldn't help but fall into bad habits and ask the, proving to be, asinine question each time thoughts of the future came up around the fish Pokémon.

"It would honestly be so much simpler if I could have you as my Starter," I mused aloud, Nemo gurgling out a sad agreement at the thought.

I understood why, of course. Before Mom had even gone on her entire Gyarados episode, I had known that it would be more likely that she would argue for me to have a more…rounded Starter.

Nothing absurd, mind you. She wasn't about to force some highly bred, super rare pseudo legendary on me or the like. It would be rather hypocritical considering her own Starter, the once-street rat that was Alakazam.

No, her arguments would more so come from the rational observation that my Starter should at the very least start as a small, land-based Pokémon that could be with me no matter the environment. Such requirements are a rather common reason why the "traditional starters" of the various Regions were so sought out, being Pokémon that didn't require specific environments just to achieve their full potential.

A requirement that Nemo, as a water-locked Pokémon, obviously didn't meet.

Still, whatever the case of what my Starter could and could not be, it was Nemo time.

"Alright," I smacked my cheeks to get my head back in the present. "Dramatic declarations of fellowship aside, let me see some Tackles! I want to see you flying!"

Nemo beamed at the command, barely remaining still long enough to hear each command of where and how I wanted him to rocket around the dock. He dove, swam, and jumped around like a pinball. His jumps took him clean over the various boats at times, while others were dedicated to more specific methods of flight, like jumping through certain gaps in the ship's open railings or from certain parts of one ship to another.

Eventually, however, Momo had the unfortunate job of reminding me that our time was limited, and I soon found myself once more slipping the vest back onto Nemo's small yet densely muscled frame.

"Surprised the Terrible Twosome never turned up," I mused, glancing round the dock's interior as if just mentioning them would summon the pair.

"Maaagikarp," Nemo shook his head (well, more his whole body, but I understood the gesture for what it was) before happily gobbling up the few berry snacks I had on hand.

I shook my own head fondly at the goober's antics. "Their lose, I guess. It was good to see you Nemo. I'll try and stop by again before the Gathering is over, yeah?"

Nemo happily gibbered back, always sad to see me leave, but also happy at the thought of me coming back.

Turning to leave, I gave Momo a nod that I was ready-

WAM!

-before flinching as a loud bang came from the dock's far wall.

Exchanging looks of confusion with my heavily armed bodyguard, we quickly made our way outside, Nemo calling out his goodbyes all the while.

Turning the corner of the dock, we eventually found our way to the alley that made up the dock's other side, and a flicker of light caught the corner of my vision.

I stepped closer, leaning just far enough into the alley to get a better look.

There, cornered behind a stack of busted crates, was a Pichu. It was sparking so badly it looked like it might pass out from sheer effort as its cheeks flared in erratic pulses, bolts snapping off its fur as it stood low, teeth bared.

And, yeah, unless Kumquat Island had gained a wild Pichu population overnight, I had a strong guess this was the same one that used my face as a springboard yesterday.

Funny how life works sometimes.

It was swaying on its feet, but still trying to stand tall, even surrounded by five snarling Rattata and a Sandshrew that was clearly in charge…and the Sandshrew's claws faintly glimmered purple.

Poison. Great.

I turned to share an unimpressed look with Momo before sighing and moving forward.

Now standing at the alley's mouth, I crossed my arms and let my voice carry:

"You get one chance."

Every Pokémon in the alley paused, and all eyes turned to me.

"You get one chance to walk away," I repeated, giving them the ultimatum.

All they saw was a kid standing alone with not a Pokémon in sight.

The Sandshrew let out a rasping growl and dug its claws into the concrete. One of the Rattata chittered a challenge.

I sighed as Momo rounded the corner behind me.

She didn't say anything. Machamps typically don't need to.

The wild Pokémon froze.

Feeling a little mirth at their boggle-eyed looks, I leaned forward slightly and whispered loud enough for them to hear:

"This is the part…where you run away."

As if my words were a starting pistol, the six Pokegang members bolted, nearly climbing over each other to get away. The Sandshrew even went as far as to roll up and wrecking ball its way through moldy crates to get away faster.

I waited until the last one disappeared before stepping forward.

The Pichu was still sparking defensively, but the crackling was weaker now. Its legs gave a tiny tremble even as it tried to stay standing before the titan (and smaller titan) that Momo and I represented.

I knelt down slowly, voice low.

"Hey, easy now," I said gently. "We're not here to hurt you."

It blinked up at me warily, so tired it looked like it could barely keep its eyes open. It attempted one more flicker of electricity, but it fizzled out almost as soon as it sparked.

I reached forward quickly and caught it as it fell forward.

"You're safe now. I promise."

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 6
​

---

It was official; I couldn't have five minutes of peace, not even after rescuing an electro-rat from a Poke rendition of a street gang.

"I was supposed to be on my fudging break," I childishly cursed under my breath as I jogged across the upper terrace path toward the Battle Courts. "But nooo, the idiots had to decide now was the perfect time to prove their 'vaunted battling experience.' It's not like I had another dozen things to do!"

Momo kept pace beside me, and every thundering step of hers was a subtle reminder that I could at least count on one person not to ambush me with sudden tournament logistics.

My shoes slapped tile with increasing frustration. All I'd wanted was to check on the Pichu. Just that! Nothing overly complicated, heck, I'd even planned out the words. Maybe I would offer a Sitrus slice to help calm it down. But nope.

Instead, I'd had barely a minute to drop off the nearly catatonic mouse with Blissey and her crew of misfits before being informed that in the one hour I was gone, the assorted trainees, relatives, and a not-so-small handful of entourage kids had collectively decided the Battle Courts were the perfect place for a Bet Battle Tournament.

Complete with brackets.

And banners.

And a full betting pool.

"Of course, there has to be betting," I grumbled, dodging a cart loaded with folding chairs. "Why settle for mild chaos when you can legally attach financial stakes to your ego?"

I barely made it around the corner before one of the staff members caught sight of me and immediately motioned me toward the official's entrance.

"Young Master Travis! Good, you're here; we've already got sixty-three matches on the docket, and half the challengers insisted we start early because someone-"

"-was no doubt bragging about having their dad's team on standby," I finished. "I know the patterns, Julian. Just give me the docket."

Julian, one of our permanent battle court refs, nodded contritely before doing as told.

Walking inside, the air was already heavy with the scent of various flowery air diffusers, overly-sweet Poké Puff snacks, and pride. All the pride.

Battle Courts A through D were already alive with movement. Cheers echoed from multiple directions as battle calls rang out over the floor. Most of the competitors were teens or younger kids. Fifteen and under was what I had been told officially, but the smugness per square foot? That was definitely adult levels.

And there, already officiating like he was born to wear a ref vest with questionable sleeve cuts, was Big Wayne.

"Well well well, look who finally decided to join the war effort," Wayne boomed with a massive grin. "They've got more caffeine than sense out there today, kid. I already disqualified two of em for trying to bribe the bracket organizer."

"Sounds about right." I slid into place beside him, pulling the spare ref vest off the stack. "Who thought giving Challenge Credit to elementary-schoolers was a good idea again?"

Big Wayne laughed. "Same people who thought giving ten-year-olds living flamethrowers was educational!"

He wasn't wrong.

Challenge Credit.

Ten years ago, it was some sleek new system being beta-tested in every major city from Celadon to Castelia. It was meant to be something that could "modernize" Trainer commerce. Now? It was everywhere. Integrated directly into every Trainer's license, transferable instantly between accounts, and rising in popularity faster than Pokéstar Studio flops got greenlit for sequels.

And Bet Battles were its engine.

Put simply, a Bet Battle was a battle with stakes. Not for cash, not directly, but for a wagered amount of Challenge Credit logged to both participants' League profiles. The winner took the pot while the loser lost actual buying power. And because those credits were tied to official accounts, they could be used for almost anything: lodging, Poké Balls, healing supplies, TMs, even some lower-tier airfare if your win streak was good enough.

But the flipside?

If you lost too many times, too fast, you stopped being able to pay for your journey.

Which is why the League required licensed referees to oversee every Challenge Credit wager match. We weren't just scorekeepers. We were the system's gatekeepers, making sure nobody got scammed, cheated, or "persuaded" into tossing a battle that could cost them months of travel expenses.

And today that job fell to me. Because of course it did.

Court A had just finished resetting when the next round was called. I glanced at the updated sheet and raised my voice as I moved to take over.

"Rielle from Kalos versus Tatsumi from Kanto! Court A!"

I moved forward to the referee's stand and nodded as both combatants stepped up.

"Confirmed wager: 100 Challenge Credit. Trainers, confirm?"

They nodded.

Rielle had the air of someone who battled between Contests. Gold-trimmed gloves, tight posture, and a female Meowstic whose fur almost shimmered. It at least seemed experienced and wasn't just a postermon to look good.

Tatsumi was the opposite, with hair buzzed close, no finery, and focused eyes. His Hitmontop wasted zero time on a flourish. It launched a barked Triple Kick the moment I lowered my hand.

Rielle waved her hand elegantly. "Charm into Psybeam."

Credit where it was due, her Meowstic was fast. The Hitmontop staggered mid-spin, destabilized by the disorienting pulse of Fairy-type energy that left it barely giving Meowstic a glancing blow at best. The Psybeam slammed into it moments later.

With the more physical pair now on the back foot, Rielle and Meowstic didn't let up until the end of the match was called in short order.

"Victory to Rielle," I called when the Fighting Type didn't get back up.

Tatsumi bowed, recalled his Pokémon, and walked away without a word. I could already tell that was going to be rare today.

I scribbled the result and stepped off the court, only to catch Wayne waving at me from across C.

He pointed sharply toward Court D, where a familiar support staffer was waving toward me with stress practically radiating off her frame.

"We've got a situation," she said under her breath as I strode up.

Looking at the situation, I could see that while the match was already over, the aftermath was proving to be loud.

Some overdressed cousin, Jackson or Jaydn or some other J-starting name, was losing his mind. His Marshtomp was out cold on the court while his opponent, a boy from Kalos (judging by the skin tone, Winstrom-themed pin on his beanie, and Clauncher), stood sheepishly off to the side.

"You cheated!" The brat was shrieking. "You all saw it! He called one move, and his shitty crustacean did something else!"

"Which isn't against the rules," I said flatly. Because really, that was the best he could come up with?

That didn't seem to matter to Jackson as he grabbed another Poké Ball.

"Oh yeah," he growled, glaring toward the Kalosian boy. "We'll see how you handle THIS-"

"Jason!" I barked sharply.

He ignored me.

The ball hit the court, and a Gigalith materialized in a flash of light and fury.

The crowd backed up fast. Momo didn't. She stepped forward.

James snarled. "Let's see how you like my father's-"

"Don't," I repeated, keeping behind Momo for what was no doubt about to occur. "Daddy's not here to save you from embarrassment."

Jeremy turned to me with a scowl. "You wouldn't dare-"

Momo's fist blurred.

She didn't punch, not really. More like…tapped it. Gently. Right in the center of its face.

Gigalith rocketed backwards into the battlefield's barriers hard enough to make them turn yellow. It didn't get back up.

The brat froze.

Momo tilted her head, the unspoken anything else? loud and clear.

Jack quietly returned his fainted 'mon.

"Glad we had this talk," I muttered, turning away to a suddenly much quieter audience.

The rest of the matches weren't much better.

A lot of kids with expensive Pokémon and no tactical instinct. Rare typings, flashy moves, and practically no discipline to speak of.

But occasionally?

Someone reminded me why I loved battling.

Diana, for instance. Unovan girl, pretty sure she was Cousin Mile's step-sister on his wife's side or the like. Confident in the "not wasting energy" way. She sent out a Lampent that fought so cleanly that I saw Wayne straighten up two courts away.

Her opponent? A Johto boy with a Croconaw. It should have been a bad match-up.

Except her opponent didn't see the trap.

"Wisp Circle!"

"Waterfall!"

"Hex!"

It was like watching a river get outmaneuvered by a forest fire. Lampent dipped, feinted, and ignited the whole court in a haze of cursed fire that hid the precision strikes right until the moment they landed.

The match ended fast. Her Lampent hadn't even been hit.

I marked her down for the semis.

I rotated my shoulders, scribbled another note, and exhaled hard.

Still no word from Blissey; I hadn't been able to grab lunch yet, and I still had to pretend I wasn't about to crash the second this was over.

Hopefully, the finals wouldn't be too far off…

Which obviously meant it took another twenty minutes just to reach the finals. The source of that particular hurdle was caused by one of the various younger cousins pulling out a Shuckle that clearly wasn't their own, and then proceeded to not get disqualified only because the rocky bug had kept to the bare minimum of what he ordered while otherwise ignoring the glancing blows their opponent threw at them via Rest shenanigans.

When the match was finally called, I felt both annoyed and embarrassed for him. Not the idiot who threw out the Shuckle, mind you, but rather his opponent, who had to deal with the stupidly defensive Pokémon. Especially since it left his Pokémon utterly drained and easy pickings for the more brash of the two finalists.

I hummed tiredly as I accepted the last clipboard of the event and moved toward the center court before clearing my throat as I stepped onto the platform.

"This is the final match of the-" I paused just long enough to read a banner one of the more artistically inclined relatives had no doubt made and sighed internally, "-the Crowning Cashion Competition. Winner takes the pot."

A few kids on the sidelines whooped and hollared. I pretended not to hear.

I held up the clipboard, then gestured to my left.

"Representing the Unova branch of the family, we have Diana Voss and Lampent, undefeated in her bracket and looking ready for more."

I got a nod from Diana. Lampent hovered at her side, flames flickering in that playfully wicked way that Ghost types seemingly tried to embody.

I turned right.

"And representing Sinnoh, by way of the Grand Lake Estate, we have Laurent Cashion and his partner Floatzel, specializing in speed-based aquatic offense."

Laurent gave a too-casual wave to the crowd, all confidence and practiced arrogance. His Floatzel flexed like it had something to prove. (Which it probably did, considering the cakewalk they had in their last battle.)

I raised my hand and let it fall.

"Battle! Begin!"

"Aqua Jet!" Laurent called instantly, sharp and confident.

No surprise there. He'd opened with the same move every match today, and Floatzel followed through by darting forward in a pillar of rushing water.

Yet Diana's Lampent was already moving as a Fire Spin blazed into existence around it and caused steam to burst outward as the Aqua Jet collided with the flames head-on.

I raised a brow. Looks like someone else had noticed what move Laurent kept starting the match with and made a decent counter.

And now she was already on the follow-up.

"Wisp Circle into Hex!"

A ring of ghostly blue flames shot outward from Lampent's spinning limbs, sweeping out like a pulse. Floatzel, still dazed from the surprise collision and unexpected steam bath, barely had time to move before the flames passed through it.

It hissed as the cursed flames burned against its front. Its usual resistance to fire did nothing to stop the Ghost-type move. That was going to hurt.

Laurent winced but ordered all the same, "Dodge right, then Crunch!"

Floatzel recovered quickly enough to lunge in the direction instructed, fangs igniting with a large quantity of Dark-type energy. It crushed through the residual flames and intercepted the arc of Hex Lampent sent out, biting into the spectral power and shattering the attack with raw force alone.

Diana clicked her tongue at the missed opportunity. "Smog into Confuse Ray!"

I clicked my own tongue at the play.

It was a rather pointed reminder that, unlike the games, status conditions could stack in real battles. Burn, poison, paralysis, and even confusion weren't mutually exclusive. It made for brutal tactics and required far more awareness from both trainer and ref.

On the field, the Smog cloud hit first, rolling over Floatzel and causing it to retch. Then came the Confuse Ray, flickering like a strobe in the poisonous fog.

"Get out of there!" Laurent shouted. "Jet backwards then wide!"

Floatzel gritted its teeth as it tried to focus through the pain, then darted backwards in a streak of water, cutting through the smog and actually managing to dodge the Confuse Ray. It circled wide, trying to set up a counterangle.

"Now, stagger it with Water Gun!"

The sea weasel did as instructed, spitting out blasts of water in staggered volleys that would have a much greater chance of hitting their target, even with its rapid movements.

Something that proved wise when Lampent proved its training by not even needing its trainer to order a dodge. It spun and dipped through the air like it was dancing, allowing it to dodge the super-effective attacks with ease.

"Lampent! Don't get too low!" Diana suddenly shouted, causing Laurent to stifle a curse.

I had to give her props. I had only noticed the buildup of water on the ground because I was standing in the middle of the field and could see that Floatzel was aiming around Lampent as much as at it. Lampent could obviously float above such a thing, so you would typically think it wouldn't be a worry. Certain moves worked best with access to an excess of water, however, which could in turn lead to-

"Floatzel, no holding back! WHIRLPOOL!"

-that.

Floatzel grit its teeth through its no doubt excruciating pain, and it utilized the excess water it had been flinging across the field as much as its own reserves to create a vortex of water directly beneath the ghostly lamp. The watery mass rose up much quicker than usual for the base move, and it was only thanks to Diana's warning that Lampent was able to react to her next command as quickly as it did.

"Fire Spin down then up! Full Power!"

The crowd around us let out cries and shouts as the attacks collided, and a massive blast of steam erupted from the arena. The sheer amount of steam blinded most present and caused a majority to turn away.

It was only thanks to years of being around such battle effects that I didn't turn away, even as the steam felt like it was burning my eyes, and it, in turn, left me one of the few present that saw what happened next.

Something that caused me to smile.

"While it's blinded, use Surf Floatzel!" Laurent roared, soon accompanied by the roar of hundreds of gallons of water as Floatzel began summoning a wave at the edge of the field.

It was only as the steam began to fade and the wave began to rush forward that the reason for my smile was shown.

Because where everyone expected to find a damaged and blinded Lampent was instead empty.

"What?!" Laurent shouted in shock, frantically looking around the arena even as his Pokémon surfed across the field on its wave.

His inexperience was definitely showing there. After all, Lampent could float, so the most likely place it would be if not on the field-

"Now Lampent, Energy Ball!"

-was up.

Heads snapped upward as Lampent answered its trainer's call. The Pokémon's lower body was clearly damaged, which made sense considering it had used the steam blast from earlier to get much greater height than usual, and in turn leave it in the perfect place to alpha strike an unaware foe.

"Oh fu-Floatzal! PROTECT!"

I had to give Laurent props; while his battlefield awareness might not have been the best, his training was definitely up there, as Floatzal immediately dropped its concentration on its wave to try and form the pinnacle of defensive moves to block the supereffective attack.

Which meant it was almost painful to witness as Floatzel threw up its paws to create the protective dome, only for its burn marks to pulse a brilliant red and cause it to buckle at the pivotal moment.

What little of the barrier it managed to create crumbled before the sphere of brilliant green light, blasting it into the ground below in a cloud of dust.

For a moment, the crowd went silent as we all watched for any sign of movement…

And again, props to Laurent, because even after all the damage the water weasel had taken, it still tried to rise up from where it had been smashed into the arena floor.

Unfortunately for him, I wasn't the only one who saw it.

"Hex," Diana ordered with a grimace.

The wave of ghostly energy blasted downward from Lampent's great height and sent Floatzel slamming back into the field. The Ghost-type move did its insidious work as it drew forth not only damage from the base attack, but even enhanced the pain of its burns and the poison no doubt running through its veins.

I stepped forward, staring to see if the Water Type would get back up, before my voice rose.

"Floatzel is unable to battle. Victory goes to Diana and Lampent!"

The crowd broke into cheers.

Laurent cursed under his breath, but raised his Poké Ball all the same.

Diana didn't bow or gloat. She just reached up, brushed her blonde hair behind one ear, and gave her Lampent a soft pat as it drifted to her side.

Chuckling and in a far better mood after the surprisingly interesting battle, I began flicking through the match ledger. The annoying part of being a Bet Battle ref made known as I had to finalize receipts and modify credit scores.

Of course, that was when a few of the competitors decided to slither over, all hopeful smiles and bad excuses as they tried to "clarify" the terms of their bets or subtly ask if maybe we could forget to log this one match that had gone badly.

I didn't even look up. Momo's looming presence made sure no one tried anything stupid.

The numbers went in. Challenge Credit was deducted. Digital receipts were sent to their trainer profiles. Parental notifications would follow shortly for those dumb enough to be using such accounts. (Aka, a majority of them.)

Actions had consequences. Especially stupid ones.

By the time the last entry was filed and Big Wayne shouted something about closing the courts for cleaning, I was ready to finally get a nap and lunch, didn't matter the order.

Especially when I caught sight of one of the logistics managers heading my way with That Look (you know, the "we need a favor and it's already ten minutes overdue" one) and immediately angled hard left through the outer ring of the crowd.

Nope. Not today.

Momo began laughing as I quickly returned her and ducked behind a cousin's Hippowdon, cut through the back service hall, and booked it down the stairs two at a time until I hit the staff elevators.

Punching in the penthouse floor never felt so righteous.

Lunch was hours late. My head was spinning with a growing migraine, and if one more person asked me to moderate a last-minute showdown between their baby Absol and someone else's Scyther, I was going to personally invent a new move called Shut Up.

I just wanted food, silence, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to check in on a certain electric mouse who had better not have gotten into our ventilation. I did not want to know what Uncle Manu went through at sea for weeks on end.

Which was why, when the elevator doors finally hissed open and I stepped into the blessed silence of the penthouse, I wasn't expecting to walk into what looked like a hostage situation.

Bliss stood at one end of the room, trying to coax a spoonful of pudding toward her target with all the gentle menace of a pink-tinted nurse in crisis mode.

Alakazam hovered just over her shoulder, arms crossed and expression unreadable except for the usual sarcastic judgment held within.

And stuck in the corner, trembling in place and sparking like a shorted outlet, was the Pichu.

It looked cornered by kindness and judgment both, unsure which one was worse. Its cheeks crackled as it glanced between the spoon and the stare, visibly regretting every decision that had led to this moment.

I took in the scene for all of three seconds before turning and walking a wide berth around it like a tourist avoiding a street performance.

Again, not today.

Bliss made a welcoming coo as I passed. The Pichu squeaked something that might've been a cry for help.

I didn't stop.

Straight into the kitchen. Straight to the fridge. I needed food before I started holding an intervention for a living sparkplug with trust issues.

---

The couch creaked slightly as I dropped onto it, sandwich in hand: four meats, three vegetables, and exactly zero regrets.

Across the room, Pichu was putting up a spirited, if ineffective, fight against what had to be the world's gentlest captor.

Bliss had finally captured her wayward patient and had him swaddled in a Volt-resistant blanket, the kind used in pediatric Pokémon wards to prevent accidental zapping, and was currently trying to feed him a spoonful of vitamin-enriched pudding with all the determination of a nurse who'd seen far worse patients than one twitchy electric rodent.

He squeaked, wiggled, and sparked. She hummed, patted, and smiled.

The pudding won. Eventually.

I took a bite of my sandwich and watched the standoff with mild detachment. There were worse things than being fussed over by a Blissey.

I'd give him five more minutes before he either gave in completely or evolved out of spite.

I took another bite and slowly turned to Alakazam, who sat across from me like a judgmental statue, one brow rose in silent question.

Hearing an Alakazam telepathically sigh in exasperation was always an experience.

"Bliss called it in as a 'rowdy guest,'" came the tenor voice in my mind. "I was down at the beach helping your mother officiate the adults' polo match. Uncle Manu was threatening to call out Skarmery again when he got accused of cheating."

Ah, that explained why he sounded tired.

"Bliss sent the alert when she realized her patient had gone missing, and I found the little menace trying to crawl into the ventilation system from the medical alcove. Would've made a mess of the entire HVAC if I'd been thirty seconds slower."

I shuddered. Just imagining the fallout from that, of Mom finding out a wild electric-type had fried the cooling network during the Gathering? That kind of meltdown would've required actual diplomatic intervention.

"I thought Bliss was watching him," I asked because, yeah, that part wasn't making much sense.

"She was. He slipped away by sensing where people were." A pause. "He has psychic potential. Rudimentary, but present. He was using it to instinctively avoid others."

I blinked, sandwich halfway to my mouth.

"…He what?"

"He was using his burgeoning psychic senses to detect others. Rather poorly, it must be said," Alakazam clarified, and I could hear the disdain curling in his tone. "His mind flares out like a Loudred in a cave. I didn't even have to search. Just followed the noise."

My hand slowly lowered.

Psychic potential.

In a Pichu.

I stared at the little burrito-shaped bundle in the corner, still glaring at Bliss as if she'd personally offended his bloodline.

"That shouldn't be possible." Yet the words somehow sounded wrong to my own ears even as I said them. "Pichu aren't-"

I froze mid-thought.

Because I remembered something important.

Because my brain, now freshly recharged with food and rest, connected the dots.

Alola. It came here on Uncle Manu's yacht from Alola.

Pichu eventually evolved into pure Electric-type Raichu, sure. But in Alola? In Alola, it didn't become the Electric-type bruiser everyone knew.

It became Alolan Raichu. Electric and Psychic.

I leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling like it had betrayed me.

Alakazam glanced over at me, his expression unreadable. "What do you intend to do with him?"

I blinked back dumbly. "With who?"

He tilted his head toward the still-wriggling Pichu burrito in the corner, who was currently chewing on the blanket edge with the sullen intensity of a child in time-out.

"You brought him here instead of the Pokémon Center, so he's your responsibility, for now."

My mouth opened to argue, but nothing came out.

Because technically, he wasn't wrong.

I had brought the little menace here. Not to the Pokémon Center, but here, home.

What was I supposed to do with him?

I leaned back and rubbed a hand down my face, mental gears starting to turn.

The talks last night rose to the surface. How could they not? All that arguing and postering about Starters and strategies, hell, even my trip to see Nemo was the perfect lead up to having the idea at the forefront of my mind.

I'd never really considered Raichu. Definitely not Alolan Raichu, but…

A strong Electric-type in a waterlogged region was a massive boon. Add onto that his eventual Psychic typing that, even as a baby mon', he was already proving true via his use of extrasensory detection…

Yeah, it could work.

It made sense.

So why was my stomach twisting?

I stared at the conundrum in the corner.

I stared at the Pichu…

…oh.

Oh, I knew the answer, even if I didn't want to admit it.

It was because he was a Pichu.

Because another version of me, another Travis, had started with a Pikachu.

Was this fate? Some canon event? Had the universe handed me this moment because it thought it was funny?

Was I just going to become him? Another Pikachu trainer, another recycled trope, another Ash Clone that made a one-episode appearance?

My breathing hitched.

Shit, I was spiraling. Fast.

The walls felt too close. The lights were starting to stab into my eyes. My own thoughts weRE TO LOUD-

"TRAVIS!"

The mental voice hit like a thunderclap, slicing clean through the static.

"You are hyperventilating. Cease."

I froze.

Then, slowly, like clockwork gears re-engaging, I remembered the exercises.

One finger tapped my wrist. Steady rhythm. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again.

Count backward from ten. Focus on the five things I could see. Four I could touch. Three I could hear.

It took time. But eventually, the vice grip around my chest loosened.

I leaned forward, elbows on knees, forehead against clasped hands.

"...Thanks," I muttered.

Alakazam didn't say anything. Just remained sitting in that same stoic grace, like the moment hadn't happened at all.

But it had, and I was still here. Still me.

A moment passed.

Then Alakazam's voice returned, calm but firm. "If the rodent is causing this much distress, we will remove it-"

I jerked upright. "No!"

The spoon in his hand froze mid-spin. Bliss's humming cut off.

My voice had been too sharp, I realized, too raw even now. I swallowed hard, forcing my breath into something close to even. My pulse still hadn't settled, but the panic had passed, mostly.

Bliss was watching me. Concern etched in every soft line of her face. She hadn't come closer to try and smother me with healing touches and berry smoothies, thank Arceus, but only because her arms were still full of sparking rodent.

Slowly, I turned to the Pichu.

It had stopped fighting. Mainly because it was watching me now.

I didn't need Alakazam to confirm what I already suspected: it had felt my panic. Even wrapped in layers of insulating medical material, its psychic potential had no doubt allowed it to feel my panic. It knew I was stressed, so it was stressed.

But what caught my attention the most, what made my breath catch in a different way entirely, were its eyes.

They weren't black.

Every Pikachu I'd ever seen, every member of their line, they all had those solid black eyes. Big, expressive, slightly glassy.

But this one?

Light blue.

A soft, unmistakable cerulean glow, faintly reflective in the warm light of the room.

Its Alolan heritage was staring me in the face.

I exhaled again, steadier this time. That single detail settled my nerves more than any breathing exercise ever had.

Then I stood, ignoring the slight wobble in my legs, and slowly made my way over.

Bliss stared at me with a concerned frown, probably expecting me to do something stupid. The Pichu definitely did. Its ears twitched as static popped faintly along its cheeks.

I didn't reach out, nor did I loom over them. Instead, I sat down a few feet away, lower than both of them.

Now, the Pichu was the one looking down.

"Sorry about earlier." I broke the silence. "I was…dealing with some stuff."

The Pichu blinked, then gave me a Look. The kind of look that said 'Yeah, no kidding.'

I couldn't help it; a chuckle slipped out. "Fair enough."

Some of the tension left my shoulders. I stayed seated, letting the last of my thoughts slot into place, locking down what I wanted to say next.

Then I sat up straight, looked the Pichu dead in the eye, and said:

"I want you to be my Starter."

Behind me, I heard the unmistakable sound of a facepalm. Alakazam's patience apparently had limits.

Pichu narrowed its eyes.

Right, that was fair. That was a lot to drop with no preamble.

So I gave it one.

"I want to be strong," I said, not raising my voice, but making sure it could hear the steel of my words. "I want to fight. I want to grow. I want to push myself and any Pokémon on my team as far as we can go."

"And if any of that sounds like something you'd want to. Then I want you to hear the rest of this properly."

Its eyes narrowed as it stared me down, but its ears didn't lower. It was listening.

"I don't want a pet," I continued, laying down the law, so to speak. "I don't want someone who sticks around just because I've got food or air conditioning or a cozy blanket."

"I want a partner. A right hand. Someone who'll challenge me and be challenged in return."

I took a breath, then leaned forward slightly.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't feed you. I'm not saying I wouldn't take care of you. You'd have meals, shelter, training, and support. And if you say no? That's fine. You can live here. You'll never go hungry again. I promise you that."

The little lightning rod twitched. His expression didn't soften, but something in his posture did. The tension wasn't gone, but it wasn't on high alert anymore.

I slowly raised a hand, not toward him, just out, open.

"But if you do say yes…I'm offering you more than a training schedule and Poké Puffs."

"I'm offering to make you something great. Something that others will look at and realize is greater than the ordinary and no doubt extraordinary."

Our eyes locked.

I let him feel it. The thoughts. The emotions. The core of what I meant.

I want a partner.

I want to be strong.

I want a friend.

I want to be more.

I want a family.

Pichu stared back, not with wariness, but with consideration.

I let the silence breathe a moment longer, then dared a glance at Bliss.

She was already watching me. The look on her face…Arceus, the pride in it. Like I'd just handed in a perfect test or graduated early. I felt heat crawl up my neck and had to look away before I got emotional in front of a burrito with ears.

"Bliss," I said, clearing my throat. "You mind letting him go?"

She gave me a soft smile and then looked down at her patient. A different kind of Look now, warm, but serious. The kind of look that said 'be good' without saying a word.

Pichu grumbled, but after a beat, gave a reluctant nod.

Blissey loosened the blanket and gently set him down on the plush rug between us.

Pichu stayed seated. Static danced lightly across his fur, but his expression stayed considerate, so I took it as a win.

I raised my hand, palm up and open.

"What do you say? Wanna be something extraordinary?"

He didn't look at me, not at first.

Instead, he tilted his head and squeaked, a short, inquisitive sound, toward the other side of the room.

I blinked and turned just in time to see Alakazam nod slightly.

"He wishes to know if the offer of food and shelter remains valid, even if he accepts but decides that he does not want what you're pitching. A trial run is what I believe he's proposing," the Psychic said with a shrug.

I snorted softly.

"Of course it does," I said, answering the first bit. "You're welcome to stay as long as you follow the house rules and don't try to eat the wiring."

Pichu huffed.

Then, with no ceremony whatsoever, he reached forward and slapped his paw into my palm.

I blinked, instinctively grasping the small, warm limb now resting in my hand.

And then, as I looked down at the tiny creature before me, I felt the first real step of something start to settle in my chest. I couldn't hold in the thought:

"This is it. This is the beginning. I found my Starter."

BZZT.

"MOTHER FUDGER!"

I jerked backward, hand flapping in the open air as sparks fizzled in my palm. Behind me, Alakazam barked a laugh. Bliss gasped. And Pichu?

Pichu was rolling on his back, cackling like he'd just invented comedy.

I blew on my palm and gave him a flat look. "Really?"

Pichu continued to laugh.

Fine. You win this round, rat. You win this round.

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 1 - The Gathering


Chapter 7
​

---

Nights in the penthouse always tended to be a mixed bag. It was either a bastion of peace and calm after the storm of daily resort management, or a frenzy of activity that put everything else the week had to offer to shame thanks to the numerous personalities contained within Mom's team.

That night was even more of a mixed bag than usual. It wasn't quiet, between the squabbling, sketching, nail-painting, and a full-on turf war in a salad bowl, there was plenty of noise, but it was the right kind of noise. The kind that didn't include marketing pitches, subtle status games, or the word "synergy" used like a threat.

I was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Rayna, who had her sketchpad braced against her knees and a mischievous grin tugging at her mouth while Smergle napped under the coffee table with rice still sticking to his cheeks. She was mid-linework on a chaotic masterpiece titled "The Devourers", which currently featured my newly acquired Pichu halfway buried in an industrial-sized salad bowl, flinging fruit over his shoulder like a particularly aggressive chef, while Kylie's Munchlax loomed just behind, mouth snapping open and closed at the flying food, yet his eyes remained locked on his true goal.

"You sure we can't sell prints of this?" Rayna asked, chewing her stylus thoughtfully. "I feel like we're capturing something profound here. The eternal dance of hunger and hubris. The raw tension between gluttony and static cling."

"Didn't the last sketch have Pichu riding a melon slice like a surfboard?" I muttered.

She flipped to the page in question before raising her nose in a mock snooty way. "Art is about moments, Travis."

Across the room, Kylie sat at the coffee table, one hand fanned out while Roman applied polish to her nails with the solemn grace of a man performing surgery. Naturally, the color was a stormy silver-blue that perfectly matched the embroidery on her blouse.

"I swear you're better at this than our actual manicurist," Kylie commented, not looking up. "Are you sure you don't want Roman to help Daisy?"

"I'm still just...watching," Daisy said, clearly amused, but curled comfortably in the corner of a lounge chair. She had traded her formal shoes for fuzzy slippers like the rest of us. "I still don't think I've ever seen this many people voluntarily leave a high-profile party before dessert."

"That's because the desserts were boozy," I answered, chin on the table's edge.

"And because when Mom puts her Shuckle Wine tier list in the centerpiece cards, it means the booze will be flowing a lot that night," Rayna added.

"Ah," Daisy said, clearly still a little confused, but sipping her drink all the same.

Before anyone else could chime in, the penthouse door hissed softly open, and Kahili stepped in.

She didn't say anything at first, just strode through the entry like a rapidly approaching stormfront. Her evening jacket was still on but now unzipped, and she was soon barefoot as she kicked off her no doubt expensive heels in an act of annoyance. Touckey followed her with a visible tic over one eye while Aria, her currently Pa'u form Oricorio, danced across the floor, collecting the heels with the barest hint of psychic power to put them in the proper shoe cubby.

"Finally escaped the Mandibuzzes," she muttered, veering straight for the kitchenette as if that answered everything…which, yeah, it basically did.

She opened the fridge, ignored the glimmering rows of wine, fizzy juices, and sparkling nectar, grabbed the coldest bottle of local-brew beer she could find, popped the cap one-handed against the counter lip, and took a long drink like it was the only thing keeping her sane.

"Not one of them can hold a conversation without using the word brand!" She ranted afterward, wiping her mouth. "And I hate when someone asks if I'll let Aria be 'available for photoshoots' like she's some decorative art piece!"

Said Oricorio simply swayed further into the room, making her way to the balcony where she could doubtless sense her parents, Uncle Manu's own Oricorio and Xatu, had settled down for the evening.

"We told you not to show up in those heels," Roman said without looking up from Kylie's cuticle line.

"Let me dream," she groaned, plopping onto the edge of the couch. She didn't lounge, didn't sink. She just existed, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate until someone brought snacks.

Which she was provided moments later as one of Momo's long arms placed a bowl already piled high with fresh soft pretzels and popcorn in her lap.

Something rather impressive, considering Momo was tucked against the other end of the couch like an immovable boulder in a polo shirt. She had a throw blanket, a protein bar, and the body language of someone who had decided the rest of the world didn't matter. Marowak sat across from her on the thick rug as he moved a pawn along the chessboard between them with the same placid focus he gave to live combat.

I wasn't surprised they decided to skip the party with us. While they were part of Mom's team, that didn't mean they wanted to deal with drunken cousins, furniture-based debates, or strategic "networking."

And honestly? Same.

"You know Mom's still downstairs trying to talk your dad out of staging a dramatic public apology to the mouse," I mentioned offhandedly, gesturing toward my Starter, who was still claiming the salad bowl like a territorial beast. "He apparently feels bad about how he hunted the little guy on his yacht for two weeks."

"Is it wrong that he wants to, though?" Daisy asked.

"No," I admitted before slumping further. "But trying to have a six-string set accompany the apology is overdoing it a bit."

Rayna snorted. "At least he's willing to apologize. Mom glared at the sparkplug so hard I swear the lights flickered."

"Oh, she glared, all right," I muttered muleshly. "The whole time we introduced him, she acted as if I brought home a feral Primeape and a Molotov cocktail."

"He was fresh from the spa," Roman pointed out, as if that explained anything.

I sighed. "Which he nearly destroyed. Thrice."

It was supposed to be simple. A nice, thorough cleaning, a few standard wellness checks, and the mandated booster shots. Nothing fancy, just the usual set of services every newly-acquired Pokémon received upon formal registration at a Pokémon Center (with admittedly a not-so-little amount of Kumquat flare thrown in).

But Pichu had other ideas.

I'd barely signed the intake form when the shrieking started. First from the front desk, then the grooming station, and then the back hallway where they kept the towels.

Apparently, Pichu had mistaken the aroma diffuser for a threat; the fact that it was clearly a stationary ceramic orb didn't matter. He zapped it on sight, shorting out the aromatherapy system and setting off a chain reaction that somehow made three separate Bellosom assistants slide into a pile of overturned bath oils like bowling pins.

He bit the first groomer hard enough to leave a gaping hole in the glove.

He outright Confused the second one. That poor woman hadn't been expecting the quickly proving feral Pichu to give her a Sweet Kiss of all things. They had eventually found her hugging a (thankfully fake) cactus and crying about not wanting it to leave her.

The third one, a guy named Benny who was one of Sal's primary assistants, bless him, tried to distract Pichu with a squeaky toy shaped like a Cherubi. That actually worked…for about six seconds. Then Pichu ate it.

And somehow, somehow, by the time I came back to check on him, he was perched atop a massage table like a jungle king, fur fluffed to perfection, and a damp little cucumber slice on his head like a crown. All the while, the staff were arranged before him like servants kneeling before their newly crowned king.

The staff wouldn't make eye contact with me. One of the assistants handed me the completed health check summary like she was handing over a subpoena.

The only reason he got his booster shots in the end without a fight was that Blissey had finally stepped in, gave him a Sweet Kiss of her own, and used an injection wand before he could even start seeing stars.

The poor Confused woman from before had looked a tad too vindictive at the result of Blissey's "counterattack" and had quickly been my cue to grab the now clean Pichu and book it.

He then had the audacity to look offended when I asked if he enjoyed himself.

I blinked back to the present, where that same sparkplug was now in a deadlock with Munchlax over the last three slices of Wata Berry and somehow winning.

"So, uh…" Daisy began, brow furrowing slightly as she looked from the salad battlefield to me. "If you're not officially a Trainer yet, how exactly is Pichu your Starter?"

I blinked in surprise at the question. I would have thought she would be aware of the method. "Technically, he's not my Pokémon, not on paper anyway."

Daisy tilted her head in obvious confusion.

"He's currently registered as a Kumquat Gym Pokémon," I explained further, flapping a hand at some of the others in the room. "Same as Momo, Marowak, or any of Mom's team. The only reason I can use him at all is that I'm already recognized by the League as an Acting Gym Leader."

"Which isn't exactly a common arrangement for someone who's still in single digits," Kahili added dryly.

I stuck out my tongue at her, but didn't argue.

Kylie rolled her eyes before continuing the explanation. "It's similar to how a parent or older sibling can catch or receive a Pokémon, but then 'hold it' for a younger child. Once that kid turns ten and gets their license, the Pokémon is just transferred officially."

Roman nodded without looking up from his work on Kylie's toenails. "We see that a lot around the Lake. Especially with families who want their kids' first Pokémon to already have a bond with them."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Because yes, the system could work, in theory, but in practice, it was an absolute mess.

I'd seen it firsthand: kids who could barely tie their shoes parading around with Pokémon they hadn't trained, hadn't earned, and definitely didn't understand. Some of them were given powerful partners for status, others for show. In a few especially ridiculous cases, the adults never intended to transfer the Pokémon; they just liked the aesthetic of a child-and-Dragonite photo op.

It turned what should have been a rite of passage into a party trick.

And yeah, fine, I'll admit that I wasn't entirely innocent of exploiting the loophole myself, but there was a key difference.

Namely, the fact that I had to pass a League-administered test before they'd let me act in an official Gym Leader capacity. They didn't just hand me a certification after seeing who my Mom was and say, "go nuts."

So no, it wasn't exactly the same, and even if that made me a little bit of a hypocrite, well, at least I was a qualified hypocrite.

Meanwhile, back on the rug, Munchlax lunged for a Sitrus slice with all the grace of a cannonball. Pichu met him halfway with a war cry, clashing mid-air in a moment so dramatic, I could hear Rayna whispering "yes, YES!" under her breath as her pencil flew across the page.

I sighed again and leaned back on my hands.

My life was weird.

---

By the time the last day of the Gathering rolled around, I was starting to think I'd gotten off easy with the spa incident.

The remainder of the week had quickly proven to be the harshest test of patience and resilience I had ever undergone. Not only because I had to deal with the few hundred relatives and guests that the Gathering always brought about, but add to that a newly acquired electric street rat of a Starter, and it was a real wonder that I hadn't tried to tear my hair out.

Still, no matter the family dispute, late-night speedboat race, or numerous tournaments ranging from Pokémon battles to silverware comparison contests, I had survived it all with my sanity intact.

And now, with the week officially at its end, it was time for the single most migraine-inducing event of the entire Gathering: The Annual Cashion Family Photo.

A tradition older than half the Kumquat Resort's walls and far more dangerous than it sounded. Every year, like clockwork, someone got the idea that wrangling multiple generations of resort owners, Trainers, Coordinators, chefs, Gym Leaders, CEOs, and photogenic Pokémon into a single cohesive group shot was possible.

It never was.

"This year will be different," someone always said.

They were always wrong.

We were out on the eastern garden terrace, a wide, landscaped platform of palm-trimmed hedges and stone walkways with a dramatic overlook of the sea. It should have been perfect. Bright skies, open space, carefully arranged benches and risers. A whole crew from the resort's PR department had been recruited to handle logistics.

It didn't help.

People were already arguing over who should stand where. One of my second cousins wanted to be next to Kahili "for the clout." Someone else was offended that Momo refused to wear a flower lei. A small child was trying to climb Roman's shoulders. A couple had decided their own paired Tropius would make for an excellent backdrop. No one could agree on which Pokémon should be in the shot and which ones were too "visually disruptive."

Touckey was perched dead center on the top riser and refusing to move. The photographer had already given up trying to reason with him.

Rayna's Smeargle had started adding "flair" to the floral backdrop, which meant streaks of blue and pink across the decorative ferns. Rayna called it "creative ambiance". The event coordinator called it vandalism.

Pichu was vibrating with static energy in my arms, clearly seconds away from committing a photo-ruining crime.

"Hold still," I hissed at him.

He stuck out his tongue.

"Travis, can you please-" someone started to say, probably to move me.

"No," I answered automatically. "I'm the kid who just got a Starter and one of the hosts. I go in front. It's a rule."

Kahili snorted somewhere behind me. "He's not wrong!"

We were almost ready, or at least as close to ready as this group would ever get. Everyone had been wrangled, stacked, fluffed, and centered. I had exactly three seconds to brace for the click of the camera before it happened.

BOOM.

One of the Tropius sneezed directly into a confetti cannon someone had rigged as a "festive touch."

Colorful streamers exploded upward and backward, wrapping around the camera-mounted Butterfree. It spun wildly, the shutter firing in bursts as it lost altitude and plowed headlong into the garden fountain.

The last image it captured was pure chaos.

Touckey squawking with his beak open mid-kraaak.

Pichu mid-leap, sparks flying.

Mom and Momo holding each other up as they laughed so hard they nearly fell over.

Uncle Manu pointing and laughing at the utter despair on Uncle Leo's face as he held his head in his hands.

Rayna and Kylie using the farmer's sketchpad as a shield.

Roman ducking behind Aunt Jacki like a coward.

Me, front and center, with the most unimpressed expression ever worn by a child in formal wear.

For most families, it would be a picture worthy of a bonfire.

For our family, it was perfect.

---

Now, you would figure that the events following the Gathering would be the easy part. That the actual exit of nearly the entire family should have been, if not peaceful, then at least easy compared to the frenzy that was the rest of the week.

You would be wrong. So very, very wrong.

Departure day at the Kumquat Grand made the photo fiasco look like an elementary school dress rehearsal.

The resort's front drives, side docks, skypad, and even the loading access bay behind the gift shop had been overrun. Dozens of relatives, their Pokémon, their assistants, their assistants' assistants, their plus-ones, and whatever traveling circus one of my cousins had apparently married into were all trying to leave at once, and somehow, doing it in completely opposite directions.

Some were taking ferries. Others were waiting on chartered planes. A few were mounting up on personal Fly mounts that absolutely should not have been ridden indoors. One guy tried to rappel down the front side of the hotel for "dramatic exit purposes" and got stuck halfway, dangling over the entrance like a festive Wobbuffet balloon.

And then there were the "sightseers."

Because of course some of them (i.e, a lot of them) had decided that since they were already in a different region, it would be a crime not to explore the islands. Never mind that the Gathering was only supposed to be a week-long event. Never mind that resort staffing was already stretched thin. These people had whims and money and absolutely no sense of shared calendar space.

I stood just inside the lobby entrance, watching as a pair of over-packed suitcases rolled themselves into one of the center fountains. Somewhere behind me, a relative was loudly trying to convince the concierge that a Tauros-drawn parade float technically counted as a shuttle van.

And all I could think about was how they're going to come back.

They were going to use us, the Kumquat Grand, as a base camp. A hub for their Orange Island misadventures.

Which meant that in the coming months, we'd get drizzled on by waves of returning cousins and uncles and "former Coordinators" with dramatic backstories and absolutely no desire to pay full price for room service.

Arceus help us.

The only mercy, and it was a big one, was that Uncle Manu was already leaving, and he was taking his stadium-sized yacht with him.

The monstrosity was nearly finished loading at the far pier, preparing for what was sure to be the most expensive game of "back to the mainland" anyone had ever played. Several staff carts were carrying the luggage of not just his entourage, but Aunt Jacki's, Rayna's, and a rotating parade of other relatives who had suddenly discovered a passionate desire to experience yacht life, if only for a leg of the journey.

And because they were all family, Uncle Manu couldn't tell them no.

He tried. I saw it happen. Aunt Jacki gave him a look and a bill for a "consulting fee" she'd invented on the spot. Uncle Manu folded like a Psyduck with a headache.

As the ship's horn sounded, low, regal, and full of promise that it was someone else's problem now, I let out a slow breath.

One drain on our resources, bandwidth, and emergency towel stockpile is gone. Thank Arceus.

I was just about to slip away and find somewhere quiet to hide before Chilton could find me another task when I heard her voice cut through the crowd:

"Hey, Trey! Don't think I'm heading out without a sendoff!"

I turned to see Kahili dressed for a long flight. Touckey was perched just behind her, beak still slightly puffed in offense at having to endure a Gathering, while her specially bred Fly'mon Silvia (a rather ornery Skarmery, it must be said) stood impatiently near the skypad.

She waved me over. "Get over here before I get mobbed by another third cousin who wants a selfie."

I didn't run, but I walked fast enough that my Starter was able to climb higher up my shoulder for balance. Pichu made a little chittering sound, still keyed up from the earlier departure chaos, but stayed put.

Kahili gave me a once-over, then nodded. "Still alive. That's always a good sign."

I rolled my eyes. "Barely. I think two different great-aunts tried to adopt me out of spite."

"You're lucky. I got offered a naming rights deal for a move I didn't invent," she grumbled before smirking. "Apparently, 'Sky Drill Beak Strike' is 'too catchy not to trademark.'"

"That has to be fake."

"Oh, it was, but they had paperwork, so I had at least had to be nice and 'consider it'."

We stood in a brief pocket of calm, the sounds of organized evacuation starting to fade into the background as we stared each other down.

Kahili reached out and gave Pichu a scratch between the ears, and to my surprise, he didn't shock her. Just made a pleased hum and leaned in for more.

"Bit of a terror, this one," she giggled.

"Understatement."

She gave a soft laugh, then met my eyes again. "You're gonna be something, Travis."

I good-naturedly rolled my eyes. "I'm already something. It's just mostly 'tired' and 'buried in paperwork.'"

"You know what I mean."

I did.

She huffed impatiently before pulling me into a hug that saw my face smooshed against her leather jacket. Pichu matched my grumbles at the physical contact.

"Give 'em hell," she muttered into my hair before letting me go and turning toward Silvia. "And don't let the salad bandit here electrocute the customer service staff!"

"No promises," I called after her.

Silvia screeched, bladed wings rising, and within moments, they were airborne. Kahili leaned forward into the wind, her silhouette bright against the morning sky. Touckey followed with a piercing call and a beat of his wings, and then they were gone, a pair of specks vanishing into the blue.

"No promises," I repeated quietly, smiling as I gave said salad bandit a few scratches.

After that, unfortunately, I was once more pulled into all the "fun" duties that occupied departure procedures.

I quickly lost track of how many people I'd said goodbye to.

Half the morning had been a blur of handshakes, hugs, cheek kisses, polite nods, and the occasional dramatic farewell monologue from relatives who acted like they were setting off on a three-year voyage instead of catching a charter ferry.

I'd been jerked around from dock to lobby to skypad and back again, helping corral luggage, double-check guest lists, and at one point physically stop someone's Wigglytuff from bouncing onto the wrong aircraft.

Somehow, the Tauros parade float was made a reality, briefly blocking traffic while its rider attempted what he claimed was a "ceremonial lap." Resort security, aka Momo, was not impressed.

Now, finally, things were winding down.

I stood near the main dock, watching as Uncle Leo and Aunt Rebecca boarded their sleek transport cruiser. Kylie waved from the ramp with a bright smile, and Roman, ever the multitasker, managed to flash a grin and adjust a cooling case of desserts in the same motion.

"Hey," Mom said quietly from behind me.

Before I could turn, she tugged me gently back into a hug, one of those quiet, grounding ones, arms wrapped around my chest, my back pulled against her front.

Given our current height difference, that meant I ended up tucked against her like a human heat pack, the back of my head stuck between her cleavage, and my chin hooked on the edge of her forearms.

Pichu, caught between us, let out an indignant squeak and launched himself from my shoulder to a nearby dock post, fluffing up like we'd personally insulted his dignity.

Mom didn't say anything for a moment, just held me there, letting the breeze do the talking as we watched the last of our "close" family leave.

"I'm proud of you, you know." She gave me a gentle squeeze. "You were incredibly mature through all this. I know it wasn't easy."

I immediately ducked my head against her arms, ears flushing. Of course, she had to go for the genuine tone. No sarcasm, no teasing, just direct sincerity, my critical weakness.

I attempted to shrug it off, trying for casual. "It wasn't that bad. I mean, sure, the western fountain caught fire, and the Tauros incident will probably haunt my dreams, but-"

"Oh, so not that bad?" She said sweetly, suddenly letting go and stepping back. "Then you won't mind helping the kitchen staff with post-Gathering inventory. I'm sure they'd love the extra hands!"

I turned and stared at her in slowly rising horror. "Wait-what?!"

"Well, you're so mature, after all. You've even got a Starter now! You can surely handle a little more hard work."

"That's not how this works-!"

Back on the post, Pichu snorted. Audibly.

I turned just in time to see him grinning like he hadn't just betrayed me with sound effects.

"You think this is funny?" I snapped, pointing. "You do realize we're stuck together now, right?! If I go down, you're going with me!"

Pichu squeaked, and, with all the subtlety of a cartoon bandit, booked it.

"HEY! GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE TRAITOR!"

And just like that, the chase was on again.

 

[Moon_Shroom]

Man you are just spoiling us with these stories! Watched and TFTC's!

 

[IcurasFallen]

Man you are just spoiling us with these stories! Watched and TFTC's!

Click to shrink...

Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it enough to comment, lol. Hope you continue to enjoy!

 

[Abhijithvc]

Thanks for the new story i was looking for a good anime-esque pokemon story for while so i am looking forward to the next chapter

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 2 - The Summer


Chapter 8
​

---

There are a lot of ways to prepare for a summer camp.

Most people focus on packing the sensible things. A tent, spare socks, bug repellent, a field guide or two, maybe they'll even research the local Pokémon population and ask questions like "Is there a graveyard with confirmed Ghost-types that I should be emotionally ready for?"

You know, normal stuff.

But if you're me, Travis Cashion, age nine, a licensed Gym Leader, and under constant surveillance from a family full of mildly terrifying resort tycoons and a whirlwind of a mother, preparation means something else entirely.

Specifically, it means being bodily dragged out of bed at 4:30 a.m., a week before the summer camp even begins by a man wearing the single most offensive Alolan shirt I have ever seen, stuffed into hiking boots I don't remember even owning, and being informed that "the early bird gets the worm, Travis!"

Apparently, having decided that I needed a refresher in survival training, Mom had reached out to the most fitness-loving person we knew and told him to "make sure he was ready."

Which, somehow, translated to mean a five-mile hike through the unpaved, Pokémon-infested wilderness of Kumquat Island. Before breakfast, in July, with only one canteen and a granola bar that tasted like cardboard.

All of this courtesy of my "honorary Big Bro" Danny Navies, the Gym Leader of Navel Island, and the master of survival skills (and whatever the opposite of subtlety is).

"Come on, kiddo!" Said workaholic hollered from somewhere ahead, far too cheerfully for this hour of the morning. "We gotta make it past the nearby Beedrill nest before they get territorial, and if you fall behind, I'm legally allowed to let evolution take its course!"

That snapped me right out of my mental monologue.

"The Beedrill what!?"

With a muttered curse, I shifted into a faster jog, trying to stay within spitting distance of the lunatic who called himself my Big Bro. My hiking boots felt like they were filled with lead, my lungs were on strike, and then there was this guy.

Snrrrrrk.

Yeah, that would be Pichu.

The little sparkplug was fully stretched across the top of my head with his tiny limbs splayed out like a Staryu, and I swear I heard him mumble something that I could only assume meant "five more minutes in 'pika pikas'."

He was small enough to ride for free and smug enough to make it look like a power move.

Still, I didn't need to actually worry about the Beedrill, what with Danny's Scyther sprinting around the perimeter of our little troupe with every step we took. He was even clearing branches from the trail and occasionally flicking aside the taller grass with predator-level precision. If we did stumble across a Beedrill swarm, I had no doubt which of our groups would win the encounter.

"Alright, good news kiddo! We're coming up on the halfway point!" Danny called out over his shoulder, waving one hand while the other held his hiking staff, which I knew for a fact he didn't need but had for the aesthetic alone.

After another minute of winding trails and Scyther zipping ahead like a bladed sentry, we broke through the treeline, and the forest spat us out onto a small inlet tucked against the edge of Kumquat Island's southern coast. The sand here wasn't the pristine kind we had raked daily for tourists. It was coarse, damp, and scattered with leaves and clusters of coral.

"Break time!" Danny declared, planting his staff in the sand like he was claiming the shoreline for Navel Island. "Hydration, light stretches, admire the view, and no collapsing dramatically unless you're injured."

He dropped his pack with a thump and began using a nearby boulder to help him stretch into a set of cool-down exercises. Scyther followed his trainer's lead like the happy pair of gym bros they were.

With a tired tilt of my head, I dumped Pichu off the top of my head.

"Chu?!" He squeaked midair, limbs flailing before he landed in a sprawl that kicked up a puff of sand.

I snorted. He glared. Balance was restored.

"Hydrate and stretch!" Danny repeated loudly, now in a series of "doubles" stretches with Scyther that would have looked comedic if not for the danger associated with a misplaced arm or leg near the Bug-types' bladed arms.

With a groan, I began half-heartedly pulling my arms across my chest, counting the seconds until I could flop down and just relax.

This wasn't exactly the first time he'd put me through this. I knew what to do.

Danny's wilderness training madness had started right after I turned six. Mom had pulled him aside after one of the Orange Crew's bi-monthly meetups, then returned to hand me a fancy new water bottle, a pre-prepared camping pack, and said something along the lines of: "Make sure you don't die in the woods. We can handle the spa paperwork when you get back."

Every year after, Danny had taken me out on week-long survival trips through the wilds of Navel Island, and I wasn't the only conscript. Senta, the younger brother of Cissy (aka the Gym Leader of Mikan Island), joined the next summer, followed by Mahri, the little sister of Rudy (the newest Gym Leader over on Trovita Island). We were the Orange League's Junior Division, apparently. Minus the uniforms. Or any kind of choice.

Most years, all three of us would get dragged along with a couple dozen civilian kids from across the islands for what Danny lovingly called "Survival Training" and what I privately called "Baby's First Trauma Bonding." It was basically a week-long camping trip with extra-large bug bites, a weirdly enthusiastic grown-ass man, and activities ranging from rock climbing to bobsledding.

But not this year.

This year, I was going to Professor Oak's Summer Camp, which I'd foolishly assumed meant I'd get to skip Danny's annual wilderness boot camp entirely since the dates overlapped.

For a hot minute, I actually celebrated that. A whole summer without having to camp in Beedrill-ridden forest or wade through snow on top of a mountain? Sign me up.

That had obviously all been dashed away when I was being dragged into the wilderness this morning before the sun had even reached the horizon.

Apparently, Danny thought I deserved "personalized training."

He probably thought he was doing me a favor.

I would've preferred literally anything else.

The truth is, I've always been more of an indoor kid, whether you consider my last life or this one. Which, when you're raised in a literal beachfront resort with working Internet, an indoor pool, and 24/7 Blissey-run room service, turns out to be something of a destiny.

I glanced over at Danny, who was now balancing on top of the boulder in a meditative-like pose. Scyther mimicked his trainer with limited success.

"Hey!" I called out. "Exactly how much of this do you have planned, anyway? You do know you're a week early, right?"

Danny replied without opening his eyes. "Don't worry, bud, I'm not running you ragged all day. I've still got the big camp next week with the other kiddos."

"So this isn't some ultra-marathon week of personalized torment?" I made sure to clarify.

He shook his head with a chuckle. "Nah. I've only got time in the mornings. You get me for an hour or two tops, part of my own early morning routine. Consider it a warm-up for the Professor's camp."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Only mornings. Thank Arceus.

For a second, I actually felt grateful.

Then I caught myself wondering what a full day of "personalized training" with Danny would've looked like and immediately regretted going down that mental road.

I was pretty sure it involved scaling sheer cliffs without a harness, wrestling Rock-types, and cooking breakfast with only a flint and pure optimism.

No thanks.

"Kukuku."

I blinked.

More "kukuku"s echoed across the inlet, overlapping like popcorn in a kettle.

Turning my head, I spotted the source as a small group of Krabby that emerged from a rocky cluster down the shore, click-clacking their way along the waterline like a migrating army of little tanks.

They weren't in a rush. Just strolling, waving their pincers, living their best beachcombing lives.

Then Danny popped off the boulder like it was spring-loaded and struck a dramatic pose that had no business being as coordinated as it was. "Perfect timing!" he said with far too much enthusiasm. "Battling's part of my early morning routine, too!"

Danny pointed at the crab cluster. "Scyther, redirect one of 'em over to Travis."

The green blur of his Scyther shot forward, one quick motion and whack went one of the Krabby near the edge as it was promptly launched into the air before landing with a thud a few paces in front of me in a spray of sand.

The rest of the Krabby? They wisely went "nope" and started to skedaddle.

Scyther just turned its head, gave the group a steely glare, and one short hiss that probably translated to something like "this is training, not murder."

They tentatively stayed put.

"Alright Travis, get your partner ready," Danny said with an irritating little wink. "Let's see how you two handle real terrain."

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. I guess this was happening.

I looked down at Pichu.

He was staring up at me with the dead-eyed look of someone who'd just been signed up for a group project they hadn't agreed to.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

I managed a shrug. "I mean...it is good practice."

Pichu's expression twisted into something that might've been a frown or a facial cramp, but after a long, reluctant blink, he shook himself off and waddled forward a few paces away from the Krabby. He squared his tiny shoulders, and his cheeks began sparking faintly as he waited for the call.

I kept it simple. "Alright, let's open with a Thunder Shock!"

Pichu squeaked in acknowledgment and braced himself. Sparks flickered across his fur like static through dryer lint, but unlike Mom's Alakazam or Marowak, who could unleash attacks on a thought and a flick of the wrist, Pichu actually had to charge.

It was one of those very real, very humbling reminders that I wasn't working with high-tier professionals anymore. Pichu was a baby. A clever baby with attitude and potential, but still a baby.

As was proven, unfortunately, when the Krabby had time to scuttle sideways with that weird tip-tapping crab-pace, completely clearing the spot where it had been standing.

Pichu fired.

The Thunder Shock cracked through the air in a quick, stuttering arc and hit nothing but damp sand.

"Dodge left!" I called quickly as I already spotted the problem.

Krabby's cheeks puffed, bubbling up instantly, and spat out a stream of glowing, watery orbs.

Thankfully, my order (and what I was coming to understand was Pichu's own psychic potential that allowed him to sense the Krabby's intent to attack) allowed him plenty of time to dodge the attack in return.

"Back off and keep your distance!" I called as another stream of Bubbles shot toward Pichu.

The little guy squeaked and scrambled to the side, barely dodging this one, but it was clear Krabby was trying to close the gap and lock him down with constant pressure.

That was a problem.

Krabby might've been small, but it was built like a sideways tank. Those claws weren't just for show after all. Up close, it had the clear advantage, and while Pichu had learned to hit harder lately, he wasn't ready for a close-up brawl.

"Get some cover! Behind that boulder, go!"

Pichu darted behind one of the moss-covered rocks that dotted the inlet, vanishing from Krabby's line of sight just in time to avoid another watery salvo.

"Use Charge!" I called. "Power up while you've got the time."

From behind the boulder, a low hum crackled through the air as Pichu braced himself.

The Krabby's eyes narrowed, and one claw began to gleam with a harsh white light, a Vice Grip, as it began to approach the boulder.

"Here it comes..." I muttered, watching it scuttle to the boulder and start to angle around.

"Now Pichu! Jump off the boulder!"

With a squeak of effort, Pichu sprang into the air, bounding up and over the rock just as Krabby lunged in with its glowing claw, snapping it shut on the empty space where my Starter had just been.

"Thunder Shock!"

Mid-air, with gravity tipping him downward and sparks surging across his fur, Pichu unleashed a burst of lightning that exploded downward in a crackling arc.

The crab Pokémon screeched, limbs locked in awkward angles as the electricity coursed through its body. It staggered sideways, dazed, legs twitching from the shock, before it gave a final twitch and flopped backward onto the sand.

"And that's that," Danny called, stepping forward with a clap. "You guys did great!"

Danny approached with his usual purposeful stride, already digging through the side pouch of his pack. "Nice teamwork," he said with a grin as he knelt beside the stunned Krabby. "Solid use of terrain, and that Charge timing was pretty clean!"

He gave the crab Pokémon a once-over before pulling out a small spray bottle and a shallow container of Berries. "Here we go, champ, nothing personal."

After a quick spray of Potion and a couple of Cheri and Oran Berries set gently nearby, the Krabby's eyes slowly unfogged. It blinked at Danny, then at Pichu, gave a soft kukukuuu, and scuttled back toward the shoreline where its posse still waited under Scyther's watchful eye.

I knelt down next to Pichu, pulling out an Oran Berry from my own belt pouch. "Good job, bud. Here's something to take the edge off."

His nose twitched the second the fruit appeared.

I barely had time to blink before Pichu snatched the Berry and devoured it whole, cheeks bulging obscenely as he struggled to chew from the sheer quantity of berry now in his mouth.

"...You could have savored it," I deadpanned.

He looked at me, mid-bulging chew, then kept chewing anyway. Loudly.

I huffed before reaching down and scratching the top of his head, right between the ears, which he leaned into immediately with smug satisfaction as he ate.

Still, my brain raced with thoughts, and a small frown pulled at my lips.

The truth was that little match had told me more than I wanted to admit.

I'd had a few weeks with Pichu already. It had been enough to establish some trust, build up our rhythm, and focus on boosting the base power of his Electric-type moves. That had been my priority. Especially once I found out he knew Charge as an Egg Move. That had been a lucky break since it gave us a reliable buff option and a basic defense against Special attacks.

Today had shown me a serious blind spot, though.

If Krabby had gotten in close, Pichu would've had nothing. He could maybe coat his fur in loose electrical discharge and hope Krabby felt enough from the jolt to release him from the crushing-based Move, but that wasn't the same as having a real option.

Because while any Pokémon could throw around raw elemental energy, there was a world of difference between instinctual discharge and a proper, battle-honed Move.

Sure, Pokémon could still "do" things. A Fire-type could coat itself in flame. A Water-type could splash someone with a wave. An Electric-type could emit raw current. But those weren't Moves, not in the capital-M sense.

A Move was like...like a sword that had been sharpened compared to something like a baseball bat. Both would hurt, sure, but a sword could deal a hell of a lot more damage beyond just the surface-level.

Just zapping someone with loose discharge was nothing compared to unleashing Thunder Shock with purpose.

So yeah, we had work to do.

Before I could fall too far back into my own head, Danny's voice cut through the quiet.

"Alright team, breaks over!" he called out, striding over with that maddening spring in his step. "We're burning dawn light! Let's move!"

Pichu, of course, took that as his cue to attempt a climb back up my leg like I was a conveniently mobile nap platform.

"Oh no you don't," I said, stopping him mid-shin with a finger and a raised brow. "You need some physical exercise too."

He froze, paws still clinging to my shorts.

Then, slowly, he turned his head to look up at me, offended. Shocked. Betrayed.

I sighed, gave his head another quick scratch, and pointed down the trail. "Feet on the ground, fuzzball. We're in this together."

Pichu let out a long, theatrical piiiiiii, and hopped down with all the enthusiasm of a child sent to clean their room.

He gave one last glance up at me, just in case I changed my mind.

I didn't.

With a huff, he turned and started waddling down the trail, tail flicking like a metronome of discontent.

I fell into step behind him, hiding a smirk as we made our way back into the trees.

---

Not all outdoor activities were awful.

Sure, most of Danny's training felt like a personal vendetta against comfort, but living on a tropical island resort did come with a few natural advantages.

The swell surged up behind us, a rolling wave cresting at just the right height.

"Hold on fuzzball!" I called out, grinning madly as the water lifted beneath us, and we dropped into the wave and hit it clean.

Momentum surged us forward as the board skimmed across the surface, pushed by the swell with perfect timing. Spray hit my face. The wind tried to yank me off, but I barely noticed.

Pichu let out a squeal that was somewhere between terrified and thrilled, his little limbs clamped onto my leg like a Komala gripping its log.

For those few seconds, the world narrowed to saltwater and motion, with nothing but the pull of the wave and the rush of the ride ahead of us.

The wave began to curl toward the shallows, losing speed but still coasting us in with a long, easy glide.

"Wasn't that great!?" I asked with a no doubt mad glint in my eyes.

Pichu's grip didn't loosen, but his expression hovered somewhere between shaken leaf and mildly exhilarated. I was about to say something smug when the nose of the board dipped, and then it jerked sideways. Hard.

Before either of us could react, the board was gone from beneath us, yanked out from underfoot like someone had decided it was their turn to ride.

"Wah!"

Splash!

Saltwater hit my face like a brick, and I surfaced a moment later, sputtering and blinking past the sting in my eyes…just in time to come nose-to-nose with a mouth full of serrated teeth.

A Huntail was staring at me from inches away. Its jaws opened in what many others would have assumed was moments before being eaten.

I didn't flinch.

I instead shoved the slippery eel-shaped menace backward. "Would you not mess with my ride?! That was a good wave!"

The Huntail let out a low, echoing gurgle of laughter while looking far too pleased with itself for something that had no eyebrows. A soft, chiming chitter joined it.

I turned my head to see a Gorebyss peeking above the surface with the amusement of someone who had seen this exact scene play out a dozen times before.

Right. These two.

The oh-so-annoying Terrible Twosome. Both were long-standing members of Mom's Team, but since neither of them could really hang out inside the resort without making everything smell like seawater and fish, they spent most of their time on loan to the beach staff as emergency-response Pokémon. Pokémon Lifeguards basically. If you wiped out, they were your rescue squad.

Or, as I had learned over the years, aquatic pranksters.

"You two suck," I told them flatly, wiping water from my eyes.

Pichu let out an agreeing squeak from where he was clutching Nemo like a life preserver. The Magikarp himself butted up against me in worry at my crashout.

Huntail let out an amused hum, clearly not caring beyond his little prank, and dove with a splash. Gorebyss followed with a single graceful twirl and pointedly hard tail slap, causing a wave to once more hit me in the face.

Wiping my face with a grumble, I grabbed my board and began paddling back to shore.

"Pi-Pichu," the drowned rat muttered darkly as Nemo happily acted as his own living life raft.

I was rather thankful that the two seemed to get along. While Pichu had quickly proven to be a Sassy little shit, Nemo's endearing and Jolly nature caused all the snark Pichu threw at him to wash off his scales like a toy water gun.

Making my way up to the shoreline, Pichu quickly scrambled his way up to my head, lying flat in my nest of hair even as I bent down to give Nemo his just dues in the form of scritches and scratches.

"Yo Travis! Caught that ride, little dude! Clean drop-in!" One of the lifeguards called out from a nearby watch tower, tossing a shaka sign with sun-bleached fingers.

"Not bad for a baby boarder!" chimed a surfer girl with way too many bracelets. "Little buddy looked like he saw Arceus!"

A wave of shouts and teases met me as I reached the hot summer sand. A few waves and snarks were quickly fired back as I made my way down the beach to the Gym's private pavilion. It was basically just a small stretch of land marked only by a few fancy umbrellas, a dozen beach chairs, and a private changing room marked with the Gym's signature badge. Brand recognition was important after all.

Waiting under the shade of the biggest of the umbrellas, and flipping through a glossy magazine with delicate care, was Momo, our resident Machamp-slash-bodyguard-slash-unshakable force of nature. She adjusted her sunglasses with one hand, drank with another, and used the other two to flip through her reading material.

"Nice form, Momo," I greeted as I flopped into the chair beside her. "Ten out of ten on wrist control."

Momo grunted in acknowledgment without looking up, but I did catch the small nod she gave Pichu, who was still trying to shake water out of his ears like a half-drowned Growlithe.

Then came the low rumble.

Just beneath my chair, the sand trembled ever so slightly before a large, smooth mound of golden grains shifted upward, revealing two holes in the sand that held a yellow glow within.

"Hey Sandy," I said with a small grin as I gave the mound a small pat.

No response. Just a light vibration before the sand settled back down around us again with a giant contented sigh.

Sandy didn't like to talk. He was just...happy being there. Buried in sand, surrounded by the people he cared about, and close enough to nap in peace? This was his equivalent of life goals.

I sank back in the chair, finally letting myself relax before I reached over to grab the chilled water waiting for me on the table. It was crystal-clear and served in a glass that probably cost more than a year of Trainer school. Fancy water at its finest.

Which, of course, was just regular water. Filtered, sure, and branded with some artisanal-sounding nonsense like "Rain's Whisper" or "Glacial Serenity." The trick was in the marketing. I knew it. Mom knew it.

But the rich tourists staying in the Royal Suites? They couldn't tell the difference. So they bought it by the crate and praised it as if it came from a sacred spring touched by Suicune itself.

I took a long sip, savoring the chill, because cold is cold, and leaned back with a sigh.

Yeah, after nearly a week of Danny-inspired morning workouts, this part of the outdoors? This I could deal with.

And this wasn't just about cooling off or dodging random requests at work.

Surfing was training. At least the way I used it.

For starters, it was great for balance, and as a baby Pokémon, Pichu needed all the help he could get in that department. While he was an acrobatic little sparkplug, his limbs were still catching up with his head, and half the time he ran on instinct and psychic hints, which meant stumbling, sliding, and face-planting were common hazards outside of high-stress situations.

Surfing forced him to engage all those little stabilizer muscles. If he didn't center himself, the ocean would dump him fast, and to his credit, he was getting better.

Mainly in the sense that he wasn't always grabbing my leg to stay upright on the board.

And then there was the real reason I pushed it.

Surf. As in the actual Move.

I didn't have hard evidence, but I did have memories from my first life. Blurry, half-faded mental screenshots of a Raichu riding waves and dishing out water-based beatdowns like it was nothing.

There were events too. Pikachu with Surf, used as a gimmick in giveaways or to replace the standard HM Pokémon in overworld travel. Even Pikachu riding surfboards, using the Move to drive the board in different directions.

So yeah, I didn't know for sure if it was possible, but I at least had a theory.

If Pikachu could learn Surf under the right conditions, and Raichu could clearly manage it, then maybe I could start Pichu down that path now.

Of course, the local tech didn't help in actually confirming that.

Computers weren't primitive exactly, but they also weren't what I'd call convenient. We were somewhere between the tech boom and the information age, which meant it was still a pain to get good info unless you had clearance, a research grant, or a friendly neighborhood Professor with a lab full of interns.

Honestly? It reminded me a lot of the early 2000s from my first life.

We had the Internet (or as it was known here, the Pokenet, because of course it was) but it wasn't the sleek, all-knowing, ad-targeting beast it would become. This was the slow-loading, click-and-wait Internet. Message boards, static pages, and long debates about whether some rumor you read from a Johto strategy guide was actually true. Half the time I couldn't even do the Pokémon equivalent of a Google search without needing a wired connection and a certified data terminal.

And that's assuming people actually shared what they knew.

Because here's the thing: Pokémon battling is a competitive sport, and like any real competition, the participants held onto secrets. Move pools, niche combos, Egg Moves—these were valuable assets. They could mean the difference between a good battle and a great one, and no one wanted to hand that advantage to the masses.

So, of course, a lot of it was kept quiet.

Privately recorded, passed down in families, shared in elite circles, whispered at League events, or teased in magazine interviews without ever giving away the whole recipe.

It wasn't until Professor Oak introduced the Pokédex that things really started to shift.

Twenty years ago, the man had to lug around something the size of a store's cash register just to catalog a few dozen Kanto natives. Now? The tech had advanced so fast that even kids like me could carry a personal scanner in our pocket, and with each hardware upgrade, more and more information became publicly accessible.

Honestly, the whole situation felt weirdly familiar. Like I was watching the flip phone era blink into the age of smartphones all over again.

Give it another ten years, and kids would probably be able to ask their Pokédex if their Meowth had unresolved emotional trauma and get an answer with citations.

But for now, we were in that in-between space.

Not quite high-tech, not quite transparent, and definitely not easy for someone like me to just look up whether my Pichu could eventually learn Surf without jumping through a lot of hoops.

So I did what I could.

Surfing for balance. Hypothetical moveset planning. The slow, deliberate path.

Old-school training to reach modern goals.

Shaking my head, I leaned back and tried to make myself relax. The sun was warm yet not too hot. The breeze was nice and cool. I was in the perfect place to just sit back and relax…

So, of course, that was the signal for my Pokégear to chime from the table.

I groaned and fished it out from under my towel, flipping open the screen to a new message:

"Hey! We need you back at the resort. Something came up!"

I slumped in my chair. "I was told I had the afternoon off, dammit…"

The device chimed again.

Another message appeared.

I glanced at it, then froze.

My brain caught up a beat later, and I lurched forward in my seat, nearly flipping the entire chair in the process.

Pichu, startled by the sudden movement, let out a panicked squeak as he was launched off my shoulder like a wet, furry missile, flailing before landing with a soft thump in a nearby patch of sand.

Momo jumped in surprise, her magazine tearing clean in half as all four of her arms tensed at once. She fixed me with a deep, scowling glare over her sunglasses.

Even Sandy stirred beneath the sand, the surface rumbling faintly from his shifting weight.

I didn't respond to any of them.

I just stared at the screen and bellowed a disbelieving:

"WHAT?!"

---

Author's Note:

Thank you all for the support! I'm honestly shocked that so many people are liking my stories so far, lol.

Hope it's not too presumptuous, but I've got a Patreon up and running! If you want to read 5 chapters ahead or just support me in general, feel free to visit my p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / IcurasFallen

 

[Lewdhandholding]

My man, I would kill for the net to go back to those days at times.

 

[ChaosRonin]

This is a really Intresting take on a insert with family and family getting over the reincarnation aspect, does most of the inner family know? It sounded like it when they called him an old man in the first rest day of the family gathering.

 

[IcurasFallen]

This is a really Intresting take on a insert with family and family getting over the reincarnation aspect, does most of the inner family know? It sounded like it when they called him an old man in the first rest day of the family gathering.

Click to shrink...

Funnily enough, nope! Only Luana and her team know about his reincarnation status. The rest of his family were just teasing, plus he DOES act like an old man at times, lol.

 

[Poonsmasher]

Hey bud, your patreon doesn't work. Can you link it?

 

[IcurasFallen]

Hey bud, your patreon doesn't work. Can you link it?

Click to shrink...

Hmm, the link should work. I haven't heard it not working from others? Could you maybe double-check your spelling, or make sure that you can actually see 18+ accounts on Patreon in the Privacy settings first? I'm not sure that you can do direct links to sites like p*treon on QQ.

 

[Poonsmasher]

Hmm, the link should work. I haven't heard it not working from others? Could you maybe double-check your spelling, or make sure that you can actually see 18+ accounts on Patreon in the Privacy settings first? I'm not sure that you can do direct links to sites like p*treon on QQ.

Click to shrink...

You're right, I was switching the u and a in Icuras. My bad

 

[IcurasFallen]

You're right, I was switching the u and a in Icuras. My bad

Click to shrink...

Lol, it's alright. I know I technically use the incorrect spelling. Hold over from when I was a little shit and didn't know better.

 

[IcurasFallen]

Pokémon Version Orange

Arc 2 - The Summer


Chapter 9
​

---

Before the elevator doors could even open all the way, I was already halfway through and sprinting into the penthouse like something was on fire.

Because, judging by the whirlwind of chaos inside, something very well could be.

"There you are!" Mom barked over her shoulder as she zipped from closet to couch, flinging open a travel case with one hand and snapping orders with the other. "Grab your Kanto-passport binder and go repack your travel bag! You need to have enough clothes for—"

"What do you mean we have to leave for Kanto tonight?!"

My shout echoed across the suite, cutting through the clatter of suitcase zippers, Mom's frantic orders, and the low humming sound of Bliss's panic packing.

"Sweetie, it's not that big a deal, really. Just a tiny scheduling miscommunication. You know how League paperwork gets!"

Alakazam, surrounded in a whirlwind of papers and random toiletries, didn't even look up from what I could only assume was a checklist. Instead, one of his floating pens rotated toward a smaller document sitting on the coffee table and underlined the line that read: "Arrival Deadline: June 13, no later than 0800."

I blinked. Then I looked at the calendar on the wall.

Today was the 12th.

Mom let out a strangled sound. "Alakazam! Traitor!"

The psychic didn't respond, though his tornado of papers and shampoo bottles did get a little more aggressive.

As Mom frantically turned back to the bags, she tripped over the corner of a half-zipped suitcase, flailed forward with all the dignity of a falling Slowpoke, and just barely caught herself on the edge of the couch.

"I'm fine!" She snapped, shooting Alakazam a look like she was about to banish him to the spa basement.

Finding my voice again in the midst of my own slowly growing panic, I couldn't help but sputter in panicked confusion.

"I-I'm still wet from surfing! We were supposed to have three more days! I haven't even packed! And how could you mess up this badly?!"

"I-I'm sorry!" Mom wailed, falling down before me and going as far as hugging my legs as frustrated and utterly dramatic tears fell down her face.

"I-It's just! With all the Gathering preparations, a-and family coming back and forth, and having to restock everything, and so many dates, why are there so many different dates and times, and why do they have to keep coming back?! I'm a HORRIBLE MOTHER—!"

My hands slapped down against her cheeks, cutting her off as I smooshed her face into a state of silence.

"Stop. Breathe." I ordered, staring down at my near-hyperventilating mother as she spiraled hard.

"You are not a horrible mother. You got dates mixed up. It. Is. Fine. You're fine. I'm fine. If we are a little late, it. Is. Fine. So breathe."

I said each word slowly and carefully. Allowing my calm, slow words to act as an anchor to help her pull herself back together.

To think, the same woman who had organized one of the most complex and frustratingly overdone family gatherings on the planet not even weeks before could be brought so low by mixing up a single date when all it would affect was her own son…

Although I guess that just spoke of what kind of person she was at the end of the day, and the sheer love she had for me to be brought so low at the mere thought of disappointing me like this.

Finally, she managed to pull herself together enough to return to her own feet; a floating tissue provided by our favorite snarky Psychic was soon drenched in a wave of snot and promptly teleported into the nearest incinerator.

"Right. Right! We can do this. We can make it on time, and even if we aren't, it's okay." Mom said, obviously trying to pump herself up.

Then, with the speed of a General snapping back into battle, she pointed across the room.

"Alakazam, you're on documents. Passports, League credentials, anything stamped in triplicate, and keep a checklist running at all times."

The Psychic rolled his eyes before three more pens joined his toiletries cyclone as an assortment of documents started spinning through the open space of the room.

"Bliss, travel kits! Medical pouch, vitamin gummies, flight snacks, not the Max Potions; I am not dealing with customs over that again, and grab my conditioner; we are not repeating the Slateport disaster!"

Blissey made a panicked salute with a neck pillow before bolting toward the bathroom.

"Momo!" She barked. "Heavy lifting. Red-tagged luggage first. And for Lugia's sake, don't wrinkle the silk set this time!"

The Machamp groaned but still stooped to collect three already bulging bags at once like they weighed nothing.

"And you two!" Her finger snapped toward me, and by extension, the yellow barnacle stuck to my hair. "Shower. Five minutes. Both of you. You are not stepping foot on League property smelling like low tide. Clothes, bag, hair dry, and I want you standing back here before the hour's up. Move!"

I didn't wait to reply or ask any more questions. The checklist behind her underlined the deadline again in bold red, and that was enough.

I bolted down the hall, Pichu squeaking wildly as I sprinted for the bathroom.

---

We made it.

Don't ask me how, but we made it.

I sank into the buttery leather of the first-class seat like it was the only solid ground I'd seen in years, blinking at the tray table as if it owed me an explanation.

The only reason we even made it on time was that Alakazam finally lost his patience and teleported us straight into the executive terminal, bypassing a traffic jam, two overloaded luggage carts, and whatever meltdown Bliss was having over a missing hair straightener. The sudden arrival had startled three different attendants, and one poor businessman had spilled his coffee across a kid's Clefairy plush.

Of course, League security still had to follow procedure, but this was Kumquat Island, and Kumquat was our island. Half the airport staff knew exactly who we were, and the other half had just been briefed with all the gravity of a military operation. Their expressions screamed, "Please don't hurt me," the entire time.

Despite the reverence, rules were rules. Even Gym Leaders had to unload every item for inspection when flying multiregionally. Mom's handbag got flagged for "excessive compressed luxury," and I had to explain, twice, why I was bringing an army surplus store's worth of camping gear. Poké Balls were swabbed, scanned, and polished, just in case they were secretly full of contraband instead of Pokémon with enough power to level the terminal if they felt like it.

Once we cleared that circus, we were finally escorted to our seats with the kind of forced cheer that only barely hid their internal panic.

Now, here we were. First-class seats with all the cool air and complimentary Oran-infused water we could ever want.

Pichu had curled up in my lap, still mildly damp and very much done with everything. His ears twitched occasionally, like he was dreaming of shocking someone out of spite.

Mom was in the window seat beside me, sunglasses on and one leg crossed over the other, already flipping through an in-flight menu like she hadn't just sprint-packed half her wardrobe ten minutes before boarding.

I let my head fall back and finally exhaled.

In just a few hours, we'd be landing in Kanto, and after that, I was heading to Professor Oak's Summer Camp.

Whether I was ready or not.

---

By the time we stepped off the plane and into Viridian City's private terminal the following morning, the sky was still streaked in pale blue and lavender, the last rays of dawn just beginning to push past the horizon into the morning proper. The whole city seemed caught between sleep and wakefulness, washed in soft light that made even the glassy terminal windows look like they were glowing.

Mom had, of course, declined the option to use Alakazam's Teleport again. Never mind that it was faster. Or easier. Or the fact that coordinates-based Teleportation was perfectly safe for short-range jumps.

"It's about making an impression," she had said, as if we were arriving for a press tour and not dropping me off at a glorified academic sleepaway camp.

We instead loaded into an expensive rental car, an electric blue convertible with leather seats, and a faint new-car smell that definitely did not belong in a place as dusty as rural Kanto.

The first mile out of Viridian was smooth enough. The road was still paved, the scenery still looked like the brochure: quiet streets, open skies, and estate homes tucked behind gates that gleamed in the morning light.

Then the pavement ended.

From one second to the next, the tires were rumbling against a dirt track peppered with stones and scrub grass. It wasn't an oversight either; it was Route 1. Viridian's main roads didn't reach Pallet, so if you wanted to drive between the two, you followed the dirt road that cut along the route's edge and hoped the local Pokémon didn't take offense.

Not that we had to worry. Alakazam sat in the front passenger seat, radiating so much psychic pressure that every Rattata and Pidgey within a half-mile had already decided their best life choice was to pretend we didn't exist. Even the trees seemed to lean away from the car as we passed.

The last leg of the drive felt like traveling into another era entirely. No neon signs. No tourist at every turn. Just long stretches of plains and farmland, fences stretching toward the horizon, and trees that looked like they'd been there since before the Indigo League was even an idea.

It wasn't ugly, not by a long shot. The air was thinner here than I was used to. The smell of salt was totally absent, replaced with dew and morning grass, and the cries and buzzing of the local Pokémon replaced the near-constant sound of the ocean.

I leaned against the passenger door, chin in hand, watching it all roll by. I wasn't dazzled. I'd sunbathed on beaches in the Seveii Islands, climbed mountains in Sinnoh, and attended festivals in Kalos. Years of Family Gatherings and Birthdays spent throughout the world had burned variety into my brain.

But there was something about this place. Something…quiet.

Pichu was sat on my shoulder, yet this time he was wide awake. His ears twitched constantly as his gaze darted across the endless plains and rising hills, the soft dawn spilling across everything. For a Pokémon who grew up on islands his whole life, the sheer expanse of land had him stunned into silence.

The rental car crested a gentle rise, and Pallet Town came into view. Rooftops peeked through waves of green, dirt lanes branched toward tidy gardens and fenced properties, and the air smelled like wildflowers. It felt like we had driven into a postcard.

We rolled down the town's main street and towards the hill where the white walls of Professor Oak's Laboratory sat. A wind turbine turned lazily in the morning breeze while a small crowd of parents and kids clustered near a folding table set at the bottom of the steps, with bags and hugs and last-minute childish embarrassment abound.

Our ride drew eyes the second it stopped. When Alakazam stepped out of the passenger seat, tall and very clearly the strongest Mon present, the crowd's volume dropped. No one here knew who we were, but wealth and power have a universal accent. Parents tightened their grip on their kids without thinking. Conversations thinned. Space opened in front of us like a tide pulling back.

Mom didn't notice. She just adjusted her sunglasses, smoothed an imaginary wrinkle, and set off with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew they were important and didn't care if the world knew it or not. People moved out of her way the same way they would for a Dragonite.

I slung my bag over one shoulder as I followed, Pichu happy enough to balance on the other. It looked like a plain black courier pack, stamped with the Silph Co. logo, but it was one of those discreet "spatial compression" models that was bigger on the inside than the outside. The kind of thing fans always joked about when wondering how a Trainer could carry half a Poké Mart in their pocket.

At the check-in desk, a harried-looking aide in a rumpled lab coat fumbled his clipboard. An Abra was perched beside him on a stool, tail swishing as it tracked Alakazam with simultaneously wide yet squinting eyes. Not starstruck exactly, more like awed and intimidated, its little hands twitching nervously as if it couldn't decide between waving or bolting.

"Names?" The aide settled on even as he squirmed at our approach.

"Luana Cashion," Mom supplied smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses to give a playful wink down at the clearly harried lab assistant. "Here to deliver my son, Travis Cashion."

The aide's pen froze halfway down the page. His eyes darted from her sunglasses to me to the clipboard again. A beat later, he flipped a page, then another, until he landed on whatever list he'd clearly been dreading. His posture stiffened. "Ah, yes. Right here. VIP."

Abra suddenly straightened, eyes glowing faintly in what I figured was its Telepathy tell. The little Pokémon wiggled on its stool, almost vibrating in place, and a moment later the aide blinked and cocked his head at what was no doubt a telepathic message. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and forced a professional smile.

"Professor Oak is in the backyard. He's asked that you go on in. Just follow the arrows around the building, and you'll find him."

Thanking the young man, we climbed up the steps as instructed. Finding the arrows clearly directing people away from the front door of the laboratory, we quickly made our way alongside the building itself.

Rounding the corner, we found ourselves on a long back porch, where the scene before us unfolded into a vast expanse that could hardly be called a "backyard." Professor Oak's property stretched far beyond the immediate area, encompassing rolling fields, dense groves, and even (I knew from research) the distant foothills of the mountains that framed the horizon.

The immediate area was a well-maintained lawn dotted with picnic tables and a small pond that glistened in the sunlight with a few Water-types lazily swimming near the surface. Various Pokémon roamed freely, some interacting with the campers, others simply enjoying the open space.

It would have been serene, almost idyllic, if not for the couple dozen kids turning it into a whirlwind of activity. Groups of campers chased each other, some engaged in make-believe battles, and others attempted to organize games with the Pokémon. A few adult aides and what looked like older trainers moved among them, trying to maintain some semblance of order. Even some of the more docile Pokémon had slipped into supervisory roles, gently nudging or redirecting the more rambunctious kids.

And standing at the edge of the porch, facing away from us, was Professor Oak. He appeared to be observing the chaos, occasionally nodding or jotting a note on the clipboard he held. He seemed content to let the children burn off energy, perhaps seeing value in their unstructured interactions before the formalities of camp began.

I glanced up at Mom, who waggled her eyebrows at me, clearly amused by the scene. Pichu frowned in my arms, ears twitching at the cacophony.

"Well," I muttered, "this is going to suck."

"I should hope not," came a calm, lightly amused voice from just ahead. Apparently, I wasn't as quiet as I thought.

Professor Oak hadn't turned. He still faced the lawn, jotting notes on the clipboard, yet just the sound of his voice made me focus entirely on him.

"Camp is meant to challenge you, allow you to grow," he continued, eyes still on the tumbling groups of kids. "This is a chance for you to learn the skills needed to survive both in the wild and among your fellow future rivals and companions, as I hope you'll soon learn." He made another quick mark on the page, then finally pivoted toward us.

The shift was seamless at first. A simple turn, his face open, his hand lifting in greeting after what was clearly meant to be an insightful moment…

And then he saw me.

He froze. His hand stalled mid-wave as his eyes locked on me and then Pichu with a focus so sharp it was almost unsettling. The genial warmth drained from his expression, replaced by something searching, something that didn't belong in a casual introduction.

The silence stretched long enough for me to fidget. What was this about?

"Professor?" Mom asked, brows knitting together as she leaned a fraction closer to me. "Is something the matter?"

Professor Oak blinked as if waking from a dream. His hand rose higher as he used it to rub the back of his head with a sheepish laugh. "Ah, forgive me! You just—" His gaze flicked to me again before returning to Mom. "Your son reminded me of another young man I know. The resemblance is uncanny, that's all."

Mom's posture eased, though she still studied him curiously. "I see. Well, Luana Cashion," she said, extending her hand. "And this is my son, Travis."

Professor Oak accepted the handshake, though I didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on me for a beat longer than necessary. "Professor Samuel Oak. A pleasure to meet you both."

Then he perked up, as if remembering something. "Oh! You must be the young man Daisy mentioned to me!"

The Professor's genial smile returned as he gave Mom a grateful look. "I must thank you for providing Daisy the chance to attend your family's gathering. She's spoken highly of both you and young Miss Kylie, and the insight and opportunities it's offered her!"

Mom waved him off with a pleased flush. "Oh, think nothing of it! Daisy is a wonderful young lady. I was happy to have her."

Professor Oak was clearly pleased at the kind words directed at his granddaughter before he nodded and swept an arm toward the rolling lawn. "Well then, allow me to return the favor and welcome you to my Summer Camp! I do hope you'll enjoy your time here, Travis. There's much to learn, of course, but I find the friendships formed during the next week often matter just as much as the lessons."

Before I could even attempt to reply to his hopeful message, Mom leaned in with the kind of expression I'd come to dread. The one that meant she was about to say something "harmless."

"Oh, that's wonderful to hear." Her smile turned mischievous as she looked down at me fondly. "Travis is usually so busy helping around the Grand, he often struggles to make friends his own age. This will be perfect for him!"

"Mooom," I hissed, ear burning. I had friends! I had tons of friends!

(The fact that most of them happened to be at least three times my physical age at minimum didn't matter one iota!)

Oak chuckled politely, though his eyes flicked toward me with a glimmer of sympathy. "I'm sure Travis will be able to make many friends," he agreed warmly. "Some of the bonds made here will no doubt last well beyond the week. In fact, I almost guarantee it!"

Mom's smile was delighted at that reassurance, even going as far as to waggle her eyebrows down at me. I couldn't hold in a grumble. (I had friends dammnt!)

Moving past that moment of embarrassment, Mom let her tone settle into something more serious. "In all honesty, Professor, I do have some concerns. I want to be certain Travis will still be permitted to carry both his Pichu and a member of my team at all times. For safety reasons, of course."

The Professor gave an easy nod. "That will be no problem at all. His Pichu is perfectly acceptable as an alternative for some of the activities we will be hosting, and Travis isn't the only politically sensitive camper enrolled this year. We make allowances in such cases, and so long as the trust given is not abused, then I don't see any problem with—"

"Well, well, well, look who finally showed up. Ashy-boy!"

The childish voice cut in from behind the Professor, who instinctively moved to see who spoke. A young boy with spiky auburn hair and a cocksure smile leaned against one of the porch rails.

He pushed off the railing with deliberate swagger, taking his time as he sized me up. "Took you long enough. What'd you do, get lost on your way from your house?"

I stared at the child with a bland look. "I think you've got the wrong person."

That actually made him falter, his smirk flickering for just a beat. Clearly, he'd expected me to fire back like it was a game. Instead, he tilted his head, mocking concern dripping into his tone. "What's this? Ashy-boy forget his own name?"

"Gary."

Professor Oak's voice cut sharply through the air. He was pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, clearly exasperated.

The kid (oh dear lord this is) snapped his mouth shut, not expecting the rebuke.

"Mrs. Cashion, Travis," Professor Oak said with a weary glance between us, "this is my grandson, Gary. Please excuse his…enthusiasm." He rubbed at his temple like this wasn't the first time. "He mistook you for another local lad who will be attending camp this year. As I mentioned before, the resemblance is uncanny."

Gary-motherfudging-Oak looked between his grandfather and me, still frowning. "Wait, so he's not Ash? Are you guys related or something?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," I replied dryly. (Because seriously, I knew I'd be encountering important people by coming here, but already?!)

"Huh." Gary tilted his head, then jabbed a finger at the Pichu in my arms. "What's with that then? I didn't think you let campers mess with the Electric-types, Gramps."

"That Pichu isn't mine," Professor Oak corrected calmly. "He's Travis's partner."

"What?!" The younger Oak's smirk fell into a pout, his voice pitching higher. "But camp's not for trainers! That's not fair! He shouldn't even have a Pokémon!"

"Technically," I cut in, shifting as Pichu moved to my other shoulder to avoid the still-pointed finger, "Pichu's a Gym Pokémon. And since I'm a registered Kumquat Gym Leader, I'm allowed to hold his Poké Ball."

Gary gawked like I'd just sprouted a second head. "You're a Gym Leader?!"

Before I could answer, Mom swooped in, all sunshine and mischief. "He sure is!" she chirped, ruffling my hair like I was still six. "The best little helper a mother could ask for!"

"Mom!" I tried to duck away, ears burning.

Completely unbothered, she plucked a ball from her belt and pressed it into my free hand. "And don't forget Sandy, my Pallosand," she said brightly before she cut her eyes toward Oak, her smile never wavering.

The Professor gave a small nod. "That will be fine."

"That said," he added, turning to face me directly. "This is a privilege. If I find out you're using your access irresponsibly, we will be having a very different sort of conversation."

I raised an eyebrow, not insulted, just...unimpressed.

"With all due respect, Professor," I said, matching his tone, "I'm a licensed Gym Leader. I know which lines not to cross."

The Professor held my gaze for a second longer, then nodded once.

Gary audibly huffed, drawing attention back his way. "Yeah, well, I don't have a Pokémon!"

Professor Oak's sigh carried the weight of a hundred previous arguments. "Gary, you've grown up surrounded by hundreds of Pokémon at the Lab. That's more than most children could dream of."

"But they aren't mine," Gary whined, folding his arms childishly.

Deciding to interrupt what I was quickly realizing may become a temper tantrum, I coughed to draw the younger Oak's attention. "That's probably a good thing. After all, if they're not yours, then you don't have to worry about bathing them. Trust me, dealing with an annoyed Electric-type during bath time is miserable."

Pichu, clearly unimpressed by my comment, released enough charge to zap my ear. I bit my tongue hard enough to keep from yelping and shot the little gremlin a glare. He squeaked smugly.

Gary thankfully snorted at the byplay, completely losing his previous momentum. "Heh. At least you seem smarter than Ashy-boy." His grin widened. "C'mon, I'll show you around before camp really starts!"

My brain immediately began running through polite ways to say 'absolutely not'. The last thing I wanted was to be dragged center stage by Oak's brat of a grandson. I was already toeing the line of "main character" more than I ever wanted.

Unfortunately, Mom heard "friendship opportunity" and immediately responded before I could say a word. "Oh, Travis would love to! Thank you, Gary!" She squealed before descending on me like a hurricane of perfume and maternal doom.

In an instant, I was smothered against her, my face mashed into her chest as she clutched me for all I was worth. "My baby boy is already making new friends!" She crowed loud enough to no doubt draw stares from at least half the campers. "You're growing up so fast! How will I survive without you?!"

"Moooom" I wheezed, mortified as I felt eyes drilling into me from every direction.

But then her voice wavered, and I realized with horror that her eyes were starting to shine. "And now I'm leaving you all alone…I'M LEAVING MY BABY ALL ALONE!"

Before the wailing could escalate further, Alakazam silently raised a hand. Mom gave a startled yelp as she was lifted a good two feet off the ground, legs kicking while the psychic forcibly pried her grip loose.

"Goodbye Travis," the voice of my savior echoed in my head. "Be safe. Don't kill anyone."

"No promises," I muttered back, trying desperately to disappear into Pichu's fur as Mom continued to wiggle and reach in my general direction.

The psychic gave a solemn nod, then turned and floated Mom back toward the Lab, her cries of "My baby! My sweet boy!" trailing behind like the world's worst farewell parade.

Behind me, Gary was doubled over laughing.

"Shut up," I snapped, ears hot enough to fry a Magikarp as Pichu chittered right along with him.

Even Professor Oak was chuckling under his breath at the spectacle, though he quickly composed himself when I shot him a look that screamed 'do not encourage this'. He cleared his throat, tapping his clipboard against his palm.

"Well then," he said warmly, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Why don't the three of you run along? Camp will be starting shortly, and I'm sure there's plenty for you to see before orientation begins."

Gary immediately puffed up at being included, shooting me a smug grin as if the older Oak had just knighted him. Pichu squeaked like he was in on the joke.

Me? I just sighed, resigned to the fact that preserving my dignity was a lost cause before the week had even started.

---

Author's Note:

Thank you all for the support! I'm honestly shocked that so many people are liking my stories so far, lol.

Hope it's not too presumptuous, but I've got a Patreon up and running! If you want to read 5 chapters ahead or just support me in general, feel free to visit my p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m / IcurasFallen

 

[Azzy Rael]

This is going to be amazing, or this is going to be Celibi tries to pull a TVA- I can see no in between