The day started like any other: clouds rolling across the treetops, light frost clinging to the underbrush, and the smell of cold earth rising off the path as it thawed under the sun. Orion had been up since before dawn, watching steam curl off his breath while sitting on the edge of the porch.
He didn't expect anything unusual. That was when it happened.
A small leather pouch dropped onto the log beside him.
He looked up. Reid had already turned back toward the shed, like he hadn't just handed Orion the single most important milestone since waking up in this world.
He picked up the pouch slowly, the weight of it somehow heavier than it should've been.
Three Pokéballs.
Standard issue. Smooth, cool to the touch. Each one capable of capturing a creature that could level forests or split mountains. Or just bite your fingers off if you weren't fast enough.
He didn't smile.
He just held them for a moment.
Felt the pressure of them settle into his hand like gravity.
Inside the cabin, Reid hadn't said a word about it. No ceremony. No lecture. No list of rules.
Orion wasn't surprised.
They ate dinner in silence. The fire crackled. Metal scraped across sharpening stone. And all the while, the three Pokéballs sat in front of Orion on the table like small, waiting gods.
He broke the silence first.
"I've been tracking Geodudes."
Reid didn't look up from the knife he was honing. "Still at the cliffs?"
Orion nodded. "Two of them. One older. One juvenile. They're nesting near a runoff cave west of the ridge. The older one's smarter than it looks. Doesn't fall for bait anymore. The younger one's reckless."
"You think you can catch one?"
"If I time it right."
"Then do it."
Orion glanced at the Pokéballs again.
"This is it, isn't it?"
Reid didn't ask what he meant.
He knew.
That night, Orion sat alone on the roof of the cabin, his notebook resting across his knees and the cool metal of a Pokéball in his palm. He flipped the pages slowly, eyes tracing over the hand-drawn entries.
He'd built his list over two years.
Not a fantasy draft full of mythical beasts and ultra-rares. Just possibilities. Ones he'd actually seen. Ones he could maybe find again. Ones that didn't rely on the universe smiling on him for once.
Geodude was the first real option. Hardy. Durable. Could evolve twice. It was the safe bet—and in this world, safe still meant strong.
Machop was another. He'd only seen it twice, training alone near the stream. No Trainer in sight. It moved with discipline that reminded him of Reid. Orion wasn't sure if he could catch something like that. He wasn't sure if he wanted to try.
Growlithe was on the list too. Once, he'd spotted pawprints near the south line of their territory. Just once. But it was enough to keep hope alive.
And there were others. Not fancy. Not rare. But strong enough, if trained right.
He didn't write Tyrunt.
Because they didn't exist.
Orion knew what kind of partner he wanted.
He'd given up on the idea of something choosing him.
That was fantasy.
This world didn't run on destiny. It ran on action.
If he wanted something powerful, he'd have to take it. Shape it. Survive whatever came after.
He didn't need a Pokémon that liked him. He needed one that could grow into something worth the risk.
Some creatures evolved fast, gained power quickly, and plateaued just as fast.
Others took time.
Time was what Orion had.
Time and hunger.
Reid never gave praise. But when he passed Orion by the next morning and didn't stop him from taking a full pack, that was enough. A silent go-ahead.
Orion checked his gear twice: rope, food, firestarter, one smoke flare, and the three Pokéballs tucked into a side compartment. His staff was strapped along his back, and his coat was lined against the late spring wind.
He didn't say goodbye.
He just left.
The cliffs weren't far.
Two hours east, up a narrow ridge where the trees thinned and the wind whistled through the jagged stone. Orion moved quietly, stopping every few minutes to listen.
He wasn't expecting company. But in the wild, expecting anything meant dying slower.
When he reached the lookout above the Geodudes' nesting spot, he dropped into a crouch and waited. Same position as always. Same view.
Boulders strewn across a slope of gravel. Moss-covered ledges. Sun warming the rocks.
And there they were.
The two Geodudes emerged around midday, grumbling at each other like tired coworkers. The older one rolled a few feet toward a half-cracked stone and began smashing it lazily with its fists. The younger hopped back and forth, testing its strength against a smaller pebble like it might explode at any moment.
Orion stayed still.
He watched.
He adjusted his position, inching closer along a hidden groove in the rock face. He had a decent angle now. The younger one was distracted.
His hand drifted to the Pokéball.
He didn't throw.
Not yet.
He waited another ten minutes, memorizing their rhythm.
Then he moved.
His foot slipped.
Just a little.
A loose bit of gravel, no bigger than a coin.
It was enough.
The younger Geodude's head snapped up.
Orion froze.
Its eyes locked on him. No sound. No screech. Just sudden, violent stillness.
Then it launched.
Orion ducked.
The Geodude collided with the outcrop above him. Stone shattered. Debris exploded around him.
He lost his footing and fell.
Not far. Just a stumble.
But the rocks beneath him gave way.
Suddenly, the slope wasn't a slope anymore.
It was a hole.
A hidden cavity beneath the ridge.
He slid.
Tumbled.
And then dropped straight through the ground.
He landed hard.
Not bone-breaking, but hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He coughed, rolling over, grabbing his ribs.
It was dark.
Dust drifted around him in slow, lazy clouds. His hand found his lantern and shook it once, the small crystal inside flaring to life.
The walls were stone. Old. But unnaturally smooth. Not a cave.
A chamber.
He pushed himself up to his knees.
And froze.
In the center of the room was a figure.
Large.
Curled against the far wall.
At first, he thought it was a statue. Then he saw the faint mist of breath.
It was breathing.
A Pokémon.
Reptilian.
Thick jaw. Short but powerful limbs. Scales lined with frost. Eyes still shut. Dust clung to its body like a second skin.
Orion's brain caught up with his eyes.
He knew that shape.
He knew those teeth.
He'd seen it in books. In museums.
Not in this world.
His breath caught.
"…Tyrunt?"
The Pokémon stirred.
It didn't wake all at once.
It twitched. Groaned. Its tail dragged slowly across the floor. Then its eyes cracked open—slitted, primal, confused.
Orion didn't move.
The Tyrunt blinked against the light.
Its breathing hitched.
It was weak.
Starving.
Lethargic.
He dropped his bag, unwrapped the smoked meat he packed for emergencies, and held it out slowly, arms low, eyes not making direct contact.
The Tyrunt sniffed.
Moved.
Wobbled on uncertain legs.
Then—snapped the meat out of his hand with a crunch of jaws.
It didn't bite him.
It ate like it hadn't eaten in a century.
Orion watched it chew, throat dry.
This was impossible.
Tyrunt were fossils.
Their evolved forms—Tyrantrum—were ancient monsters. Unmatched in raw physical power.
The closest thing to a living tank.
This one was young. Disoriented. Barely standing.
And it was real.
He reached slowly into his coat. His fingers closed around the cold metal of a Pokéball.
He didn't hesitate.
He threw.
The red light wrapped the Tyrunt mid-bite.
It didn't resist.
Not really.
Not yet.
The ball hit the ground. Shook once. Then stilled.
Caught.
No fanfare.
Just silence.
Then his heart started beating again.