Because it's a shelter.
It had to be built somewhere safe—hence underwater, or underground.
Because it's a shelter.
It needed to cram in as many refugees as possible, sacrificing comfort.
Because it's a shelter.
Stockpiling supplies was a must.
That's why there were so many storerooms, hoarding heaps of high-quality Poké Blocks.
The better the Poké Block, the more energy packed in—perfect emergency rations.
Sure, it's Pokémon food, but humans can eat it too—and they've raved about it. Akira included. As for who else has tried it? Let them name themselves.
High quality? After all this time, crumbled to dust, it still had kick. Anything less wouldn't cut it.
Fun fact: some meds—like cold pills or antidiarrheals—don't need strict storage. Expired? Still usable, just weaker.
Of course, Pignite chowing down without healing or poison-resistance moves? Gojo's parenting's got issues.
"Next time, let the pros test it first—like Gojo, Gojo, or Gojo. Got it?"
"Maru!" Pignite's reply was short and sharp.
"Let's move. If I'm right, this exploration's nearing its end."
People and supplies—the shelter's main protects—were accounted for. Only the protectors themselves, the core, remained.
And he was right.
Stepping out, Gardevoir flashed in and Darkrai emerged from the shadows.
They'd hit paydirt too.
Gardevoir found a solo room.
Same bare-bones setup:
One bed, one table, one chair, one cabinet, basic necessities.
That's it.
Still, it was the shelter's "luxury" suite.
The desk drawer hung open, holding a diary—cover intact, pages in shards.
"Garde Garde~ (Sorry)"
Gardevoir stood by the desk, head bowed, hands clutching her skirt like a kid caught red-handed.
Only then did she show her age.
The diary was fine when she opened the drawer, but the second she touched it—like the storeroom Poké Blocks—it crumbled in the air. No saving it.
"It's fine. I couldn't read it anyway."
Akira reached out, pulling Gardevoir into a hug, patting her back gently.
People joke, "Who writes diaries seriously?" But in a survival pit, "serious" doesn't apply.
This was likely the shelter head's final log—their last mark on life. Too bad Akira's pro team wasn't cut for this.
No point blaming Gardevoir. Better to scout elsewhere, salvage something useful.
Only now did Akira get archaeology—why they call it "rescue digs."
He beelined to Darkrai's find, a hub near the head's room.
Unlike the spartan office, this was pure black tech—ancient civ's crown jewel.
A quick scan, and Akira clocked treasures.
A faded but recognizable purple-themed berry blender—pro gear for Poké Blocks, a shelter VIP.
What looked like servers, a data matrix, and linked terminals.
A machine with spherical slots and metal pipes—Pokémon trading and comms gear, key for Gengar or Alakazam evos.
And a weird rig with neat rows of ball-shaped grooves—like a giant tray.
This was Akira's holy grail, his dream, the Pokémon world's finest tech marvel.
Poké Ball crafting.
Seems dime-a-dozen—grab a stack at any shop. But it's loaded with mind-blowing tech.
Shrink and expand the ball at will—Pokémon included.
Not just resizing—it crafts a livable habitat inside, for flyers, swimmers, whatever.
Plus, a hinted mind-control effect. Barring rare, iron-willed Pokémon, once caught, they obey the Trainer, fighting for them.
Only Doraemon's endless, wacky gadgets could top this tech.
Poké Balls birthed the Pokémon world we know and love.
Akira's travels showed it—without them, lugging Pokémon around's a nightmare. No way the Trainer gig would've blown up like it did.
Pocket Monsters would just be "pet" "mini" monsters.
Post-system, Akira's biggest gripe was no Poké Balls.
His bond-first vibe matched Ash and Pikachu's, sure, but Poké Balls would've eased logistics. Dratini, Feebas—no more housebound days; they could roam wide with him.
That dream might be in reach.
No Poké Balls in the tray, but in the hub's corner, a sealed display case held a full row.
Each a different color.
From cheapo red-and-whites like Pignite's vibe to the top-tier Master Ball with its "M."
Named ones, unnamed ones—all here.
Above them, a row of varied Poké Blocks.
Higher still, trophies, medals, certificates, and a group photo.
No familiar faces, but their eyes and grit stood firm—no despair despite the odds, like gulls battling a storm.
Even after centuries, lost to history, we'll leave our mark, our pride, our civilization's brightest page.
Across eras, languages apart, Akira felt that will.
This case proved it.
Past glories, peak tech, and the wisdom that forged it.
At the case's base—metal slabs like hard drives, and center stage, a crystal key.
The shelter's master command!