By the time someone knocked on the door, my pulse had just started to steady. Three soft raps, familiar, but careful.
I groaned and went to answer. Skyla stood outside in jeans and a light blue flight jacket, hair pulled back, a duffel over one shoulder. Her eyes looked brighter than last night, awake, and decided.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," I echoed. "You lost?"
"Maybe," she said, grinning. "Or maybe I'm finally going somewhere on purpose."
She stepped inside, scanning the cluttered room, the open travel bag, the scattered Pokéballs, and Zoey pretending to still be asleep.
"Uhm, do you have a sister you forgot to mention?" She asked, pointing toward Zoey on the bed. Realizing that she'd actually fallen asleep and hadn't broken the illusion, I verbally clicked to wake her up. The disguise evaporated into a thin cloud of vapor as she startled awake.
"Sorry about that. She never dropped the whole sleep-disguise survival instinct despite being born in a nursery instead of a cave."
"That's totally cool. Just surprised me, that's all. I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. About your mom, about freedom. I realized I've been sitting in one place too long, handing out badges and pretending that's enough."
I blinked. "Skyla-"
She held up a hand. "Before you say anything, Gramps has been itching to run the gym again. He's got the staff to maintain it. And me?" She shrugged, smiling softly. "I've got wings and no excuses. I want to remember what it's like to chase the horizon again."
I stared at her, stunned for a heartbeat before it sank in. "You want to travel. With me?"
"Unless you've got a strict no-pilot policy."
Zoey snorted from the bed. We'll allow it.
I tried not to laugh. "You sure? This isn't exactly a vacation. Things get messy."
Skyla met my eyes, steady and certain. "Messy's fine. I trust you to keep me out of the worst of it, and who knows, maybe I can keep you out of the clouds."
That earned a laugh out of me. "You're really serious about this?"
She tightened the strap on her duffel. "Absolutely."
For a long second, we just looked at each other, the hum of traffic outside, the faint rustle of waves in the distance. Then I smiled. "Welcome aboard, Captain."
She grinned, bumping my shoulder as she walked past. "Glad to be part of the crew."
Zoey muttered, This trip just got interesting.
"Yeah," I said quietly, watching Skyla set her bag by the window. "It really did."
The Mojave looked endless from above. Like a sea of gold stretching to the horizon, heat shimmering so fiercely it made the world look like it was melting. Skyla's plane hummed low through the desert thermals, the engine cutting through the stillness.
We'd been flying for hours since leaving Santa Monica, heading east, cutting toward Phoenix to refuel, when my phone buzzed in my lap.
A sharp chime, followed by the PAP insignia flashing red:
Environmental Anomaly Detected - Desert Ecosystem Destabilized.
Estimated Cause: Unknown Combat Activity.
Requesting Volunteer Trainers.
Skyla leaned over from the pilot seat, squinting. "That's new."
"They don't usually ping users directly," I said, frowning. "Not unless their drones are already failing."
She glanced out the window, narrowing her eyes against the glare. "Guess we're about to find out why."
Before I could answer, she banked the plane toward the coordinates.
The storm appeared on the horizon like a living wall. Sand twisted in a massive column that reached all the way to the clouds, swallowing light and color alike. Lightning flashed deep within it, yellow one moment, turquoise the next, and the air pressure changed so suddenly that my ears popped.
Skyla's voice cut through the headset. "That's not weather."
"No," I murmured, eyes locked on the roiling spiral ahead. "That's a fight."
She throttled down, skimming low over the dunes until she found a patch of stable ground. The landing gear hit sand with a dull thud, engines whining as the plane slowed to a stop.
When the ramp lowered, the heat hit like a physical blow, dry and suffocating, the kind of air that burned your lungs before it filled them.
The storm roared less than a mile away and, with no sane reason to do so, we ran toward it.
The first thing I saw were the shadows, massive shapes moving through curtains of sand. Then the sound reached me: screeches, thunder, and the unmistakable clang of claws on stone.
Three Flygon spun through the storm, wings beating so fast they blurred into green arcs of light. They fought like mirrored dancers, their movements chaotic but coordinated, trying to fend off something darker that sliced between them.
A pack of Gabites, their scales glinting purple-gray through the haze, snapping and lunging from the dunes. And towering above them, its fins slicing the air with brutal precision, was a Garchomp.
Its roar shook the desert.
"Looks like someone picked a fight with the wrong dragons," Skyla muttered beside me, wind whipping her ponytail.
"Yeah," I said, my throat dry. "But I don't think the Flygon started it."
The Flygon trio fought back fiercely, each beating of their wings feeding the storm, sand turning to knives in the air, lightning bleeding through the cloud cover. But for all their power, they were outnumbered. I could see it in the rhythm of their flight, one was limping in the air, slower, heavier.
The male.
"Skyla," I started.
She was already reaching for her belt. "I see him."
She released Skarmory in a flash of white steel. The bird shrieked as it shot upward, slicing straight into the hurricane with its wings gleaming in the sun.
"Let's buy them some time," she said, slipping on her goggles. "Stay back and cover them!"
The desert erupted.
Skarmory met the Garchomp midair, steel against scale, sparks scattering across the sand. Their clash sounded like thunder, metallic and primal. Skyla shouted something, and her voice cut clean through the wind.
"Steel Wing, full throttle!"
Skarmory spun like a blade, catching the Garchomp across the jaw and sending it spiraling down through the dust. The Gabites screeched, scattering as the ground quaked under the impact.
Zoey appeared beside me, her form materializing from shadow, eyes glowing red.
We jumping in, or you planning to let them wreck the ecosystem for fun?
"Go!" I shouted.
She darted forward, releasing a Dark Pulse that carved a wide arc through the Gabite ranks. They hissed and scattered, their predatory formation broken.
Trilla floated beside me, her psychic aura blazing lavender in the murk. They're not all hostile, she warned. The Flygon are panicking. They think everything's an enemy.
I nodded, breath catching. Then we calm them down.
I pushed through the storm, sand tearing at my skin, my vision stinging with grit. The roar of the wind drowned everything else.
The two female Flygon swooped low, landing protectively in front of the third. Their eyes locked on me, wings flared, ready to attack.
The injured male lay half-buried in the sand behind them, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. One wing was bent at a sick angle; a long crimson gash ran across his side, raw and seeping.
I raised my hands slowly. Hey. It's okay.
They shrieked, defensive. The ground trembled under the vibration of their wings. I shut my eyes and reached out, not with words, but with thought.
You're safe now.
For a moment, the psychic noise was unbearable, three overlapping minds, wild with fear, pain, and adrenaline. But beneath it, I found the thread of their bond. They weren't wild, not really. They were family.
The storm faltered. The sand hissed down in slow sheets.
Skyla's Skarmory screeched above us, victorious. The Garchomp, bloodied and beaten, fled beneath the dunes with the remaining Gabites frantically burrowing to follow their alpha.
When the last gust of sand settled, the two female Flygon turned to each other, chirring softly in low, mournful tones. Then, slowly, they stepped aside.
The male tried to lift his head, failed, and slumped back into the sand.
"Oh, no," I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him. His breathing was shallow, his scales hot to the touch. I brushed my hand over his snout, careful not to startle him. You're alright, big guy. You're safe.
Skyla jogged up behind me, shielding her eyes. "He's in bad shape."
"Yeah," I said, already pulling out my phone. "But we've got help."
I opened the PAP app and hit the emergency beacon.
Within seconds, a silver streak cut through the clouds. The PokéBot descended in a burst of light, its thrusters sending sand rippling outward as it landed beside us. Its lens flickered once, scanning the scene.
"Subject: Flygon. Trauma severity, critical. Commencing triage."
Metallic arms extended, spraying a mist of regenerative nanites across the dragon's wounds. The Flygon twitched, a low rumble vibrating through its chest as the pain eased.
The female Flygon hovered anxiously nearby, their cries soft, rhythmic, almost melodic.
Skyla rested her hands on her hips, watching the procedure. "You ever get used to seeing those things work?"
"Not really." I exhaled slowly. "They're miracles. Cold, mechanical miracles."
When the mist cleared, the wound had closed. The Flygon lifted his head, eyes meeting mine for the first time, bright, lucid, and full of something I hadn't expected. Gratitude.
He rumbled low, a sound that vibrated through my bones. Then he pressed his snout lightly against my shoulder.
You stopped the pain, came the thought, deep and resonant, not quite words but close enough. You kept them safe.
I smiled. We just evened the odds.
His wings twitched, folding tight against his body. He extended one claw, gesturing weakly to the Poké Ball on my belt.
You sure? I asked softly.
He blinked once, slow, deliberate.
The ball opened in a flash of red light. The desert went still again.
Click.
The two females trilled softly, their tones shifting from sorrow to calm before taking flight. They circled overhead once, catching the sun on their wings, and vanished into the golden haze beyond the dunes.
Skyla stood beside me, brushing sand from her jacket. "You really do have a thing for dramatic rescues."
I clipped the Poké Ball to my belt, still staring at it. "Guess we all find family in strange places."
Trilla floated closer, her telepathic voice quiet but heavy. Something watched us through the storm. Not Garchomp or any other Pokémon I know. A shadow beneath the sand, patient. Waiting.
The words sank into me like a chill that didn't belong in the desert.
I looked out toward the horizon, where the sunlight bent into a wavering mirage. For a second, I thought I saw eyes in it, faint, blue, and watching.
The wind shifted.
And in that whisper of moving sand, I could almost hear it again.
Little lamb...
By the next morning, we'd left the desert and completed our trip to Phoenix to refuel. I figured it would be a good place to learn Flygon's moveset, strengths, and weaknesses.
He had wanted to fly beside us until Phoenix, so before we left, I called in a PAP drone to fix his broken wing and patch him up.
"You need a name," I said quietly.
He tilted his head, the sound he made low and thoughtful, almost curious.
I smiled faintly. "Simon," I decided. "You look like a Simon."
His tail flicked once, amused warmth echoing through the link between us. Simon, he repeated softly, as if trying the word on for size.
"Welcome to the team," I murmured, clipping his Poké Ball to my belt.
"You're really talking to him like that?" Skyla asked, climbing down the cockpit ladder.
"What'd you name him?"
"Simon," I said.
She grinned. "Kind of dignified for a dragon."
"So is he," I said simply.
I whistled to get his attention and had the drone deploy a training hologram like I had with Scizor.
Simon hovered above the cracked earth, his wings stirring up spirals of red dust with every beat. The air trembled around him. I shaded my eyes, smiling. "You ready to show me what you can do, big guy?"
He gave a low rumble that rolled through my chest like distant thunder, not aggressive, but eager.
Skyla adjusted her aviator shades, glancing at the PokéBots as they projected a faint blue grid over the training ground. "Shield perimeter's stable. Don't blow a hole in my flight field, okay?"
Simon growled softly, amused. No promises.
I laughed and took a few steps back. "Alright, partner. Show me what you've got. Anything."
He cocked his head, eyes gleaming, then lunged forward in a blur of motion. Energy crackled around his claws, green light gathering into jagged arcs. He carved a sweeping strike through one of the hovering targets, the blow so fast it left a streak in the air.
"Holy-" I caught myself. "That's Dragon Claw."
Skyla nodded, scanning her wristband. "Impact velocity reads off the charts."
PAP Training Unit-07: "Close-combat energy signature detected. Power yield: 88%. Move recognition confirmed. Dragon Claw registered."
Simon's chest rumbled with satisfaction. That one felt good.
"Yeah," I said, shielding my face from the sand kicked up by his wings. "I can tell."
He circled back, wings beating hard enough to stir mini-cyclones across the plateau. Then he rose higher, the air pressure dropping with the altitude shift. Without warning, he folded his wings and dove, tucking his body mid-dive like a cannonball. At the last second, he flipped forward and extended his tail, now crackling with green energy. He slammed it into the ground like a meteor.
Then the earth split open.
A shockwave ripped through the ground, shallow fissures spreading outward in all directions. Dust exploded skyward, and the impact knocked me back a step. The PokéBots jolted midair, their lenses flashing red.
PAP Training Unit-07: "Seismic activity detected! Ground resonance level: extreme. Move recognition confirmed. Earthquake added to Flygon's move set."
Skyla stumbled, laughing despite the tremor. "Okay, that's enough to register on local radar. He's got raw muscle under all that elegance."
Simon lifted his tail, wings flicking in pride. Was that too much?
I grinned, coughing through the dust. "Just enough. Any harder and we'd have to apologize to Arizona."
The sand settled slowly, the plateau steaming with trapped heat.
I looked up at him again, curious. "Okay, so physical strength, check. You've got that down. But what about range? You've gotta have something for distant engagements, right?"
Simon tilted his head, then opened his jaws slightly and released a low, pulsing hum. The sound was subtle at first, then sharpened until it shimmered through the air like glass under tension.
The PokéBot flickered.
PAP Training Unit-07: "Sound-based emission detected. Frequency: 31.8 kilohertz. Move recognition verified. Supersonic registered."
Skyla watched the targets ripple in the wave's path. "He's using the resonance to distort air pressure, like hitting turbulence with a soundwave."
I nodded. "Can you... Focus that?" I asked Simon. "Make it sharper, maybe stronger?"
He hesitated, wings shifting restlessly. I can try.
He inhaled, a long, deep draw that made the desert air pulse. The sound that followed was far more than a hum.
The first ring of compressed air burst outward like a cannon blast, scattering dust and debris. The shockwave hit the training grid and rattled the PokéBots in midair.
PAP Training Unit-07: "Warning: output exceeds safety parameters. Containment field destabilizing."
"Simon!" I shouted. "Ease off!"
But the next wave had already left him. The Boomburst struck the grid's barrier and flared like lightning across the sky. The desert roared in answer.
Skyla threw an arm up to block the wind, laughing through the chaos. "You weren't kidding when you asked him to make it stronger!"
Simon staggered midair, stunned by his own power. The vibrations still shimmered around him, raw and uncontrolled. I could feel his panic flicker through our link.
I didn't mean-
It's okay! I sent back quickly. Breathe, Simon. Pull it in.
He hovered shakily, chest heaving, before letting out one last low, measured pulse, a quieter echo of the earlier blast. The energy softened, spreading gently through the hot air like the after-ring of a struck bell.
PAP Training Unit-07: "Attack stabilized. Power yield: 108%. Move recognition confirmed. Boomburst added to Flygon's move set."
Simon exhaled hard, landing beside me with a thud. Too much power for such a small trick.
"Not a trick," I said, brushing grit from my jacket. "A statement."
Skyla lowered her shades and grinned. "You're lucky the desert's empty, otherwise we'd be explaining that one to the FAA."
Simon gave a weary snort, curling his tail around himself. Still think you want me using that indoors?
"Let's start with outdoors only," I said, smiling. "Preferably far away from civilization."
The PokéBots whirred as they reset the grid, flickering in and out of sync.
PAP Training Unit-07: "Session summary: combat proficiency verified. Move log updated. Dragon Claw, Earthquake, Supersonic, Boomburst. End of report."
Skyla turned toward me, her expression thoughtful. "He's a natural flier, strong and fast, but that kind of power's got to be earned, not just used. I can work with him after you battle Burgh."
"That'd be great!" I said, watching Simon as he stretched his wings again, dust scattering like mist around him. "He just needs to find a rhythm."
Skyla smiled faintly. "Sounds like someone else I know."
The wind shifted, carrying the last echo of Simon's hum through the canyon with a deep, resonant tone that faded into the vast desert silence.
By sunset, the plateau had cooled to a burnished orange. Skyla double-checked her flight panels while Zoey lounged against the plane, pretending she wasn't impressed. Simon rested nearby, eyes half-closed, sand curling around his claws in slow spirals.
"You think Burgh's bugs are ready for that?" Skyla asked quietly.
I smiled. "No. But I think I am."
She nodded, glancing toward the horizon. "Wheels up at sunrise. Eastbound tailwind should put us in New York by lunch."
Zoey groaned, stretching. I hate mornings.
You hate everything before coffee, I teased.
She smirked. And yet I'm still the reliable one.
Skyla climbed into the cockpit to run diagnostics while I stood with Simon, resting a hand against his scaled shoulder. "Good work today," I said quietly.
Now that the plane was refueled, we left for New York.
The hum of the engines was steady, almost soothing, a low vibration that filled the small cabin as we cut through a band of afternoon cloud. I sat in the co-pilot's seat beside Skyla while Zoey dozed in the back, curled under a spare flight jacket.
Skyla adjusted the throttle, one hand light on the yoke, eyes flicking over the instrument panel. The cockpit door behind us stayed open so I could still see Zoey's ears twitch every time the plane banked.
I scrolled through Skyla's League profile on my phone, the glow from the screen painting my hands blue in the dim light.
Name: Skyla
Age: 24
Occupation: Certified Pilot, Gym Leader (Santa Monica)
Affiliation: PAP - Shield Division
Known Alias: The Winged Ace
I smirked. "The Winged Ace? Really?"
She grinned, eyes still on the horizon. "Don't blame me. The League press came up with it after I landed a crippled Beartic-class transport during a storm. Apparently, 'Ace' sounded better than 'Lucky.'"
"Guess they weren't wrong."
She only shrugged, calm as ever.
The next lines scrolled down.
Appointed Gym Leader at sixteen. Logged over 300 long-range flights. Zero civilian casualties.
I raised an eyebrow. "Three hundred flights?"
"Three hundred and two," she corrected. "They never update those files fast enough."
Her tone wasn't bragging, just matter-of-fact, like she'd lived enough danger to stop romanticizing it.
I skimmed the last entry.
Authorized for intercity trainer transport and humanitarian response under Level-2 League Priority Clearance.
"So that's how you got us into Teterboro," I said. "Didn't peg you for League royalty."
Skyla chuckled. "Hardly. It just means PAP trusts me not to land in Central Park."
Behind us, Zoey stirred from her nap, her voice brushing through my thoughts. If she does, I'm haunting you both.
I snorted before I could stop myself.
Skyla glanced sideways. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, waving it off. "Zoey's just... being Zoey."
Her lips quirked. "I'm starting to learn what that means."
The clouds ahead thinned, and the skyline came into view, glass towers glinting through the haze, the Hudson a ribbon of silver light beneath us.
Skyla steadied the plane with a small correction, her voice quieter now. "You look nervous."
"Just realizing I might be in over my head."
She smiled without looking away from the horizon. "Good. Means you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
The altimeter ticked lower as the city grew closer, sunlight rippling across the fuselage.
We arrived in New York just as the afternoon light started bouncing off the glass towers, painting the streets in gold and gray. Zoey had been quiet the whole ride, which usually meant she was either thinking too much or plotting something. By the time we reached the hotel, I finally asked what was on her mind.
Atrea, she said in my head, her tone calm but deliberate, I think I'm sitting this one out.
That stopped me in my tracks. You're what?
She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. I said I'm skipping the Burgh battle. Let Trilla and Scizor handle it. I need to work on something else anyway.
Something else, I repeated, half in disbelief. You hate missing a fight.
Yeah, well... bug types piss me off. Her eyes narrowed, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Besides, I've been thinking about what happened with Skyla. I got off easy against her Swoobat, but whenever I battle Flying types, I feel like I'm fighting ghosts. If I can learn to adapt and read them, I'll be even more effective. I figured maybe she can help.
I followed her glance toward Skyla, who was unpacking her flight gear from her duffel near the curb. You want to train with Skyla?
She's a pilot, right? She knows how Flying types think. If I can't fly, I might as well learn how to fight like I can.
I hesitated, then nodded. Alright... I'll let her know.
I turned to Skyla, who looked up as I approached. "Hey, Zoey wants to sit out my Gym match tomorrow. She, uh, wants your help with something instead."
Skyla blinked, clearly surprised. "Really? She said that?"
"Yeah," I said, smiling faintly. "She wants to get better at countering Flying types. Figured you'd be the best person to teach her."
Skyla tilted her head, a grin spreading across her face. "Well, I can't say no to that. She's got the reflexes for it. I'll run her through some agility drills while you're with Burgh."
Zoey nodded toward her, giving a confident smirk that Skyla couldn't interpret, but I easily could. Guess we've got a deal.
Skyla laughed softly, though she couldn't hear the words. "I have no idea what that look means, but I'll take it as a yes."
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. "Be careful with her. She's got an ego and claws to match."
"Don't worry," Skyla said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. "I've dealt with worse attitudes in the cockpit."
Zoey's eyes glinted. We'll see about that.
As the two of them walked off toward the training fields by the pier, I couldn't help feeling a strange hollowness. Zoey had been by my side in every battle since day one. It almost felt wrong getting into one without her. But watching her stride off with Skyla, tail flicking with quiet determination, I knew she'd made the right call.
The afternoon light in New York was sharp and cold, bouncing off the windows like it was trying to burn the fog away. Skyla and Zoey were at the training field by the waterfront, which left me with the rest of the team.
Trilla sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, her dress catching the soft glow of the TV. Scizor stood by the window, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his breathing vents. Simon rested on the balcony rail, tail swaying lazily, his wings humming a low rhythm as he watched the city below.
I called them over as I spread Burgh's gym schematic across the coffee table. The paper was creased from the long day, but the diagram itself was mesmerizing. A sprawling circular arena covered in irregular patches of platforms, vines, and puddles of color where paint had clearly been spilled intentionally.
"An art installation and a battlefield," I muttered, tracing one finger along the central ring. "Figures."
Simon leaned over my shoulder, his wings folded tight so he wouldn't clip the lamps. Looks like a trap to me. Half those ledges don't even connect.
"They don't," I said. "Some of them rotate. The League notes say the terrain changes between rounds, but it doesn't say why."
Trilla sat cross-legged on the carpet, eyes glowing faintly as she studied the blueprint. Her voice brushed against my mind, gentle as always. The energy readings on the floor markers don't look natural. Psychic influence, maybe?
I shook my head. "Burgh's not a Psychic specialist. It's something mechanical. Maybe the system reacts to movement, like the field 'responds' to the art being made."
Simon tilted his head. So... we paint the floor while trying not to get wrecked.
"That's one way to put it," I said, smiling despite myself.
Scizor stood behind us, silent as usual, the low whir of his thrusters the only sound he made. His gaze lingered on the patterns marked in red. Bursts that looked almost like splatters. He pointed to them with one claw.
I followed the gesture. "Yeah. That's where the paint underneath the floor accumulates. Maybe attacks and movement leave pigment trails, and each change in color triggers the arena shift."
Trilla glanced up at me. So the battlefield changes as the fight becomes more... expressive?
"Exactly," I said. "Burgh's whole thing is creativity in motion. Every move is a brushstroke. Every battle is a painting." I paused, staring at the diagram again. "We can speculate all we want, but I don't know for sure what triggers the transformation between rounds. It could be a timer, or maybe he decides when the 'piece' is complete."
Simon let out a low hum, his tail twitching. I hate surprises.
"You and me both," I said. I folded the schematic and tucked it back into my bag. "Still, if it's art we're talking about, then chaos is part of the plan. We'll adapt."
Trilla smiled faintly, folding her hands in her lap. You always say that, and yet you always do.
Scizor nodded once, his metal frame gleaming under the dim lamp.
I leaned back against the couch, letting the sound of the rain fill the silence. "We're heading out in 30. Just know that this battle is likely going to be messy," I said. "But that's okay. Sometimes the best art is."
Simon smirked, the faintest flicker of flame in his eyes. Then let's make something unforgettable.
The moment I stepped onto Burgh's battlefield, I felt like I'd walked into a dream.
The floor beneath me wasn't solid; it shimmered like glass suspended over a pool of swirling pigment. Streaks of blue, green, and gold flowed lazily beneath the transparent surface, forming abstract shapes that pulsed faintly with each breath I took. Every few seconds, the colors shifted, like the whole arena was alive and waiting for someone to wake it.
Burgh stood on the opposite side, surrounded by half-finished sculptures and frames of dried paint. His scarf trailed down his back like a ribbon of crimson silk. "Magnificent, isn't it?" he said, smiling as though we were at an art exhibit instead of a battlefield.
"It's... different," I admitted. "I've never seen a field like this."
He stepped forward, gesturing toward the floor. "The arena is built on a kinetic substructure. Beneath this glass are pigment channels, motion sensors, and heat conductors. Every time one of our Pokémon attacks, the energy leaves a 'stroke' of color across the canvas. When enough strokes form harmony, color, energy, and direction, the system responds. The terrain reshapes itself to reflect the 'emotion' of the round."
"So the field changes based on how the battle's going," I said slowly.
"Exactly," he said, eyes gleaming. "A battle is just another kind of expression. Passion. Fear. Determination. Each match paints its own story, whether the trainer realizes it or not."
He looked at me, grin softening. "Would you like to make one together?"
I felt a spark of adrenaline course through me. "Gladly. Let's paint a picture."
I palmed Trilla's Poké Ball. "You're up."
She materialized in a flash of light, hovering just above the glass, her dress swaying gently in the rising current of warm air. The pigments below her rippled, tinting faintly pink as if responding to her presence.
Burgh's voice carried across the field. "Then let my brush strike first. Galvantula, spark brilliance!"
The electric spider hit the floor with a metallic click, eight legs spreading with eerie precision. Its yellow fur crackled with static, the pigment beneath it blooming into amber and cobalt veins.
Trilla's voice brushed against my mind. He's fast.
"I know," I said quietly. "Start by reading his rhythm. Keep your distance."
The referee raised a hand. "Battle begin!"
Galvantula moved first, spitting a Thunder Shock that streaked across the arena like a neon whip. Trilla slid aside, but the bolt left a glowing streak of yellow behind it that sank through the glass. The entire floor pulsed in response.
A low hum built beneath my feet, followed by a mechanical groan as the glass panels shifted and reformed. A section of the field near Trilla rose into a tilted platform, shimmering with electric light.
Burgh's grin widened. "There! The first emotion revealed. Caution, bright yellow, steep angles. You're already painting defensively, Atrea."
Trilla landed lightly on the new platform, her eyes narrowing. The field moves on its own.
Adapt to it, I said. Disrupt his footing.
Her eyes glowed blue as she unleashed a wave of telekinetic force. The ripple swept forward, distorting the pigments like a brush dragged through wet paint. Galvantula braced, its claws digging into the floor, but the psychic energy lifted it off its feet and sent it skidding backward.
The moment it hit the wall, a bloom of indigo light spread beneath it, fanning out like an ink spill. The hum returned, and the arena shifted again. This time, the glass panels rose unevenly, creating jagged ridges that fractured the reflections of both Pokémon.
Burgh snapped his fingers. "Now, Galvantula, Electroweb!"
The spider fired a burst of glowing silk that struck one of the elevated ridges and burst outward, draping half the arena in a lattice of golden threads. The pigment below the web shimmered and brightened until the whole left side of the field glowed like molten glass.
Trilla raised a shimmering wall of light around herself, deflecting the silk that came her way. Sparks hissed as they struck her barrier, filling the air with ozone.
He's turning the environment against me.
Then use it, I said.
Let him create his pattern, then fracture it. Shadow Ball!
She gathered a sphere of black energy between her palms, hurling it straight through the webbing. The orb burst like ink splattered from a brush, staining the gold lattice in violet arcs before smashing into Galvantula's chest.
The spider screeched, electricity flaring as it tumbled backward. The pigments beneath it rippled violently, deepening to near-black before erupting outward like a storm cloud.
The floor shifted once more, this time violently. The platforms rearranged into curved, wave-like ridges that caught the light in ribbons of violet and silver.
Burgh's voice softened, almost reverent. "Contrast born of collision. Chaos given beauty. You fight like someone who's lived through loss."
His words struck something deep, but I didn't answer. Trilla's voice flickered faintly in my mind. He's tiring. His movements are slower now.
Then let's finish the piece.
Trilla rose slightly, the air around her shimmering with psychic light. Psychic, I commanded, though the thought barely needed to leave my mind.
The energy around her condensed, then expanded outward in a shockwave that rippled through the pigments below. The floor came alive with motion, streaks of color twisting together like paint drawn through water.
Galvantula screamed as the telekinetic surge lifted it clean off the ground, flinging it backward into the glass. The impact shattered the surface beneath it in a pattern of light.
When the dust settled, the spider lay still. The pigments beneath it had coalesced into a breathtaking pattern, swirling violet and electric gold converging into the shape of a single blooming flower.
Burgh exhaled slowly, his smile returning. "A masterpiece of restraint and empathy. Truly beautiful."
Trilla lowered herself back to the ground, her breathing heavy. Was that enough?
I smiled, heart still pounding. "Yeah," I said softly. "That was perfect."
The shield dome above us dimmed as the system registered Galvantula's defeat. Burgh crossed the arena, studying the glowing pigments beneath our feet as though he were examining a painting instead of a battlefield.
He crouched by the fractured glass where Galvantula had fallen, fingertips brushing the swirling mix of violet and gold light that still pulsed faintly below. "You see it, don't you?" he said, almost to himself. "Two forces meeting in harmony rather than destruction. Psychic grace colliding with primal electricity, yet neither erasing the other."
He looked up at me with a small, knowing smile. "That was the language of empathy. It sets the emotional tone for the next act, something sharper, more deliberate. A contrast stroke."
He straightened, his voice brightening again. "Let's bring that edge to life, shall we?"
I already knew who to send out. "Scizor, let's paint with precision."
He emerged in a burst of red light that reflected off every glass surface like a flash of liquid metal. His claws snapped open and shut with a clean clack, the faint hiss of his thrusters audible even over the hum of the arena's shifting plates.
Burgh's grin widened. "Perfect. Then allow me to introduce his counterpart. Leavanny!"
A beam of green light shot across the field, materializing into the mantis-like form of Leavanny, its arms folded elegantly like blades of polished jade. It gave a graceful bow to Scizor, an artist acknowledging a rival.
The pigments below their feet began to swirl again, bright green bleeding into the violet left behind by Trilla's Psychic surge. Burgh gestured broadly. "The field remembers emotion. Your Gardevoir left serenity behind; now it bends toward tension, toward form. The stage is ready for conflict."
I folded my arms. "Then let's not waste the canvas."
The referee dropped his hand. "Begin!"
Leavanny moved first, its movements so fluid they barely disturbed the air. Burgh's command rang out like a conductor calling the next note. "Leaf Blade!"
Leavanny dashed forward, twin arms glowing with emerald light. Scizor boosted sideways in a blur of red, his thrusters flaring. The strike missed by inches, slicing a streak of bright green across the glass that bled downward into the pigments.
The floor responded instantly. The glass panels shifted into vertical slats, stretching upward like sheets of folded paper. The battlefield narrowed and turned into a corridor of shimmering emerald and violet.
I smirked. "He's painting a frame."
Burgh's eyes gleamed. "Every artist needs structure."
Fine, I said. Let's break it. Bullet Punch!
Scizor's thrusters roared to life. He vanished in a blur and reappeared at Leavanny's flank, his claw punching forward with explosive precision. The impact landed cleanly, metal on chitin, a flash of silver light bursting outward as the pigments beneath them splattered upward like liquid mercury.
The field shuddered. New streaks of silver and crimson bled into the green, the colors twisting into jagged lightning-bolt patterns that climbed the vertical panels.
Burgh laughed, delighted. "Aggression! Control! Your Scizor doesn't just fight! He chisels!"
Leavanny staggered but didn't fall. It steadied itself, eyes narrowing. "Stringshot," Burgh called.
Silken threads shimmered into being between Leavanny's blades, stretching across the field in geometric precision. Each thread caught the light, forming a glowing lattice that enclosed Scizor in a cage of silver-green.
Use your boosters to pivot!
Scizor dropped into a crouch, angled his thrusters, and fired. The burst sent him spinning sideways along the floor, sparks trailing from his claws as he carved through the threads in a cyclone of motion. The sliced silk fell around him in glowing ribbons that melted back into the pigment below.
Burgh watched, awestruck. "A blur of red cutting through order, chaos asserting itself again! Magnificent!"
Focus, I said. Acrobatics go!
Scizor's body began to vibrate as he leapt into the air before slamming into Leavanny like a freight train. The impact sent both of them skidding across the slick glass. When they stopped, Leavanny trembled, arms shaking.
The pigment beneath them flashed white once, then the floor stilled.
Burgh raised a hand, almost reverently. "That, my dear Atrea, was the decisive stroke. A clash so pure it left the canvas blank, two extremes canceling each other out."
The referee's voice cut through the hush. "Leavanny is unable to battle! Victory goes to Scizor!"
Scizor straightened, steam rising faintly from his armor. He looked back at me and gave a single nod before retracting his claws.
I smiled. "Good work. You just signed your name on the painting."
Burgh's laughter filled the arena. "Two battles, two distinct brushstrokes, and both tell the same story: precision guided by empathy. I can't wait to see how you end this."
He reached for his final Poké Ball, holding it like a paintbrush poised over a masterpiece. "For the final movement... let's see if your art can keep up with my rhythm."
The capsule clicked open, releasing a flare of crimson and light that coalesced into his final Pokémon, a Scolipede.
Its roar echoed through the gallery, and the pigments below ignited in red spirals that rippled outward like wet paint on fire.
Scolipede didn't wait for the signal.
The moment the shield finished sealing around the field, it lunged.
The centipede's massive body blurred forward, slamming into Simon before he even had a chance to spread his wings. The impact was brutal, chitin and muscle colliding in a thunderous crack. Simon crashed backward across the glass, talons clawing deep furrows through the slick surface before he managed to stop himself.
You alright?
He shook the dust from his scales, tail lashing. He hits hard. Fast, too.
Don't let him keep that momentum, I called. Close the distance and use Dragon Claw!
Simon roared, wings snapping open in a green flare. He shot forward, claws igniting with emerald light as he raked them across Scolipede's armor. Sparks flew. The Bug-type shrieked, skidding backward as a slash mark burned bright across its carapace.
Burgh grinned. "Beautiful! Force against form!"
Scolipede hissed, mandibles clicking. "Megahorn!"
It charged again, faster, lower, a streak of red and white lightning tearing across the fractured glass. The arena responded instantly, pigments rippling in red spirals beneath its feet.
Simon, hold steady, I warned. Let him come to you.
He didn't flinch. The ground trembled as the massive centipede closed in, horns lowered like twin lances ready to pierce straight through him.
At the last instant, Simon tilted his head, wings flaring once. The movement sent a concussive hum into the air, a low-powered Supersonic. The frequency hit Scolipede just as it lunged, throwing off its trajectory by a fraction.
It was all Simon needed.
He reached out and caught both horns.
Burgh's eyes widened. "What?!"
Scolipede's claws dug into the glass, thrashing violently, its muscles straining against Simon's grip. The Flygon's claws locked tighter, his entire frame trembling from the force. Cracks branched out along the surface beneath them.
"Break free, Scolipede!" Burgh shouted, voice rising. "Steamroller now!"
The centipede tried to spin, to twist its weight, but Simon slammed his tail into the ground with a force that shook the entire arena.
Earthquake!
The move didn't shatter the glass as the PAP shield system absorbed the destructive energy. But the kinetic shockwave that rippled outward buckled Scolipede's legs instantly. The creature screeched, losing its balance, trapped halfway between strength and collapse.
The pigments beneath them flared into a chaotic mix of black and dark blue, spiraling around their feet like a whirlpool of violence.
Simon inhaled deeply, his voice low. You should've stayed down.
"Simon, wait!" I started, but it was too late.
For a heartbeat, all sound vanished.
Then came the Boomburst.
The blast detonated like a sonic warhead. A shockwave of sound and light erupted point-blank, slamming into Scolipede's face with cataclysmic force. The PAP barrier flared bright blue around the arena, absorbing the lethal pressure that would have otherwise torn the centipede apart, and maybe half the gym with it.
Even through the shield, I felt it in my chest, a concussive pulse that rattled the glass and drove me to one knee. The pigments below the combatants rippled violently, liquefying into a storm of blue, black, and green.
When the air cleared, Scolipede lay motionless, sprawled across the fractured floor. Its horns were scorched black, its breath faint but steady.
Simon stood over it, chest heaving, wings still spread wide as the last echo of the Boomburst faded.
Burgh slowly lowered his arm, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. "By the gods..." he whispered. "That wasn't battle. That was detonation."
I exhaled, my pulse still hammering. You didn't have to go that hard.
Simon turned his head slightly, his voice calm but resolute. He would have if I hadn't.
Burgh approached the edge of the arena, his scarf drifting in the settling air. "I've seen challengers paint beauty through chaos before, but you... Your team doesn't just fight, Atrea. You express the cost of power itself."
He crouched, pressing a palm to the trembling floor. The pigments around Simon's feet began to pulse again, forming new color, blue melting into red, red into white, until a vivid image bloomed beneath the glass.
A worn swing set, framed in fading sunlight.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat.
Burgh glanced at me, his voice quiet now. "The field doesn't create at random. It pulls from what lingers deepest in the trainer's heart."
Trilla's voice whispered at the edge of my mind. That memory... It's yours, isn't it?
I nodded faintly, unable to look away.
Burgh's tone softened. "Every battle here leaves a mark on the canvas, and on the one who painted it."
He reached into his coat, producing the Insect Badge. Its metallic wings catching the arena's fading light.
"Take it," he said. "And remember, sometimes what we create reveals what we've hidden from ourselves."
I accepted it with a trembling hand. "Thank you."
As the pigments faded and the barrier dissolved, Simon exhaled, lowering his wings. I placed a hand on his arm, feeling the residual hum of energy still pulsing through him.
"Let's get you some rest," I whispered.
He glanced toward the swing set one last time, the image flickering faintly before dissolving completely. Whatever that was, he murmured, it scared you more than Scolipede ever could.
Yeah, I said. Because I think I've seen it before.
"Please allow me to walk you out, my dear."
I nodded and followed him.
"I owe you an apology," he said as we moved. "My arenas are meant to reflect emotion, not drag it out. I didn't expect the field to reach so deeply into your memories."
I folded my arms. "You mean the swing set."
He nodded. "Every battlefield here is tied to a sensory algorithm. It pulls emotional residue from both trainer and Pokémon. Like an imprint. Normally it manifests as abstract color, but occasionally..." He hesitated. "Occasionally, it finds something a touch more personal. A moment the heart refuses to let go of."
I looked down at the badge again. The pattern on its surface almost seemed to shift in the light, like the metal remembered what it had witnessed. "So it showed a memory I don't even remember having?"
"Perhaps," Burgh said softly, "your soul remembered for you."
That lingered in the air long after he left us.
Outside, the city buzzed as usual, but the sound felt distant. Trilla walked beside me, her psychic aura faint but steady. For a while, neither of us said anything. Then, finally, I asked, When you tried to wake me from that nightmare in Santa Monica... did you see anything?
She hesitated. I wasn't sure if I should tell you.
"Tell me now," I said quietly.
Her voice slipped into my thoughts like ripples through water. You were in a park. The same one I saw on the arena floor. There was a child on a swing, and behind her stood a woman, smiling, but... wrong somehow. Her aura was fractured, like it couldn't decide what it was.
I swallowed. "And then?"
Trilla's hands tightened at her sides. When I reached toward you, something else appeared behind them. I could only see its silhouette, but it had one distinguishing feature.
"That being?"
A red collar around its neck.
Was there anything else?
Yes. It told me, "You aren't welcome here, little one. This is my domain." before I was hit with a force so strong it literally knocked me out of your dream.
"Well, I'm just glad you're okay."
Trilla didn't reply, instead fixing me with a nervous look as I returned both her and Simon to their Poké Balls. I'd told Skyla I'd meet up with her later since she and Zoey were still running flight drills somewhere over the bay, and with Simon and Trilla now resting in their balls, that left me with exactly one companion.