The sewer entrance didn't have a guard. Just a rusted gate, half-unlocked, beside a sanitation sign that had long since faded into irrelevance. The only instructions were scratched into a nearby wall in marker:
Rats = 5 credits / head. Bring the tails. No overkill. Don't flood the tunnels.
Orion had read worse job descriptions. He stepped through the gate with Tyrunt in tow and dropped into the dark.
The air was heavy. Damp. The kind of wet that stuck to your skin and crawled down your collar. Concrete underfoot, pipes overhead. A maze of runoff canals, broken grates, and low-humming lights strung too far apart to be useful.
He adjusted his headlamp, took out his knife—mostly for show—and started walking.
Tyrunt didn't need light. His nose twitched once, twice. Then he growled.
The hunt had started.
The first one was easy.
Stupid, even.
The Rattata was rooting through a soaked cloth bag near a runoff vent. It didn't even hear them coming. Tyrunt lunged without waiting for a signal and crushed it in a single snap.
Bone cracked. Tail snapped clean.
"Alright," Orion muttered, stepping over the mess. "One."
He pocketed the tail in a pouch he'd designated for "things I never want to think about again."
They kept moving.
The second fight was worse.
Three Rattata in a cluster. Smarter. Alert. They scattered fast—one up the wall, the other into a pipe, the last directly at Orion.
He didn't scream.
That was progress.
He sidestepped. Tyrunt caught the charging one mid-air and smashed it against the wall so hard it didn't even squeak.
The others vanished.
Tyrunt dropped the corpse at Orion's feet like a dog offering a gift.
"Great," Orion muttered. "You're horrifying. I'm proud."
Tail, pouch, move on.
They cleared twelve tails before they hit a larger tunnel.
This one was wider, with standing water. Old flood channel. A place where, according to the map someone had carelessly drawn on the board, "shit goes to die."
Accurate.
There were tracks here—claw marks, sludge trails, something bigger than a rat. Tyrunt's posture shifted. His steps turned slower. Ears up. Nose twitching.
Orion let him lead.
They found the nest near the next junction. Not one or two—eight of them. Rattata, thick and snappy, hissing before they even saw the full silhouettes.
This time, Orion had to say something.
"Don't go full carnivore."
Tyrunt didn't look back.
He just charged.
It was chaos.
Two went for Orion, darting in sharp zigzags like they knew the shape of human ankles. He kicked one, stabbed at the other. The blade missed, but the snarl Tyrunt let loose behind him didn't.
He didn't see most of it.
Just flashes—blood, fur, Tyrunt's tail sweeping three rats sideways into the runoff, a snap of jaws, the wet sound of a ribcage giving in.
It was over in thirty seconds.
Eight tails. Two cuts on Orion's arm. One bite on Tyrunt's shoulder, already clotting.
He wiped his blade on the inside of his coat, because why not ruin something that was already ruined.
"You're enjoying this," he said out loud.
Tyrunt grunted, mouth still half open, breathing heavy.
Orion didn't press the point.
By the time they emerged back above ground, the light had shifted. Evening now. Market sounds dying down. The smell of roasting meat drifting from the square like a distant dream.
Orion dropped the pouch of tails on the counter at Sanitation Post 3. The clerk, a wiry guy with burnt sleeves and no patience, didn't even blink.
"Twenty" Orion said.
The guy counted the tails.
"nineteen and a half. This one's chewed through."
"Call it twenty or I bring you the teeth."
The guy snorted, punched a number into the console, and handed over a sealed chit.
Orion didn't smile. Just walked out.
He stopped near the fountain that split three of the lower streets.
Tyrunt dipped his head to drink from the clean flow near the edge. Not the part where the kids played, but a quieter stream behind a planter.
Orion sat down nearby and exhaled.
There were people everywhere. Moving, talking, haggling, leaning against corners. Some had Pokémon. Some didn't. Most didn't look at him.
A few did.
One woman with short-cropped hair and a heavy belt full of tools gave him a once-over as she passed, eyes lingering on Tyrunt before moving on.
Another—young, maybe his age—stopped in front of him holding a crate of berries.
"Hey," the kid said. "That a real Tyrunt?"
Orion blinked once.
"No," he said. "It's a Spinda in cosplay."
The kid stared, confused.
Then laughed. "Damn. Sorry. Just never seen one. You train it yourself?"
Orion didn't answer.
Tyrunt looked up and growled lightly.
The kid took the hint.
"Alright. Cool. Good luck or whatever."
He walked off.
Orion shook his head.
"I'm gonna regret talking to people, huh?"
Tyrunt didn't comment.
He was too busy crunching a rock he'd dug out of the planter's base