The path to Aggron's Grotto climbs through wounded terrain. Orion picks his way over roots that HYDRA's machines tore from the earth, past scorch marks where their equipment burned through undergrowth. Pikachu rides on his shoulder, ears perked forward. Celebi flits between the trees ahead, her wings leaving faint trails of light that fade as quickly as they appear.
Orion rehearses under his breath.
"Rest stations every two hundred meters. Trained handlers — people who've already bonded with Pokémon. Emergency protocols for weather, for crowd surges, for any situation where a Pokémon feels threatened. And the choice is real. Any Pokémon can leave at any time. No barriers. No locks."
Pikachu makes a small sound. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just listening.
"I know," Orion says. "I'm talking like a salesman."
He adjusts the strap of his sack. Inside it: Poké Blocks, a first aid kit, and a small portable speaker he's been using to play recordings of festival sounds — music, laughter, the hum of a crowd. He hasn't played it for Aggron yet. He's not sure he will.
The grotto appears around a bend in the trail. The entrance is a gap in the mountainside, framed by rock that glints with mineral deposits. The ground around it is scarred — boot prints, tire tracks, the gouges left by HYDRA's equipment. But green is pushing through. Vines creeping over the damaged stone. Moss reclaiming the soil.
Aggron stands at the entrance.
He doesn't move. He doesn't need to. His bulk fills the gap entirely — three meters of steel and muscle and ancient, territorial fury held in check. His red eyes fix on Orion the moment he rounds the bend. They don't blink.
Orion stops ten meters away. Pikachu's fur bristles. Celebi hovers at Orion's shoulder, her glow dimming to something cautious.
"Alpha Aggron," Orion says. His voice is steady. He's practiced this. "My name is Orion Oak. I'm the custodian of Pokémon Home. I've come to ask you something."
Aggron doesn't respond. The red eyes don't waver.
Orion takes a breath and steps forward. One step. Two. He stops again, well outside the range of those massive legs.
"There's going to be a festival," he says. "In Central Park, in New York City. Three cities, actually — New York, Metropolis, and Gotham. It's an educational event. Humans and Pokémon, together. No battles. No captures. Just... meeting. Learning. Choosing."
A low sound builds in Aggron's chest. Not a growl. Something deeper. The sound of tectonic plates shifting.
Orion keeps going. "I've arranged rest stations every two hundred meters. Trained handlers — people who already understand Pokémon. Emergency protocols for every scenario I could think of. And the choice is real. Any Pokémon who comes can leave whenever they want. No barriers. No cages. No collars."
He's talking faster now. The words he rehearsed on the trail are coming out in a rush, and he can feel them hitting the air and dissolving. Aggron hasn't moved. Hasn't blinked. The red eyes are fixed on him with the patience of stone.
Orion describes the infrastructure. The medical tents. The water stations. The shaded areas for Pokémon who don't like sun. He mentions the heroes — Batgirl, Valeria, the ones who fought HYDRA in this very mountain. He mentions the Pokémon they saved. The Teddiursa. The Bellsprout. The Vulpix.
Aggron shifts his weight. The ground trembles. A low rumble builds in his chest, and for a moment Orion thinks it's aggression — the prelude to a charge, to Iron Head, to being launched off the mountainside.
But it's not.
It's weariness.
Orion stops talking. The silence that follows is thick and heavy. He can hear his own heartbeat. Can hear Pikachu's small, quick breathing. Can hear, from deep inside the grotto, the soft sounds of Pokémon resting.
He's been talking at Aggron. Not to him. At him. Like a pitch. Like a proposal. Like something that can be negotiated.
Orion closes his mouth. He waits.
Aggron waits.
The mountain breathes around them.
Then — a sound from inside the grotto. Small. Insistent.
The Teddiursa lifts its head from the moss bed where it's been resting. Its dark eyes find Orion through the entrance, and it makes a soft chittering sound. Not alarm. Recognition.
The Bellsprout stirs next to it. Then the Vulpix, its tail curling as it rises.
They remember.
One by one, they move toward the entrance. Not rushing. Not afraid. The Teddiursa reaches Aggron first and nudges the massive Pokémon's leg with its nose. The sound it makes is gentle. A question, not a demand.
The Bellsprout joins it. Then the Vulpix. Then others — a Pidgey with a bandaged wing, a Wurmple that HYDRA's nets scraped raw, a Shinx with singed fur. The Pokémon the heroes carried to safety. The ones Aggron has been guarding since the bunker fell.
They gather around his legs. They call out — not in fear, not in urgency. In something else. Something that sounds like want.
Aggron looks down at them.
The red glow in his eyes shifts. Dims. Not to darkness — to something warmer. Something that has been buried under layers of duty and fury and the weight of being the mountain's last line of defense.
He turns back to Orion.
A single sound comes from him. Low. Deep. Resonant. It vibrates through the ground and up through Orion's boots and into his chest. Not a word. Not a yes or a no. An acknowledgment. A recognition that the world outside the grotto is changing, and that the ones he protects want to see it.
The grotto's Pokémon respond. A chorus of chirps and calls and soft cries fills the space — not demanding, not pleading. Just alive. Just present.
Orion feels something shift in the air. A door opening that he didn't build and can't control.
He bows his head. Not in submission. In respect.
"Thank you," he says. Quietly. Just enough.
He turns and walks back down the trail. Pikachu looks over his shoulder at the grotto. Celebi circles once, her light brightening, then follows.
Behind them, Aggron watches. The red glow in his eyes has settled into something that isn't fury. Isn't suspicion.
It's the look of a guardian who has just learned that protection doesn't always mean a locked door.
The mountain breathes. The grotto settles. And somewhere in the moss and stone, a Teddiursa curls back into its bed, content.
***
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Advance chapters in P@T0n Najicablitz.