Professor Linden

Chapter One

Professor Linden

Gray Linden had been Sinnoh’s regional Pokémon Professor for eleven minutes when someone handed him a clipboard.

He looked at it, then at the woman holding it, then back at the clipboard as if perhaps one of the three of them had misunderstood the situation.

It was a sturdy black thing with a League emblem stamped into the top. Six pages of tightly printed forms had been clipped beneath a yellow transfer sheet. There were colored tabs down one side. Somebody had gone through the trouble of marking every place he needed to sign.

Gray already hated it.

“What’s this?”

“The final laboratory transfer authorization,” the woman said. “You need to sign on each yellow tab, initial the blue ones, and date the last page.”

Gray looked at her again.

She was younger than him by a few years, probably late twenties. Blonde hair, neatly tied back. Practical clothes. A League-issued identification badge clipped at her waist. She had the posture of somebody who had spent enough time around administrators to know that slouching would somehow generate another form.

“Can’t you sign it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it transfers responsibility for the laboratory to you.”

“That sounds like an excellent reason for somebody else to sign it.”

For the first time, something shifted at the corner of her mouth.

Not quite a smile.

Good.

Gray accepted the clipboard and leaned against the reception counter. The Chatot on his shoulder immediately craned his neck down to inspect it too, his beak almost touching the page.

“Bullshit,” Chatot announced.

The woman's eyes moved to the Pokémon.

Gray uncapped the pen attached to the board. “He has opinions about institutional paperwork.”

“Bullshit!”

“He has a limited vocabulary for expressing them.”

“I’m beginning to see where he learned it.”

Gray looked up at her.

There it was again. Not a smile exactly, but close enough.

He signed the first line.

“Lyra, right?”

“Yes.”

“Scheduling.”

“My title is direct research assistant.”

“Right. Scheduling.”

“And research assistance.”

Gray initialed two boxes without reading them.

“And scheduling.”

“And laboratory coordination.”

“Scheduling with extra steps.”

Lyra folded her arms. “Did you actually read the employment packet before you chose me?”

“I read your résumé.”

“You interviewed me for eleven minutes.”

“Twelve.”

“Eleven.”

Gray thought back.

She might have been right.

“You knew that the structures commonly described as Kabuto’s eyes might not actually function as its primary visual organs.”

“You spent four minutes of the interview asking me about that.”

“It was interesting.”

“It had nothing to do with my qualifications.”

“It told me whether talking to you every day would become unbearable.”

That got the smile.

Small, but real.

Gray went back to the papers.

He’d interviewed eight people the League had sent him. Six had spoken to him like he was already an institution rather than a man who had, three days earlier, been living out of a field pack beside an excavation outside Solaceon. One had spent nearly the entire interview agreeing with everything Gray said, which was unsettling. Lyra had corrected him twice, disagreed with him once, and openly admitted that despite graduating near the top of her class from one of Sinnoh’s more obnoxiously prestigious academies, she’d spent the better part of a year unable to find work remotely connected to what she’d studied.

Gray appreciated honesty.

It was considerably more useful than confidence.

He turned another page.

The laboratory around them still felt half-finished despite the renovations. The League had spent nearly five million Pokédollars updating Rowan’s old facility before Gray moved in, which sounded impressive until one considered the cost of serious laboratory equipment.

Five million did not buy nearly as much centrifuge as people imagined.

Gray had requested forty million.

They had laughed.

He had not.

The central lobby smelled faintly of new paint over old plaster. Fresh computer terminals sat against walls that had probably witnessed several decades of increasingly frustrated graduate students. The main laboratory doors had been replaced, the electrical systems upgraded, and several old research rooms converted for more flexible use. The fossil restoration facilities, however, remained offensive.

Functional.

Perfectly respectable.

Utterly offensive.

Gray had submitted a revised proposal for twenty-eight million.

The League had not answered yet.

Cowards.

He signed another page.

“Where is everyone?”

Lyra glanced around. “Everyone who?”

“Rowan’s people.”

There had been no reception staff when Gray arrived that morning. No assistants. No technicians. Nobody nervously attempting to explain where Rowan had kept important records. Gray had assumed they were elsewhere in the building.

Lyra’s hesitation told him otherwise.

“The League offered Professor Rowan’s previous staff the opportunity to remain.”

Gray stopped writing.

“And?”

“They declined.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her.

Lyra clearly intended to remain diplomatic, which meant Gray would have to handle the other half of the conversation.

“Fuckers.”

Chatot straightened proudly.

“Fuckers!”

A man carrying a box through the lobby glanced toward them.

Lyra rubbed her forehead. “This is now the regional research laboratory for all of Sinnoh.”

“It was the regional research laboratory five minutes ago too.”

“You’re the Professor now.”

“Correct.”

“You may want to cultivate a certain degree of professionalism.”

Gray flipped to the last page. “I’m wearing a lab coat.”

“That isn’t what professionalism means.”

“Then the word has gotten too broad.”

He signed, dated, and handed the clipboard back to her.

Lyra checked every signature.

Gray watched her do it.

“You know,” he said, “if you keep checking my work immediately after I do it, I’m going to develop self-esteem problems.”

“You missed an initial.”

Gray took the clipboard back.

“Never mind. Good system.”

Chatot leaned toward Lyra.

“Good system!”

“He’s going to repeat everything, isn’t he?”

“Not everything.”

“Thank God.”

“He chooses based on how inconvenient it will be.”

Chatot gave her an innocent whistle.

Lyra looked suspiciously at him.

Smart woman.

Gray initialed the missed box and handed the papers back a second time. She inspected them, seemed satisfied, and tucked them under one arm.

“That’s it, then. Officially.”

“Officially what?”

“You’re Professor Linden.”

Gray’s hand paused halfway to his pocket.

He had heard the title before, mostly during the last several days of negotiations. League officials had used it. Reporters had used it when calling him for comments he hadn’t answered. A dean at Canalave University had sent a congratulatory message addressed that way.

It still had an unfamiliar weight to it.

Professor Linden.

Gray let the words sit for a moment.

He liked them.

Probably more than he should have.

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“Sounds about damn right.”

From his shoulder came an immediate, delighted, “Damn right!”

Lyra sighed.

Gray headed for the back doors.

The laboratory had been what convinced him to listen.

The ranch had been what convinced him to say yes.

Gray pushed through the rear doors and stepped into cool morning air. The property opened behind the building in a long stretch of field and woodland, nearly twenty-seven acres divided into a patchwork of habitats. A broad grassy paddock occupied the nearest section. Beyond it rose an artificial ridge of exposed stone, with several shallow caves built into the slope. There was a wooded section farther east, a rehabilitation enclosure near the medical wing, and a large pond near the low end of the property.

Most of the infrastructure had already existed under Rowan.

Gray had changed things.

Naturally.

He had expanded the rocky area, reinforced several sections of fencing, added two shelters large enough for his biggest Pokémon, moved a frankly irresponsible quantity of stone onto the property, and argued with the League for two straight days about why a ranch housing Rock and Steel Pokémon needed more than one industrial-strength water line.

The house was his favorite part.

It sat well away from the main laboratory, near the western edge of the ranch. Small, sturdy, and far enough from the road that Gray could theoretically pretend the public did not exist after business hours.

He'd moved in three days ago.

There were still boxes in the kitchen.

There were also fossil fragments on the dining table, three Pokémon beds in the hallway, a bag of mineral feed beside the refrigerator, and an Aerodactyl claw sitting on the bathroom windowsill for reasons Gray no longer remembered.

It felt like home already.

Bastiodon was standing outside it.

Of course he was.

Gray slowed as soon as he saw him.

Bastiodon stood with his body angled toward the laboratory, broad steel face shield catching the morning light. He had positioned himself beside the path leading to the house, where anyone approaching would have to pass beneath his attention.

Twenty-two years together and the old man had somehow become even more suspicious of strangers.

“Morning.”

Bastiodon’s eyes shifted toward him.

Then his head lifted.

The transformation was subtle but immediate. The rigid posture loosened. One heavy foot scraped the ground, and he started forward with the deliberate pace of something weighing several hundred pounds and entirely unconcerned about getting anywhere quickly.

Gray met him halfway.

“There he is.”

He pressed both palms against the broad shield of Bastiodon’s face and leaned in until his forehead rested against the cool metal.

Bastiodon rumbled low in his chest.

Gray smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Very difficult morning. People everywhere. Tragic.”

Another rumble.

“You’ll survive, old man.”

Bastiodon exhaled sharply through his nostrils and blew warm air into Gray’s beard.

Gray leaned back.

“Don’t give me attitude. You’re twenty-two.”

Behind him, Lyra said, “You call him old man?”

Gray glanced over his shoulder. “He is an old man.”

“He’s younger than you.”

“Biologically irrelevant.”

“That’s convenient.”

Bastiodon’s attention shifted toward her.

Gray noticed the change before Lyra did. Bastiodon didn’t become aggressive. He almost never did without reason. But his head lifted half an inch, his weight shifting forward.

“Move a little to your left.”

Lyra stopped. “Why?”

“He doesn’t know you yet.”

She moved.

Bastiodon watched her, then relaxed once she was no longer standing directly in front of Gray.

Lyra looked from Bastiodon to Gray. “You could have mentioned that before I came this close.”

“You noticed.”

“Because you told me.”

“Exactly. Excellent situational awareness.”

She gave him a flat look. “Your management style is going to kill me.”

“I have been your employer for”—Gray checked his watch—“nineteen minutes. Seems early to make that assessment.”

Bastiodon rumbled again.

Gray scratched under the edge of his jaw plate. “Don’t encourage her.”

Chatot hopped from Gray’s shoulder onto Bastiodon’s head, where he began preening one wing.

Bastiodon closed his eyes with the patience of a creature who had accepted long ago that certain indignities were permanent.

They stood there another moment.

Gray didn't hurry it.

He'd been away from his Pokémon more than he liked during the League negotiations, even though they were technically never far. Meetings in Jubilife. Two nights in Canalave. A day touring the renovated laboratory with people who used phrases like deliverables and stakeholder expectations without showing any visible shame.

The League had wanted him because Rowan had died without a successor.

That was the practical truth.

Gray was thirty-two. Young for the position. He knew it. They knew it. Every academic in Sinnoh would know it by lunchtime if they didn’t already.

But Gray had never needed the title.

That helped.

He'd published. Dug up things nobody had known existed. Worked fossil restoration in Hoenn. Spent years learning from people who knew more than he did. Battled enough in his youth that older trainers still occasionally recognized his name.

If the League decided in six months that this had been a catastrophic mistake, Gray would simply go back to sleeping in tents and sticking his hands into ancient holes.

Probably with less paperwork.

The thought was comforting.

He looked past Bastiodon toward the pond.

Something splashed.

Gray narrowed his eyes.

“Hold on.”

Lyra watched him start walking away. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

A second splash came from the pond.

Then a third.

Gray increased his pace.

The pond was larger than it looked from the laboratory, edged by reeds on one side and flat stones on the other. The previous facility had apparently used it for aquatic observation. Gray had converted it into something closer to a permanent habitat.

Mostly for Magikarp.

He liked Magikarp.

There was no intellectual justification for this.

Some things didn't require one.

Gray stopped at the bank and started counting.

One Magikarp drifted beneath the surface near the reeds.

Two and Three were fighting over something that was almost certainly not food.

Four had buried its face in the mud.

Five—

A Gyarados rose silently from deeper water.

Lyra, who had come up beside him, made a small noise.

Gray continued counting.

“Six. Seven. Eight.”

She stared at the enormous blue head now floating several yards away.

“Professor?”

“Nine. Ten.”

“Is that a Gyarados?”

“Yes.”

“I can see that. Why is there a Gyarados in the Magikarp pond?”

Gray frowned at her without losing his count. “Where else would I put him?”

“I don't know. A Gyarados enclosure?”

“He lives here.”

“Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…”

A second Gyarados surfaced.

Lyra slowly turned toward him.

Gray kept counting.

“Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.”

Number Seventeen launched itself bodily out of the water, struck the side of the dock with a wet slap, and fell back into the pond.

Gray pointed.

“That one's an asshole.”

Lyra watched the ripples.

“It’s a Magikarp.”

“Yes.”

“What can a Magikarp possibly have done to earn that description?”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Gray continued counting. “He knows.”

That was technically true.

Number Seventeen had once knocked out one of the Gyarados.

Gray still had no idea how.

The Gyarados had been asleep at the time, admittedly, but the mechanics of the incident remained offensive to reason.

“Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one…”

Lyra looked around the pond again. “How many Gyarados are actually in here?”

“Six.”

“Six?”

“At last count.”

“You didn't put six Gyarados on the inventory.”

“I put thirty-one aquatic Pokémon.”

“That is an extremely creative way to describe six Gyarados.”

“They were Magikarp.”

“They are not Magikarp now.”

“Sometimes they evolve. I'm not throwing them out for personal growth.”

That shut her up for three seconds.

“Twenty-eight,” Gray said. “Twenty-nine.”

He stopped.

Two Magikarp emerged lazily from beneath the dock.

Thirty.

Thirty-one.

Gray stared at them.

The new pair stared back.

He knew his Pokémon.

Not in some mystical way. He didn’t believe in mystical explanations when perfectly serviceable ones existed.

He knew them because he paid attention.

Different fin damage. Different scale patterns. Temperaments. Feeding habits. Number Twenty-Four had a tendency to chase reflected light. Number Eleven followed one particular Gyarados everywhere. Number Seven tolerated touch. Number Seventeen was evil.

These two were not his.

Or they had not been yesterday.

Gray crouched.

“Well.”

Lyra leaned over slightly. “What?”

“There are two extra Magikarp.”

“You bought more.”

“No.”

“They came with the transfer.”

“No.”

“They were hiding during the inventory.”

“I counted twice.”

Lyra considered the pond.

“So where did they come from?”

Gray smiled faintly.

“My pond has generated Magikarp.”

“No.”

“We cannot dismiss spontaneous Magikarp generation without evidence.”

“We absolutely can.”

“Closed-minded.”

“Professor, there are six Gyarados living in the same pond. I think the more likely explanation is that something happened while you weren’t watching.”

Gray looked at her.

“Seven hours.”

“What?”

“I was asleep for seven hours.”

“You say that like it’s unusual.”

“It was a good night.”

A tremendous splash hit the bank.

Cold water soaked Gray from chest to knees.

Lyra took most of it across the face.

They stood silently.

Number Seventeen floated near the surface.

Gray wiped water out of his beard.

Lyra lowered her hands very slowly.

Gray pointed at the fish.

“See?”

Her hair was dripping.

“I believe you.”

“Good.”

Number Seventeen splashed once and disappeared.

Lyra stared after him with something approaching hatred.

Gray liked her a little more.

Gray's office had survived the renovations largely intact, which was the correct decision because the room itself was excellent.

Tall windows looked over the ranch. One wall had been fitted with shelves from floor to ceiling. Another held a large digital display, two whiteboards, and a corkboard Gray had already covered with copies of excavation photographs. The furniture was mostly new, though he'd kept Rowan's heavy wooden desk after discovering it had enough drawers to organize properly.

Everything had a place.

That surprised people.

Gray wasn't sure why.

His shelves were arranged by subject, region, and usefulness. Field journals occupied one section. Ancient Sinnoh studies another. Johto history. Hoenn paleontology. Comparative mythology. Geological surveys. Fossil restoration. Pokémon behavioral studies.

Drawers had labels.

Cables were tied.

Specimen boxes had numbers that corresponded to both physical index cards and digital records.

Chaos belonged in the field.

If your office was chaotic, you were just bad at filing.

Lyra had changed into a dry laboratory coat after the pond incident and was now standing in front of one of his shelves.

“You alphabetized within categories.”

“Obviously.”

“And then by publication date.”

“Where relevant.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I expected this room to look like somebody dropped an archaeologist from a great height.”

Gray sat behind the desk and opened his computer. “That's my house.”

“Ah.”

“Don't open the hall closet.”

“Why?”

“I don't remember.”

She stared.

“That is not reassuring.”

“It probably isn't dangerous.”

“Probably?”

“No living specimens.”

“That qualifier somehow made it worse.”

Lyra continued looking around. Her attention eventually landed on the framed photograph on the corner of the desk.

Gray knew which one before she picked it up.

The photograph showed a much younger Gray clinging to the back of his Aerodactyl several hundred feet above Johto.

His hair had been longer then. His beard barely existed. Aerodactyl had banked unexpectedly during the picture, leaving Gray grinning like an idiot while half the landscape behind him tilted sideways.

Lyra held it up.

“You took a selfie while riding an Aerodactyl.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Gray looked at her.

“Because I was riding an Aerodactyl.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then why ask?”

She put the frame back exactly where she'd found it.

Good.

Gray opened the first of several League administrative systems.

The interface loaded.

He immediately wanted to close it.

There were twelve notifications.

Then seventeen.

Then twenty-four.

“Why do I have twenty-four messages?”

“You became Professor today.”

“That should reduce the number of people bothering me. I outrank some of them now.”

“That isn't how this works.”

“It should be.”

Lyra sat in the chair across from him with her own tablet. “There are a few things we need to establish before lunch. Your weekly schedule, laboratory hours, staff access, research request procedures, trainer intake—”

“Stop.”

She did.

Gray leaned back.

“How much of that is actually mandatory?”

“All of it.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“Most of it.”

“Better.”

“There’s also the press office.”

“No.”

“You haven't heard what I was going to say.”

“I heard ‘press.’”

“They want to arrange an introductory interview.”

“No.”

“Gray.”

He glanced at her.

She paused.

It was the first time she'd used his name instead of Professor Linden.

He preferred it.

“They are going to keep asking.”

“Then they need a hobby.”

“You're a public official now.”

“I am a scientist.”

“You're both.”

“I reject the second category.”

“You signed paperwork accepting it less than an hour ago.”

“I didn't read all of it.”

Lyra stared at him.

Gray waited.

She narrowed her eyes.

He let the silence stretch a little longer, then smiled.

“I'm joking.”

“Are you?”

“Mostly.”

She muttered something under her breath and returned to the tablet.

Gray liked that too.

The League had apparently believed he needed someone organized.

They were correct.

Gray simply resented them for being correct.

A knock sounded at the door.

A man in a League uniform stood outside.

“Professor Linden?”

Gray looked at the clock.

Nine twelve.

“Yes?”

“There’s a young trainer in reception.”

Gray frowned. “We're not starting trainer intake until tomorrow.”

“He says he was told today.”

“By who?”

“I don't know.”

Gray looked at Lyra.

Lyra looked at him.

The man lingered.

Gray sighed and stood.

“Fine.”

The trainer was ten.

Gray knew this before anyone told him.

You could recognize the age after enough time around Pokémon culture. Ten-year-olds had a particular combination of terror and confidence when they arrived for their first Pokémon, like they had spent their entire childhood waiting to become adults and only realized that morning nobody planned to supervise the transition.

The boy sat on one of the reception couches with a backpack between his feet.

New boots.

New jacket.

League-issued travel map sticking out of the side pocket.

No parent.

Gray stopped in the hallway.

Lyra walked another step before noticing he wasn't beside her.

“What?”

“Where are his parents?”

“I don't know.”

Gray stared at the boy.

The boy noticed them and stood immediately.

“Professor Linden?”

“Where are your parents?”

The kid blinked.

Not the greeting he'd expected.

“My mom's at work.”

“And your father?”

“He lives in Veilstone.”

“Right. Why isn't either of them here?”

The boy looked uncertainly at Lyra, perhaps hoping she was the normal adult.

Unfortunately for him, Lyra appeared curious how this would unfold.

“My mom said I could come by myself.”

Gray rubbed his face.

Of course she had.

Entire civilizations had somehow looked at a world populated by creatures capable of breathing fire, causing earthquakes, crushing steel, controlling minds, and altering the weather, and decided ten was the appropriate age to hand someone camping equipment and say, See you next year.

Gray had done it himself.

This did not make it less insane.

If anything, having survived made the whole practice seem worse.

He'd spent parts of his first journey cold, lost, injured, hungry, and on one memorable occasion trapped on a rock ledge for seven hours because a territorial Graveler had decided the path belonged to him.

His parents had allowed this.

He still had questions.

“Name?”

“Elliot.”

“Last name.”

“Marsh.”

“How did you get here?”

“Bus.”

“From?”

“Jubilife.”

“Alone.”

Elliot was beginning to suspect every answer was wrong.

“Yes?”

Gray sighed.

“Phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone. Or your mother's number.”

Elliot reached into his pocket. “Am I in trouble?”

“No. She might be.”

Lyra covered her mouth with one hand.

Gray took the phone.

Elliot's mother answered on the fourth ring.

The conversation took eight minutes.

It became unpleasant around minute two.

Gray learned that Elliot had been preparing for this journey for nearly a year. His mother had traveled alone at ten. His cousin had traveled alone at ten. Sandgem was safe. The routes were patrolled. Trainers had Pokémon for protection. Elliot knew how to camp and had taken wilderness courses.

Gray acknowledged all of these things.

He then explained that none of them answered the question of why she couldn't accompany her son on the morning he received the Pokémon he might spend the next decade with.

Mrs. Marsh did not appreciate that.

By minute five, Chatot had become interested.

By minute six, Lyra had walked several yards away because she was openly laughing.

Gray finally said, “Ma'am, I am not refusing him a Pokémon. I'm telling you that sending your ten-year-old alone across half the region because everyone else does it is a ridiculous system.”

The phone produced a loud response.

Gray pulled it away from his ear.

Elliot grimaced sympathetically.

“She gets loud.”

“I gathered.”

Gray listened again.

“No, I did not call you a bad mother. I said the tradition is insane.”

Another burst.

“Yes. That includes my own parents.”

That took some wind out of her.

Good.

They eventually reached terms.

Elliot would call home each evening.

His route would be registered.

He had emergency contacts.

His mother had already purchased insurance and deposited more than enough travel funds into his trainer account.

Gray disliked the entire concept considerably but could no longer claim the kid had been thrown into the wilderness with a sandwich and optimism.

He handed the phone back.

“Your mother does not like me.”

Elliot tucked it away. “She doesn't like most people.”

Gray considered that.

“Maybe she's smarter than I thought.”

Lyra returned just in time to hear him.

“Please do not insult the parents.”

“I complimented her.”

“You just spent eight minutes telling her she made an insane decision.”

“Both can be true.”

Elliot looked between them, then laughed.

That helped.

Gray studied him more closely.

Nervous but not terrified. Curious. He kept glancing past Gray toward the back windows, where parts of the ranch were visible.

Good.

“What were you expecting?”

Elliot straightened. “A starter.”

“Yes, I assumed you weren't here for the accounting department.”

“A Chimchar.”

Gray nodded once. “Why Chimchar?”

The boy clearly hadn't expected the question.

“Because they're strong.”

“Lots of Pokémon are strong.”

“And they're Fire-type.”

“That is usually how Chimchar works.”

Elliot frowned. “Professor Rowan gave people Chimchar, Piplup, or Turtwig.”

“He did.”

“So… don't you?”

“No.”

The boy's face fell immediately.

Gray had seen adults attempt to hide disappointment.

Children hadn't learned how yet.

“Why?”

“Because I don't know you.”

Elliot stared.

Gray gestured toward the rear of the building. “You've been in this laboratory for ten minutes. You've told me you want something strong and that you've picked a species because another Professor used to offer it. That's not enough information for me to hand you a living creature and hope things work out.”

“I've wanted Chimchar for months.”

“That tells me something about what you want. It doesn't tell me anything about what you'll actually be good with.”

Elliot's mouth tightened.

Gray recognized the beginning of stubbornness.

Also good.

“You don't think I'd be good with one.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You kind of did.”

“No, I very specifically didn't. I said I don't know yet.”

Gray leaned against the reception counter.

“We don't know is an acceptable answer, Elliot. People get themselves into trouble because they think not knowing something is embarrassing, so they replace it with guessing.”

The boy was quiet.

Gray continued, less sharply.

“If you meet a Chimchar and you two click, fine. I'm not hiding them from you. But we're going to walk around first.”

“The ranch?”

“Yes.”

Elliot's attention immediately shifted toward the windows again.

There it was.

Gray smiled faintly.

“Come on.”

Gray liked watching people around Pokémon.

He trusted it more than interviews.

Questions were useful, but people answered questions with the person they believed they were.

Behavior was harder to fake.

Elliot walked beside him across the ranch, Lyra following several steps behind with her tablet.

Gray did not lead him directly to any of the young Pokémon available for placement. He took the long route.

They passed the rehabilitation enclosure first, where a Staravia with a healing wing rested beneath a shade awning. Elliot slowed, but he didn't approach the fence.

“Can I pet it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It doesn't know you, it's injured, and it can't fly away if you make it uncomfortable.”

Elliot nodded.

Good.

They continued.

A trio of Geodude basked on warm stone farther up the path. One opened an eye, decided nobody was interesting, and went back to sleep.

Near the trees, an elderly Kangaskhan watched them from beneath the shade.

Gray lifted a hand.

She grunted.

Elliot stared at the old Pokémon.

“Is she yours?”

“Yes.”

“You don't battle with her?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

“She's retired.”

Elliot seemed genuinely surprised by the concept.

“What does she do?”

“Whatever she wants.”

Gray glanced toward Kangaskhan. “Mostly eats, sleeps, bullies Donphan, and tries to steal food from my kitchen.”

Kangaskhan made a sound that might have been indignation.

“She knows you're talking about her.”

“She knows I'm right.”

They moved on.

Bastiodon was still near the house.

Gray noticed Elliot's pace change.

Not a stop.

Just slower.

Bastiodon was imposing even when doing nothing. More than four feet of armored face, thick legs, heavy body. Old scars marked portions of his plating.

Elliot looked at Gray. “Is that yours?”

Gray's immediate instinct was to say he, not that.

The correction wasn't necessary.

Elliot already looked embarrassed.

“Him,” the boy amended.

“Yes.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Twenty-two years.”

Elliot's eyes widened.

“You've had the same Pokémon for twenty-two years?”

Gray looked at Bastiodon.

The old man watched them approach.

“Yeah.”

He didn't add anything else.

He rarely did when it came to Bastiodon.

Some relationships became smaller when explained.

Bastiodon moved toward them.

Elliot stiffened.

Gray watched the boy's hands.

He didn't reach toward a Poké Ball he didn't have.

Didn't move behind Gray.

Didn't bolt.

He simply stood still.

“Don't stare straight into his eyes,” Gray said. “Not because he'll attack you. It's just rude when you're meeting something that doesn't know you.”

Elliot looked slightly downward.

Bastiodon approached close enough to sniff him.

Then he pushed his face shield against Elliot's chest.

The boy stumbled backward with a startled laugh.

Bastiodon followed.

Gray snorted.

“Congratulations. He tolerates you.”

Elliot put one hand against Bastiodon's shield.

The old Pokémon remained still.

“Can I—”

“Yeah.”

The boy scratched carefully along the side of Bastiodon's head.

Gray watched Bastiodon's eyes soften.

His own chest did something uncomfortable.

He ignored it.

“Get on.”

Elliot whipped around.

“What?”

“His back.”

Lyra looked up. “Gray.”

“What?”

“You cannot just put random children on Bastiodon.”

“Why not?”

“Because you met him twenty minutes ago.”

“Bastiodon met him too.”

“That does not improve the liability situation.”

Gray looked at Elliot. “Want to?”

“Yes.”

“There. Consent.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Gray helped Elliot climb onto Bastiodon's back.

Bastiodon grunted but did not object.

Then, without being told, the old Pokémon began walking a slow circle around the house.

Elliot's nervousness disappeared completely.

Gray folded his arms.

Lyra came to stand beside him.

For a little while neither said anything.

Then she said, “You're enjoying this.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I'm observing.”

“You smiled.”

“I do that occasionally.”

“Not during paperwork.”

“Nothing worth smiling about has ever happened during paperwork.”

Elliot laughed as Bastiodon changed direction.

Gray watched them.

Lyra said, quieter this time, “I thought you didn't like the trainer side of the position.”

“I don't like sending children into the wilderness.”

“That's not quite the same thing.”

Gray glanced at her.

No.

It wasn't.

He hadn't expected this part.

That bothered him slightly.

Gray liked understanding his own motives.

The League had mentioned starter placement during negotiations and he had mostly ignored it. The work came attached to the laboratory, funding, ranch, permits, archives, research support, and institutional access he wanted.

Children showing up for Pokémon had seemed like an obligation.

Now Elliot was leaning forward to speak quietly to Bastiodon as though the old Pokémon were personally explaining something.

Gray couldn't hear the words.

Bastiodon rumbled back anyway.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Eventually Elliot climbed down.

He thanked Bastiodon.

Actually thanked him.

Gray noticed.

So did Bastiodon.

They continued behind the house.

A small shape emerged from beside one of the storage sheds.

Gray recognized the Aron immediately.

Six months old.

Male.

Healthy.

Stubborn.

Had tried to eat the latch off an equipment cabinet three days earlier.

Elliot saw him.

Aron saw Elliot.

Both stopped.

Gray stopped too.

Lyra almost asked something, then seemed to think better of it.

Good.

The boy crouched.

He didn't call.

Didn't reach.

Aron watched him for several seconds, then walked closer in short, deliberate steps.

Elliot held out his hand.

Aron sniffed his fingers.

Then bit his shoelace.

Elliot laughed.

Aron pulled.

“Hey!”

The boy pulled his foot back.

Aron pulled harder.

Within seconds they were engaged in what was, technically, a battle for ownership of a shoe.

Gray crossed his arms.

“Promising.”

Lyra looked at him. “Which one?”

“Yes.”

The struggle ended when the lace snapped.

Elliot stared at it.

Aron chewed triumphantly.

“You broke my shoe.”

Aron made a pleased little sound.

Elliot started laughing again.

There it was.

Gray waited.

That was important too.

People rushed these things.

They wanted the cinematic moment. The immediate bond. The Pokémon leaping into someone's arms while music presumably played somewhere.

Real relationships were usually messier.

Aron wandered away from Elliot, investigated Gray's boot, decided it wasn't interesting, then returned to the boy and pressed the top of his armored head into Elliot's knee.

Elliot scratched along his back.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Gray asked, “Still want Chimchar?”

Elliot looked up.

His hand stopped moving.

Aron immediately nudged him until he resumed.

“I don't know.”

Gray smiled.

“Good answer.”

The boy looked confused.

“I thought I had to choose today.”

“You can.”

“But you just said—”

“I said ‘I don't know’ is a good answer. You don't get points for pretending certainty.”

Elliot looked down again.

Aron leaned into him.

“Can I choose him?”

Gray crouched beside them.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Depends whether he chooses you.”

Elliot looked at Aron, then at Gray.

“How do we know?”

“We don't, exactly.”

There were tests. Behavioral assessments. Compatibility indicators. Breeders developed systems. Professors developed systems. Everyone had opinions.

Gray trusted those tools.

He just didn't worship them.

He reached into his coat and took out one of the unused Poké Balls issued for placements.

Aron immediately looked at it.

Interesting.

Gray set the ball on the ground.

“You've been around these before.”

Aron sniffed it.

He could enter if he wanted.

He didn't.

Instead he stepped around the ball and walked back to Elliot.

Then sat on Elliot's foot.

Gray nodded.

“That'll do.”

Elliot's face changed.

For the second time that morning, a child failed completely to hide what he was feeling.

This time it was joy.

Gray handed him the ball.

“Aron are not easy starters.”

Elliot nodded too quickly.

“No, listen first.”

The boy stilled.

“Steel and Rock type. Tough. Usually stubborn. He'll eat more mineral feed than you expect, especially once he starts growing. He will also try to eat metal if you don't keep him properly fed, and sometimes if you do.”

Elliot looked down at Aron.

Aron looked unapologetic.

“Don't let him chew pipes, wiring, railings, vehicles, machinery, structural supports, or anything else you would prefer to remain part of a building.”

Lyra slowly looked toward Gray.

He ignored her.

Elliot said, “Has he eaten a building?”

“No.”

A beat.

“Part of one?”

“Not this one.”

Lyra made a noise behind him.

Gray continued before she could derail the conversation.

“He's durable, but that doesn't mean invincible. You'll still need a proper first-aid kit. You'll need regular Center visits while he's growing. Be careful around Water and Ground types until you understand what you're doing. Don't treat him like armor just because he can take a hit.”

Elliot's expression became serious.

Good.

“And battle only if he wants to battle.”

“He does?”

Gray looked at Aron.

“Most Pokémon do. Doesn't mean they're machines. Some days he might not. Pay attention.”

Elliot nodded.

Gray believed him.

Not because ten-year-olds were famous for perfect judgment.

Because the kid was listening.

That was enough for today.

Elliot held out the Poké Ball.

Aron tapped it with his nose.

Red light drew him inside.

The ball clicked almost immediately.

Elliot stared at it in both hands.

Gray remembered that feeling.

The weight of the first Poké Ball that was actually yours.

Shieldon had been too young and too confused to understand any of it.

Gray had carried the ball home like it contained a star.

His father had laughed at him.

His mother had taken a photograph.

Gray's expression must have changed because Lyra glanced toward him.

He ignored that too.

Elliot released Aron again less than ten seconds later.

Excellent.

The little Pokémon immediately went after the broken shoelace.

“Come on,” Gray said. “We have paperwork.”

Elliot groaned.

Gray looked at him.

“What?”

“I thought Professors hated paperwork.”

“We do.”

“Then why do I have to do it?”

“Because suffering builds character.”

Lyra said, “Ignore him.”

Gray started back toward the laboratory.

Elliot and Aron followed.

Chatot, who had been unusually quiet for almost five full minutes, chose that moment to flutter down onto Gray's shoulder.

“Bullshit!”

Elliot nearly doubled over laughing.

Gray sighed.

“Educational environment.”

Elliot left shortly before noon.

He had a care guide, a registered Pokédex, an emergency kit, three bags of appropriate feed, maps, League contact information, the laboratory's number, and a requirement to check in with the lab after his first week.

He also had a new Aron who refused to stay inside his Poké Ball for more than two consecutive minutes.

Gray considered that promising.

He stood in the doorway while Elliot headed down the path toward Sandgem with Aron trotting beside him.

For a few seconds, Gray felt the urge to call him back.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because he was ten.

Ten.

He was so small.

Gray remembered being that small and resented his parents retroactively all over again.

Then Aron stopped at the end of the path and looked back.

Elliot stopped too.

He said something.

Aron bumped his leg.

They continued.

Gray watched until they disappeared around the bend.

Lyra stood beside him.

“You almost stopped him.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I considered it.”

“Why didn't you?”

Gray shoved his hands into his lab coat pockets.

“Because his mother said yes. The League says yes. He prepared. He has the gear. He has emergency contacts. He has a Pokémon that already likes him. At a certain point my opinion stops being law.”

Lyra looked mildly surprised.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You expected me to become a tyrant?”

“I've known you for three hours.”

“Fair.”

They went back inside.

By twelve-thirty, Gray had filled out exactly four of the forms Lyra wanted finished.

He thought this was respectable.

Lyra informed him there were nineteen remaining.

Gray disputed the number.

She showed him the stack.

He lost the dispute.

Lunch became the next battle.

“I ate.”

“You had coffee.”

“I also had half a protein bar.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Lyra stared at him.

Gray kept reading a funding report.

She reached across the desk and lowered the paper.

“Food.”

“I am currently doing my job.”

“Your job requires continued biological function.”

“So does yours. Why aren't you eating?”

“I already did.”

“When?”

“While you spent twenty minutes explaining Aron feeding requirements to Elliot.”

Gray frowned.

“That seems inefficient. You could have listened.”

“I could hear you from reception.”

He considered this.

“Fine.”

There was a small kitchen on the first floor.

Gray had not stocked it.

Somebody else had.

There were sandwiches.

He inspected one suspiciously.

“What kind?”

“Turkey.”

“No.”

“There are three others.”

“Chicken?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

He took two.

Lyra leaned against the counter while he ate the first one far faster than he intended.

“Do you always forget?”

“What?”

“To eat.”

“I don't forget.”

“You just went most of yesterday without eating.”

“I was busy.”

“That is forgetting with extra steps.”

Gray pointed the sandwich at her.

“Don't use my own logic against me.”

“Why?”

“It feels hostile.”

Chatot, perched on the refrigerator, said, “Hostile!”

Lyra looked up at him.

“I have already made a mistake.”

“Several.”

“I meant accepting the job.”

Gray swallowed.

“You can quit.”

She looked back at him.

He meant it.

Not as a threat.

Not as a challenge.

“If you hate it, quit. Life's too short to spend forty hours a week doing something you hate.”

Lyra considered him.

Then she said, “I've been here for three hours.”

“Exactly. Plenty of data.”

“I don't hate it.”

“Good.”

“I reserve the right to reconsider when you disappear into a ruin without telling me.”

Gray took another bite.

“That seems oddly specific.”

“I read your résumé.”

“Ah.”

“And your blog.”

Gray stopped chewing.

“You read the blog?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“God, no.”

“Rude.”

“You wrote six thousand words about why the commonly accepted reconstruction of a Hisuian burial structure was ‘an architectural hate crime against basic load-bearing principles.’”

“It was.”

“You used the phrase ‘historical fanfiction with footnotes.’”

“It was.”

“I almost withdrew my application.”

“What changed your mind?”

Lyra shrugged.

“The footnotes were good.”

Gray stared at her.

Then laughed.

He hadn't expected to.

It came out louder than he intended.

Chatot startled and flapped once.

Lyra smiled.

Gray finished his sandwich.

Maybe the League had gotten one thing right.

He would never tell them.

Late afternoon light turned the ranch gold.

Gray escaped the laboratory at four seventeen after Lyra forced him to schedule three meetings, approve two purchase orders, reject a request for an interview, accept a different request for an interview because apparently they couldn't all be rejected, review the emergency procedures, and sign enough paperwork to qualify as deforestation.

He left his lab coat on the back of his chair.

The sweater underneath had acquired a smear of mud at some point.

Better.

He headed toward the house.

Chatot rode on his shoulder.

Bastiodon was back near the front entrance.

Of course.

The old Pokémon raised his head when Gray approached.

Gray sat down in the grass beside him.

Bastiodon lowered himself with the slow groaning effort of age and weight, then settled against Gray's side.

The armored body was warm from the sun.

Gray leaned against him.

For a while, nothing happened.

That was nice.

Across the ranch, two Gyarados moved beneath the pond's surface.

A flock of Starly crossed the sky.

Somewhere in the trees, one of the staff's temporary boarders made a noise Gray didn't recognize.

He'd have to check later.

Chatot climbed onto Bastiodon's head and settled down.

Gray scratched beneath the old Pokémon's jaw.

“Well.”

Bastiodon rumbled.

“Yeah.”

Another rumble.

“No, I didn't hate it.”

Bastiodon closed his eyes.

Gray looked toward the laboratory.

He still wasn't sure exactly how he'd ended up here.

That wasn't true.

He knew every practical step.

Rowan died.

The League panicked.

Someone assembled a list.

Gray's name appeared high enough on it to become inconvenient.

Then came calls, interviews, negotiations, tours, budget proposals, credential reviews, background checks, medical evaluations, trainer records, insurance documents, and one deeply irritating conversation about whether his blog represented the professional standards expected of a regional Professor.

Gray had informed them that the blog predated his employment.

They had informed him this was irrelevant.

He had informed them they were free not to hire him.

Two days later they'd called back.

He smiled at the memory.

Still, the question remained.

Why him?

He wasn't the oldest researcher.

Wasn't the most published.

Wasn't the most politically connected.

He didn't particularly care.

That was probably why the question never bothered him much.

He had the lab now.

He had the ranch.

He had enough funding to do actual work.

He had access to Sinnoh's restricted archaeological records.

He had a staff beginning tomorrow morning, most of whom he had not met yet.

And he'd given a kid an Aron.

Gray looked toward the road.

“Think they'll be all right?”

Bastiodon's ear shifted.

“The kid and Aron.”

Bastiodon rumbled once.

Gray nodded.

“Yeah.”

Probably.

That was as much certainty as anyone got.

The world was too complicated for guarantees.

There were too many variables. Too many people pretending conclusions were facts because admitting uncertainty frightened them.

Gray had never understood that.

We don't know wasn't failure.

It was a starting point.

He tipped his head back against Bastiodon's armor and looked at the sky.

Professor Linden.

Still strange.

Still good.

Chatot shifted above him.

Gray closed his eyes.

He had almost relaxed when Lyra's voice carried across the field.

“Gray!”

His eyes opened.

“No.”

Footsteps approached.

“I haven't even said anything.”

“If you're coming toward me holding paperwork, the answer is no.”

She came around the side of Bastiodon.

She was, in fact, holding paperwork.

Gray pointed accusingly.

“See?”

“These aren't forms.”

“What are they?”

“Your schedule for tomorrow.”

“That is a form in spirit.”

Lyra looked down at him sitting in the grass.

“Eight o'clock, staff introductions. Nine, laboratory systems review. Ten-thirty, trainer intake. Noon, League research call.”

“No.”

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

She ignored him.

“Two o'clock is open because I assumed you'd want research time. Four is a facilities inspection.”

Gray stared up at her.

“You put research time on my schedule.”

“I thought you might wander away if I didn't.”

He considered that.

Accurate.

“Make it noon to four.”

“You have the League call.”

“Cancel it.”

“No.”

“Move it.”

“To when?”

“Never.”

“Gray.”

“One.”

“One what?”

“One o'clock. Fifteen minutes.”

“They booked an hour.”

“They can communicate more efficiently.”

Lyra sighed and made a note.

“Thirty minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fine.”

Gray smiled.

“You're learning.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

“It has been one day.”

“Three hours ago that mattered.”

Lyra pointed her pen at him.

He laughed.

She shook her head and started back toward the laboratory.

“Dinner,” she called over her shoulder.

Gray frowned.

“What?”

“Eat it.”

“I know how dinner works.”

“Your track record suggests otherwise.”

“Go home, Lyra.”

“I am.”

“And stop managing me after hours.”

“Eat!”

Chatot straightened.

“Eat!”

Gray looked at the bird.

“You're a traitor.”

“Eat!”

Bastiodon rumbled beneath him.

Gray stared at the house.

Then at Bastiodon.

“Not you too.”

The old Pokémon did not move.

Gray sighed.

“Fine.”

He pushed himself to his feet.

At the pond, something splashed violently.

Gray paused.

A second splash followed.

Then a Gyarados rose halfway out of the water with Number Seventeen somehow attached to the side of its face.

Gray stared.

The Gyarados roared.

Number Seventeen fell free, hit the water, and immediately launched itself back at him.

Gray slowly smiled.

“Actually, hold on.”

He changed direction.

Chatot flapped excitedly.

Bastiodon stood.

From halfway across the ranch, Lyra turned around.

“Gray!”

“Something's happening!”

“You were going to eat!”

“This is more important!”

“It is a Magikarp!”

“Exactly!”

Gray was already jogging toward the pond.

Number Seventeen struck the Gyarados again.

The Gyarados recoiled.

Gray's pace increased.

No.

Absolutely not.

That should not work.

Not with that mass difference. Not with that angle. Not with anything resembling sensible biomechanics.

He reached into his pocket for the small waterproof notebook he carried automatically.

Behind him, Lyra shouted something about dinner.

Gray ignored her.

The Gyarados roared again.

Number Seventeen came sailing out of the water like an orange, furious brick.

Gray's grin widened.

Four hours earlier, he had become Sinnoh's regional Pokémon Professor.

He had completed too much paperwork, argued with a stranger's mother, discovered two unauthorized Magikarp, assigned his first starter Pokémon, eaten one and a half sandwiches, and learned that his assistant intended to run his life with military precision.

Now a Magikarp was trying to beat the shit out of a Gyarados.

Gray opened his notebook.

Maybe this job wouldn't be so bad after all.