The Parks Department building smells like old paper and burnt coffee. Orion walks through the revolving doors with Pepper Potts on his left and Lucius Fox on his right, and he's aware of how this looks — the enigmatic shopkeeper flanked by two of the most recognizable corporate minds in the country. That's exactly the point.
Pepper had insisted on joining the meeting after reviewing Orion's proposal. "You're asking for Central Park," she'd said over the phone, her tone carrying that particular blend of amusement and steel. "You're going to need someone who knows how to talk to people who think they own the ground." Lucius had come because Wayne Enterprises' legal team had flagged seventeen zoning conflicts in the draft proposal, and because Bruce had told him to "make sure Orion doesn't accidentally start a war with the city." Both of them understood something Orion had learned quickly: in this world, good ideas don't survive contact with bureaucracy on their own. They need armor.
The conference room is on the fourth floor. Commissioner Albright is already seated when they arrive — a woman in her late fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled back tight and the expression of someone who has sat through ten thousand meetings and enjoyed perhaps three. Beside her is Assistant Director Chen, younger, with glasses and a tablet he grips like a life preserver.
"Mr. Oak." Albright doesn't stand. "I'll be honest. When I saw the request, I thought it was a prank."
"It's not a prank, Commissioner." Orion takes his seat and sets his Poké Ball cane against the table. "It's a proposal for a three-day educational festival in Central Park, designed to facilitate safe, supervised interaction between the public and Pokémon."
Albright's eyes move to Pepper, then to Lucius. "And you brought Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises as... what? Character references?"
"Partners," Pepper says smoothly. "Stark Industries is handling digital infrastructure and security. Wayne Enterprises is managing physical logistics and legal compliance. Mr. Oak is the subject matter expert."
"The subject matter expert." Albright repeats the phrase like it tastes sour. "Mr. Oak, do you understand what you're asking? Central Park receives forty-two million visitors a year. You want to fill it with creatures that — and I'm quoting the incident reports — can generate lightning, breathe fire, and in one case, collapse a building."
"That was Mole Man's device," Orion says. "Not a Pokémon."
"The distinction is not as clear as you think." Albright opens a folder. "Section 14-C of the city code requires all animals in public parks to be leashed and vaccinated. Section 7-F prohibits the introduction of non-native species without environmental impact review. And I'm fairly certain there's a regulation somewhere about —" she flips a page, "— mythical creatures being required to have a handler with a Class D exotic wildlife license."
Pepper leans forward slightly. "Commissioner, with respect, Section 14-C was written for dogs. Are you proposing that a Charizard needs a leash?"
"I'm proposing that the law exists for a reason."
"The law exists to protect the public," Pepper counters. "Which is exactly what this festival is designed to do. Supervised interaction. Controlled environments. Trained handlers. We're not suggesting anyone release a Gyarados in the reservoir."
Chen stifles something that might be a cough. It might be a laugh.
Albright's expression doesn't change. "Ms. Potts, I appreciate your... enthusiasm. But enthusiasm doesn't address liability. If someone is injured —"
"Then we address it," Lucius says. He produces a slim leather portfolio and slides a document across the table. "Wayne Enterprises has drafted a comprehensive liability framework. Section three covers incident response protocols. Section seven outlines insurance requirements — we're proposing a ten-million-dollar policy underwritten by Wayne Financial. Section twelve addresses inter-species interaction guidelines, developed in consultation with Mr. Oak and reviewed by independent biologists."
Albright takes the document but doesn't open it. "You've been busy."
"We've been thorough," Lucius says.
Orion watches the exchange with quiet appreciation. Pepper is doing what Pepper does — finding the pressure points in the bureaucracy and pressing them with surgical precision, making the outdated regulations look as absurd as they are. And Lucius is doing what Lucius does — building a fortress of preparation so solid that objections have nowhere to land. They're a good team. Better than Orion expected.
But this is his fight.
He reaches into his coat and produces a small, clear sphere. Inside sits a Poké Block — vivid red, gleaming faintly, smelling faintly of spiced berries. He sets it on the table between Albright and himself.
"What is that?" Albright asks.
"A Poké Block. It's a nutritional supplement made from berries. Pokémon love them. This one was crafted by hand at Pokémon Home." Orion pauses. "Commissioner, I understand your concerns. They're valid. But I want you to look at that and understand what it represents. Someone made that — carefully, with knowledge and care — because a living being would enjoy it. That's what Pokémon are. Not weapons. Not pests. Beings that can be understood, cared for, and yes, partnered with."
Albright stares at the Poké Block. Her expression shifts — not softening, exactly, but recalibrating. She's looking at it the way someone looks at evidence that doesn't fit their model.
"Mr. Oak," she says slowly, "I've been in this department for twenty-two years. I've seen every kind of proposal come through this room. The ones that succeed are the ones where the person asking for something understands what they're risking."
"I understand what I'm risking."
"Do you? Because if this goes wrong — if someone gets hurt, if property is damaged, if the public panics — it's not just your reputation. It's the city's trust. And that's not something I can put in an insurance policy."
The room goes quiet. Chen stops tapping his tablet. Pepper's eyes meet Orion's — a brief, steady look that says your move.
Orion leans forward. "Commissioner, I won't accept a liability cap for Pokémon-related incidents."
Albright blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Pokémon are partners. Not equipment. If we treat them as things that can fail — as products with acceptable defect rates — we've already lost. Full accountability. No caps. If something goes wrong, Pokémon Home takes responsibility. Completely."
Lucius turns his head slightly. It's a small motion, but Orion catches it — a nod. Just barely. The old man understands.
Albright studies Orion for a long moment. Then she leans back in her chair.
"You're either very principled or very stupid, Mr. Oak."
"I've been told both."
Something shifts in Albright's face. Not a smile — she doesn't seem like someone who smiles easily — but a crack in the armor. A flicker of something that might be respect.
"Conditional approval in principle," she says. "You'll need environmental impact studies, public consultations, a full security review, and sign-off from the fire department, the police department, and the mayor's office. I'll need a folder — a thick one — on my desk within sixty days. If any single piece is missing, the whole thing is dead."
Chen exhales. He's been holding his breath.
"You'll have it," Orion says.
Albright stands. "I hope so. For your sake." She picks up the Poké Block sphere, turns it over in her fingers, and sets it back down. "Interesting little thing."
She leaves. Chen scrambles to gather his papers, nods nervously at Orion, and follows.
The three of them sit in the quiet room for a moment.
"Well," Pepper says, straightening her jacket. "That went better than expected."
"She's going to make us work for every inch," Orion says.
"Good." Pepper stands and picks up her tablet. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be worth doing." She pauses at the door and looks back. "The leash law line was fun, though. I'm going to remember that one."
Lucius is already on his phone, dictating notes to someone at Wayne Enterprises. "I'll have the environmental team started by tomorrow morning. We'll need to coordinate with Stark's security division on the perimeter plan."
"Thank you," Orion says. "Both of you. I couldn't have done that alone."
Pepper gives him a look — direct, appraising, warm. "You could have. But it would have taken twice the time and half the result." She taps the doorframe twice. "That's what partners are for, Mr. Oak."
She leaves. Lucius follows a moment later, phone still pressed to his ear, already three steps ahead on the next problem.
Orion sits alone in the conference room for a moment longer. He picks up the Poké Block sphere and holds it to the light. The red gleams deep and warm, like a heart still beating.
Central Park. Conditional approval. Sixty days.
It's a start.
He pockets the sphere, collects his cane, and walks out into the hallway. Through the window at the end of the corridor, he can see the city stretching out in every direction — concrete and glass and steel, forty-two million stories stacked on top of each other, and somewhere in all of it, a park big enough to hold a little bit of wonder.
Pikachu is waiting for him outside, sitting on the hood of the car, tail curled contentedly.
"PIKA!"
Orion smiles. "Yeah. I know. We've got work to do."
He opens the car door. Pikachu leaps onto his shoulder. And they drive toward whatever comes next.
***
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