The morning after the meadow, Orion arrived at Pokémon Home to find the city's mood had shifted overnight.
He felt it before he saw it. The Aura around the building was different. Not hostile. Not afraid. Something worse. Uncertain.
Latias was waiting at the front desk. She had not changed into her human form. She stood in her true shape, her red-and-white feathers pressed flat against her body, her yellow eyes tracking the tablet in her talons.
"Orion," she said telepathically. "You should see this."
He took the tablet. The headline was from the Daily Bugle, but it was not the Bugle that concerned him. It was the editorial underneath it, shared and reposted and translated into six languages before breakfast.
THE POKÉMON QUESTION: WHO PROTECTS US FROM THE PROTECTORS?
Jameson's byline. The same Jameson who had been skeptical from the beginning. But this was not the gruff bluster Orion had weathered before. This was something sharper. Something that had found its moment.
The editorial did not call Pokémon dangerous. It did not call Orion a fraud. It asked questions. Careful, reasonable, unanswerable questions.
If Pokémon can be weaponized — and we have seen evidence that they can — what safeguards exist? If a trainer loses control of their partner, who is held accountable? If a child is injured, what legal recourse do parents have? If the festival proceeds in Central Park, who bears the liability? Orion Oak? The city? The parents who signed waivers they may not fully understand?
The piece went on. It cited the Mole Man incident. The HYDRA raid. The Electro attack. It did not exaggerate any of it. It did not need to.
Orion read it twice. Then he scrolled through the responses.
The Chronicle had published a similar piece. The Gotham Gazette. The Daily Planet. Three cable news segments. A podcast episode that had been recorded at midnight and had two million downloads by dawn.
The criticism was no longer a single voice. It was a chorus.
He set the tablet down on the counter. Pikachu, who had been watching from the desk, tilted his head.
"I am not worried," Orion said.
Latias's feathers ruffled. "The editorial is being shared by city council members. Commissioner Albright's office has received four hundred calls this morning."
"I know."
"Orion." Latias stepped closer. Her telepathic voice was calm, but he could feel the tension beneath it. "This is not one angry man with a printing press. This is a coordinated response."
"I know," he said again. "That is why I am not worried. I am paying attention."
He picked up the tablet again. Not to reread the editorial. To read the responses beneath it. The comments. The threads. The messages from people who were not journalists or politicians or critics.
My daughter has been talking about nothing else for weeks. She's seven. She wants to see a Pikachu. Is that so wrong?
I don't trust Orion Oak. But I don't trust Jameson either. I want to see for myself.
I just want to know if it's safe. That's all. Just tell me if it's safe.
Orion set the tablet down again.
He had been reacting. Every interview, every statement, every careful response to criticism. He had been letting other people define what Pokémon were, and then arguing against their definitions. He had been playing defense.
He was done playing defense.
"Latias," he said. "Get Pikachu. We are going to talk."
The preparation was not what Latias expected.
She had assumed Orion would draft talking points. Brief Pepper. Coordinate with Lucius. Prepare a polished response that could be distributed through official channels.
Instead, Orion went to the Sanctuary.
He walked through the portal with Pikachu on his shoulder and no plan in his head. He walked to the Deerling meadow first. The herd was there, grazing in the early light. The doe with autumn-colored fur lifted her head as he approached. She did not run. She watched him with dark, quiet eyes.
He sat in the grass. Pikachu hopped down and sniffed at a patch of clover.
He did not rehearse answers. He remembered experiences.
He remembered the first time he had seen a Pokémon. The wonder. The fear. The sense that the world was larger than he had been told.
He remembered Pikachu choosing him. Not the other way around. The small yellow creature had walked up to him in the Sanctuary, looked at him with those bright black eyes, and decided. Not because Orion was special. Because Orion was there, and was willing, and did not try to force it.
He remembered the Poliwag by the stream. The way they had been suspicious. The way one had splashed him, and he had laughed, and the others had crept closer. Not because he had offered food. Because he had laughed. Because he had shown them he was not a threat by being genuinely, foolishly delighted by a tiny blue frog splashing him in the face.
He remembered Aggron at the grotto. The way the massive creature had stood at the entrance, not blocking it but guarding it. The way Orion had stopped talking and started listening. The way Aggron's red eyes had softened.
He remembered Zygarde. The Core, small and glowing, pulsing with ancient purpose. The 10% Forme, swift and fierce and utterly devoted to balance. The way Zygarde did not care about human opinions. Zygarde cared about the ecosystem. About what was real.
He sat in the meadow for an hour. Then he walked to the Poliwag stream. Then he found Zygarde patrolling the forest edge, the green-and-black canine form moving through the trees like a shadow with purpose.
He did not speak to any of them. He just walked. And Pikachu followed. And the Sanctuary breathed around him, and he remembered why he was doing this.
Not to sell tickets. Not to prove Jameson wrong. Not to protect his reputation or his business or his mission.
Because the world was larger than anyone had been told. And the people deserved to see it for themselves.
***
Give power stones to support this book.
Advance chapters in P@T0n Najicablitz.