The air is cold enough to make the tips of my fingers ache, but inside my skin, I feel fantastic. It’s the kind of feeling that only comes after a big system reboot—like every cell in my body just chugged a litre of saline, then updated its firmware. I sit up and immediately regret it, because I am coated in a layer of sickly, evaporated sweat, and every fold of my clothes is packed with sand. There’s even sand in my teeth, somehow, which should be impossible unless I was grinding them all night. My tongue tastes like ozone and burnt wire. I cough once, a sharp bark that rattles my ribs, but there’s no poison left. The cough is clean.

  I open my eyes. The world is blue and silver, a cave that should be dead but is instead quietly alive with the low hum of electricity and the liquid light of the crystals lining the dome. N is awake. Of course he is. He’s crouched beside the fire pit, scooping the last handful of ash into a trench in the sand. He doesn’t look at me, just methodically buries the embers, smoothing the disturbed patch until it matches the texture of the untouched floor around it. His hair is still green and wild, but there’s a sheet of discipline over everything he does—no wasted motion, no hesitation. I wonder if he even slept at all.

  He finishes with the fire, stands, and brushes his hands on the hem of his shirt. When he finally turns, his eyes catch mine. He nods, a flick of the chin that acknowledges both my survival and the fact that the conversation is about to start.

  I beat him to it. “Did I snore?”

  “You thrashed,” he says, voice flat. “Three hundred and twelve micro-movements per hour. But the fever is gone.”

  “That’s a record,” I say, and he almost smiles.

  There’s a pause. I realize Luna is curled up against my thigh, nose pressed deep into the crook of my knee. Her breathing is deep and even. She is so perfectly still I wonder if she’s hibernating, but when I shift my leg, she snuffles, makes a small complaining noise, then burrows back in. She’s not going anywhere.

  Muse is planted in the shallows, body half-in and half-out of the water, the wide disk of his leaf-lily floating just above the surface. He’s watching me, or maybe watching N, but he looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him—like the damp and cold is finally his again, not just the city’s.

  Metang floats, as always, a perfect three-point fix in the geometry of the cave. It has found a spot just above the fire pit, and even though its eyes don’t move, I know it’s scanning both me and the cave for threats. The low drone of its field is now a familiar comfort. It is the only heartbeat I really trust anymore.

  N walks over. He stands just far enough away to give the illusion of space, but close enough that I can smell the soap-clean sharpness of his skin. “Your system will hold,” he says. “The poison is neutralized. The nerve conduction is improved, at least in the short term.” He pauses, checks my face for signs of doubt. “But you should not linger,” he says, and the words come out in the rhythm of an algorithm. “It is mathematically unwise.”

  I nod, a little too fast. The memories of yesterday are jagged and bright, but the rawness of them is already fading under the pressure of this new, clear morning. N shifts, looking up at the blue dome. “You are two kilometres beneath the city,” he says. “I have mapped the exits. There is an egress on the northeast vector, but the path is non-trivial.”

  “Blocked?” I ask.

  “Crowded.” N’s mouth twists, just a bit. “Trainers. League-registered. They will not be as—” he searches for a word, “—philosophical as you.”

  I laugh, and the laugh comes out rougher than I meant it to. “So, a classic gauntlet.”

  He nods. “It is predictable. You will have two days’ head start if you leave now.”

  There’s a silence. N stares at the embers under the sand, as if they might re-light and cause trouble. Then he says, “I have informed Metang of the optimal route. It will guide you to the surface, and then to the city.”

  I look at Metang, who gives a low, deliberate thrum of confirmation. Understood.

  N kneels and, with a stick, draws a crude spiral in the sand. “Every move toward the surface is a move closer to conflict. The League does not forgive non-conformity.” He sweeps the spiral away with the edge of his palm.

  I sit there, still in my gross, sweat-damp clothes, and watch as N starts to pack his own things. He moves fast, rolling up the single blanket and tucking it into a satchel that is somehow perfectly organized despite being nothing but a battered old satchel. He doesn’t look at the Houndour, who sits a few feet away from him, hunched and hollow-eyed but alert.

  “Are you leaving now?” I ask.

  N stands, slings the bag over his shoulder. “I must,” he says. “There is no variable in which I remain and the equation resolves safely for either of us.” He looks at me, really looks, and there’s a raw vulnerability under the math. “I have to find a place where the interference does not obscure the signal.”

  He glances at the Houndour. “Come,” he says, and gestures.

  The Houndour looks at him, ears back, tail rigid. She doesn’t move.

  N blinks, once. He tries again, softer. “Come. There is work to do.”

  She looks at him, then at me, then at N again. It is the kind of look that a dog gives when it is trying to decide which of two things is more likely to kill it. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, she stands, pads to me, and sits in my lap.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  N’s face glitches. It is only for a second, but it is a total logic error—a flicker of panic, a flush of color that starts at the neck and runs to the tips of his ears. He looks at the Houndour, then at me, then at the Houndour again.

  “Why,” he says, and this is not a question; it is an indictment of the universe itself.

  I don’t answer, because I don’t know. Metang vibrates, a deeper frequency than usual. The message hits the base of my brain like a train.

  “Her objective is unchanged,” Metang says into our minds, words assembling themselves out of the chaos of neural static and language. “She wishes to return to her prior owner. Probability of success increases with our involvement. Loyalty remains a function of the original bond.”

  N’s mouth compresses to a thin line. He opens it, closes it, then opens it again. “I see,” he says. “It is not about ownership. It is about the vector of hope.” He looks at me one last time, and for a second the usual velocity of his voice drops out, replaced by a quiet that almost passes for sadness. “If fate allows it, we will meet again.” He turns, walks to the edge of the lake, and begins to climb the ragged slope up toward the mouth of a small, dark tunnel. He doesn’t look back. Not even once.

  I sit there, the Houndour a heavy, hot mass in my lap, and watch as N’s silhouette disappears into the dark. I look down. Houndour looks up at me, eyes dark and steady.

  “I’m not your master,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

  Metang floats closer, its twin eyes narrowing as it studies the tableau.

  “Metang,” I say, “what now?”

  “We proceed, The exit awaits.”

  I look down at myself and realize that, I’m still caked in a human-scale disaster. The salt sweat has dried into stripes, the wounds from before are clean but still tender, and the stench is something between a gym sock and rotting meat. I look at the lake, then back at Metang, hovering at my shoulder like a very stern parent.

  “Is it safe to swim in there?” I ask.

  Metang’s eyes pulse, and it gives a slow, deliberate oscillation. “Safe for organic immersion. Threat index is subcritical. Dissolved metals elevated, but within parameters.” I’m not sure if it’s the first time I’ve heard humor in its communications, but the field around it picks up a faint, amused vibration that makes my nose itch.

  “Noted,” I say, and start stripping off my jacket. Every layer peels away with a soft, tearing sound, like bandages ripped off too soon. I’m left in a sweat-stiff t-shirt and threadbare boxers that used to be black, but are now the color of a bruised banana. Luna looks up from her post at the edge of the water. Her nose twitches, and she makes a face so perfectly “nope” that I almost want to apologize for the stink.

  Muse watches me, head cocked. He slides into the water without hesitation, the wide pad of his leaf sending a perfect ring of ripples across the surface. He floats for a second, then dives under, the disc catching the blue light and turning it into a spinning halo.

  I take a breath and wade in after him.

  The first step is a shock—colder than expected, with a static tingle that hits every scrape on my skin. By the second step, my feet go numb, and by the third, the water is up to my ribs and the cave’s blue light is refracted into a thousand tiny prisms across the surface.

  I dunk my head and the world goes silent.

  Below the surface, it’s a void, broken only by the flicker of electric blue from the crystals above and the tiny stars of light that pulse along the bottom—Tynamo, a whole school of them, drifting in lazy, looping patterns through the silt and broken rock. They don’t flee when I move. They just keep to their circuits, safe in the knowledge that nothing in this cave is hungry enough to try a bite.

  I rub at my skin, trying to get the worst of the salt and blood and whatever else off. The pain from the scrapes is real, but it’s a clean pain, like the bite of a really good soap. The smell is gone instantly, replaced by a weirdly pleasant mineral tang. My scalp feels like it’s being massaged by ten thousand microscopic electricians.

  Muse pops up beside me, eyes wide and delighted. He bobs in place, letting the current carry him in slow circles. I remember, for the first time in a long time, that not everything in my life has to be about the next wound, the next sprint for daylight. I float, and for a few seconds, I just breathe. Metang hovers on the surface, its body so still it could be a chunk of the cave ceiling. But I know it’s mapping the whole scene, monitoring every ion in the water, keeping watch for whatever threat might dwell in these depths.

  On the shore, Luna sits beside the Houndour. The two of them are a pair of punctuation marks, orange and black against the blue sand, both staring at the lake with exactly the same look of exasperated disbelief. I’m not sure if they’re disgusted that I’m bathing, or disgusted that I let it get this bad in the first place.

  I duck my head, shake the water out, and open my eyes underwater. The Tynamo school weaves a net of light around me, their bodies shedding electrons with every pulse. It’s beautiful, in the brutal, industrial way of a city’s power grid. There’s no fear, just a low-key hum of survival. I watch them, and for a second, it’s like being part of the circuit—no hierarchy, no trainer, just the current and what it carries.

  Above the water, Metang projects into my skull. “Elapsed time: fifty-seven minutes. Recommend cessation of activity and preparation for egress.”

  I snort, and the motion sends a bubble of water up my nose. “Alright, Mom,” I say, and swim to the edge.

  Muse follows, making a soft, musical note as he slides onto the shore. His leaf is bright green now, the mud and scum gone. He shakes himself, then sits next to Luna and the Houndour. They stare at me in a line, an audience of the unimpressed. I climb out, dripping, the cold air of the cave a slap to the skin.

  Pulling my clothes back on is its own special torture. The shirt is still damp and clings to my skin with all the mercy of duct tape; the boxers are worse, wet cotton bunched in places I won’t describe, but every step is a squelch. The boots, at least, are old enough that they don’t care.

  I survey my team: Luna, sitting in the sand, big eyes fixed on me; Muse, upright for once, his leaf slick and glossy; Metang, an unblinking sentinel. The Houndour is watching, too, her stare flat and unblinking, like she’s sizing me up for a job she’s not sure she wants.

  I clear my throat. “Okay. Marching order. We’ve got a long walk and the clock is ticking.” I hook the Poké Balls off my belt. “Anyone want the luxury suite, or are you all walking with me?”

  Luna stands, her fur still spiked with dried mud. She lets out a whine, but the sound doesn't just vibrate in the air—it hits the back of my skull as a string of perfect, cutting data. “It is not a preference, Kuro. It is a necessity. Your odour is a violation. I choose the Poké Ball.” The voice is hers—small, tremulous, but as sharp as a razor. Every syllable is clear, rendered directly into my thoughts.

  I freeze, my hand halfway to my face. I look at Luna, then at Muse by the water, then up at the hovering slab of steel that is Metang.

  “What was that?” I rasp.

  Muse bobs in the shallows, his round eyes blinking in sync with his voice. “She’s right. It’s a lot. Like a Trubbish died in a sulfur pit. No offense.”

  “Zero offense,” Luna adds. Her expression is flat and entirely serious.

  I turn my gaze to Metang. It floats closer, its two sets of eyes pulsing with a synchronized red light. The base of my brain hums with a cold, magnetic pressure.

  “We have achieved a structural bypass,” Metang says straight into my skull. The voice is a dual-layered resonance, the plural weight of its two brains hitting the interface at once. “We analyzed the translation capabilities within your neural architecture. We found the efficiencies required to render intent into speech in real-time.”

  I stare at the ceiling, then let out a dry, hacking laugh. “You’re telling me we just upgraded to a universal translator?”

  “We have simply optimized the connection,” Metang corrects. “As long as we are in proximity, we will act as the processor. We can render any Pokémon’s language directly to your interface. You will understand them as they speak, but only while we are present to bridge the gap.”

  I wipe a smear of dried sewer grease from my jacket. “Metang, you’re a genius.”

  Metang tilts its heavy body. “We are simply ensuring the survival of the unit,” the plural voice sounding almost modest.

  “Same,” Muse adds, splashing his stubby paws in the dark pool.

  “Alright,” I say, reaching for the belt. My joints ache, and the smell is, admittedly, starting to get to me too. “Balls it is. I’ll try not to take it personally.”

  I tap Luna’s capsule. She goes in with a shimmer of red light and a final, judgmental look at my sodden boots. I do the same for Muse; he vanishes with a soft, aquatic chord, leaving the cave suddenly quiet, save for the hum of the Metang and the distant drip of the dark water.

  I clip the balls to my belt, the mechanical clicks sounding sharp and final in the quiet. There’s a weird emptiness in the space around me now. The team has been a constant presence at my heels for so long that without the sound of Luna’s breathing or the wet shuffle of Muse’s feet, the cave feels twice as large. It’s a hollow, lonely kind of quiet I haven't had to deal with in a while. I turn to Metang. It drifts in the low light, its eyes reflecting the dying embers of the fire—the only one left standing guard in the open.

  “You good to lead?”

  “Always,” it says. “The path is mapped and monitored.”

  I nod, try to stretch the ache out of my shoulders, and look at the Houndour. She’s not moved, but her eyes track every twitch of mine.

  “You sure you’re coming?” I ask.

  She bares her teeth, but it’s a smile, not a threat. “I want to see Sandy,” she yips, and there’s a whole world of longing in the words. I scratch the top of her head—she doesn’t bite, but she doesn’t exactly enjoy it, either.

  “Let’s do it,” I say, and together, the three of us set off, up the blue-lit tunnel.