Orion's Point of View
It's been Ten months.
That's how long it's been since my first birthday on Terra. Ten months of growing, learning, and slowly escaping the prison of infant helplessness. And let me tell you—every single day of those ten months has been something else.
First, let's get the boring stuff out of the way. I learned that a year on Terra is twenty months long. Twenty months instead of twelve. That's... honestly, I'm still wrapping my head around it. My previous Earth and this world? Comparing them is like looking at the moon and the earth—there's just no match. Terra really is better in every way that matters.
But enough about calendars.
The biggest news? I have my own room now.
Mom transitioned me a few months back, and while I missed waking up to her face every morning, having my own space has been... nice. The Arbok crib she ordered is still there, its carved head watching over me like a guardian. Sometimes I catch myself talking to it.....in my head of course I can't have mom thinking I'm crazy.. Don't judge me. Three thousand years alone does things to a person.
Speaking of not being alone—I can move now.
Well, sort of.
I can take a few steps. Wobbly, uncertain steps that make me look like a drunk Joltik trying to walk a straight line. But steps! Actual steps! After a year of being carried everywhere, of watching the world from someone else's arms, being able to move under my own power feels like freedom.
Crawling is easier, obviously and as off right now it's much faster then me trying to walk. Mom learned that the hard way.
The first time she put me down and walked into the kitchen, she turned around five minutes later to find me right behind her, having crawled the entire distance without her noticing. She stared at me for a long moment, then her face split into this huge grin.
"Oh, it's on now," she announced.
And just like that, my crawling became a game for us.
She'd walk through the house, calling over her shoulder, "Come on, my cub! Catch Mommy!" And just like that I'd crawl after her, chubby legs pumping, determined to keep up. She read somewhere that it was good for my development—building strength, coordination, all that good stuff. But honestly? I think she just liked hearing me giggle when she'd "let" me catch her.
I'm also talking somewhat now.
Real talking. Small sentences, sure, but actual communication. According to Mom, I shouldn't be speaking like this until I'm two years old. According to me, three thousand years of mental development doesn't care about this worlds milestone charts.
She calls me her little genius. It makes her so happy I can't help but lean into it.
But the best of this moments?
She was tucking me into the Arbok crib one night, with the usual routine she would plant a kiss on my forehead, whispered goodnight, while her hand was brushing through my hair. She straightened up and said, "I love you, my little Orion."
I didn't plan it what I said next. The words just came out.
"I Love you Mama."
She froze. Her eyes went wide, filling with tears so fast I thought something was wrong. Then she scooped me up—completely destroying our bedtime routine—and held me so tight against her chest I could barely breathe.
"Say it again," she whispered. "Please, baby. Say it again."
So I did. "Love you Mama."
She didn't put me down for the rest of the night. The result of this ended with an obvious result. I fell asleep in her arms, and honestly? It was the best sleep I could get. Maybe it's because of my time in the void but I got a bit of separation anxiety that is mostly why I fallow mom every where she goes.
Now most of my days are quite simple.
I crawl. I follow Mom around the house while she does her chores—cooking, cleaning, all those adult things she manages while keeping an eye on me. And to look somewhat like a normal child I play with my toys.
Speaking of toys—about a week ago, Mom sat me in front of her computer and pulled up a website full of plush Pokémon.
"Pick whichever ones you want, cub," she said, ruffling my hair. "Birthday was 7 months ago, but Mommy felt like spoiling you today."
I stared at the screen, at the endless rows of familiar faces like Pikachu and Eevee.
Mom scrolled though the options in the website slowly, letting me take in each page. Her free hand rested on my shoulder, thumb tracing small circles against my onesie while I studied the options with the intensity of a battle strategist reviewing troop formations.
Then we hit the Eevee section.
I scanned quickly, cataloging. Three options. Just three. Flareon's fluffy orange mane. Jolteon's spiky yellow fur. And Vaporeon—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I shut that mental door so fast I almost gave myself psychic whiplash. I am not going there. I refuse to think about that image ever again. Some memories from my past life should have stayed buried in the void for the rest of eternity, and that was at the top of the list. The only reason I didn't drop-kick the degenerate who showed me that picture was the cop patrol car three buildings down. He was a lucky bastard.
But that moment of horrified recognition also told me something important.
Three Eeveelutions. Just the three original evolutions.
That meant no Umbreon. No Espeon. No Leafeon, Glaceon, or Sylveon. In this world, those evolutions simply... didn't exist yet. Or hadn't been discovered. Or hadn't been created.
My mind started racing through possibilities. If I could discover them here and be the first to do so would that mean? What would the system do? What would the world do at a reveal of a new evolution.
And if they were this far behind on Eeveelutions, what else hadn't been found yet? Mega Evolution? Was that a thing here? Z-Moves? Dynamax? The thought sent a thrill through me that had nothing to do with my current body.
"Orion? Baby, you still with me?"
Mom's voice pulled me back. I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the screen without moving for a solid minute.
But before I could respond to her my eyes landed on something else.
Dragonite.
It was orange, winged, round-bellied Dragonite, smiling that gentle smile from the product image like it was waiting to give someone a hug. I didn't hesitate.
"Mama," I said, pointing with the kind of urgency normally reserved for escaping danger. "I like!"
Mom followed my finger and chuckled—that warm, musical sound I'd grown to love. "Dragonite, huh? That's a good choice, my cub." She ruffled my hair, her fingers catching on those few purple strands that stood out against the black. "They're strong and loyal. And most importantly..." She booped my nose. "They're as cute as a button. Just like you."
I huffed—or the baby equivalent of a huff. "Handsome," I corrected. "Not cute."
Mom's laugh filled the room. "Oh, we can agree to disagree on that one, my little prince." She clicked something, adding Dragonite to the cart. "One Dragonite plush, coming right up."
She kept scrolling, and I kept watching, cataloging, learning. Two minutes passed—I'd gotten very good at tracking time—when another image caught my attention.
Garchomp.
The blue dragon shark hybrid, the one monster of a Pokemon that helped traumatize an entire generation, and helped them understand that breaking and entering could be your end.
(Somewhere far away across many regions…
A baby with long blonde hair slept peacefully in an elegant crib, soft blankets wrapped around her.
Clutched tightly in her arms was a Gible plush.
"…Gii…"
"Achoo."
She sniffled softly, shifting slightly in her sleep but didn't wake.
Her small hands only tightened around the plush.)
Anyway that at least that was in my past life, here I only know of it thanks to the movie mom and I watched two weeks ago.
Excitedly, I slapped my tiny hand against the screen. "Garchomp! From movie! He strong!"
Mom burst out laughing. "You really love your dragon Pokémon, don't you, my little cub?" She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "And you are so smart for being able to remember Garchomp from our movie night two weeks ago. You're right, baby. Garchomp is a great choice. Strong, fearless, and it would keep all the bad guys far, far away from you."
I nodded seriously. This was important business after all.
We kept scrolling, and Mom—being Mom—added both evolution stages for Dragonite and Garchomp to the cart. Dratini and Dragonair. Gible and Gabite. By the time she was done, we had a small army of dragon plushies ready to ship.
Then she scrolled further, then I saw it and I stopped breathing.
Pyroar.
The male version of Pyroar stared out from the screen, it looked majestic and proud, its fiery mane cascading around its face like it was royalty. Something grabbed me, it was something deep and instinctive that I couldn't explain it. It was like the image had reached through the screen and wrapped its paw around my chest and grabbed all of my attention by force.
"Strong," I heard myself whisper. "And Loyal...."
I trailed off, frowning. I didn't know where those words came from. I just knew they were true.
Mom went very still.
I glanced up at her, and the expression on her face stopped me cold. She wasn't smiling anymore. Her eyes were wide, fixed on me like she'd seen something impossible. Her lips parted slightly, and I caught the faintest whisper of a word.
"How...?"
Then it passed as if nothing happened. She blinked, shook her head slightly, and the warm smile returned—but I'd seen it. I'd seen whatever that was.
"I want it," I said, pointing at the Pyroar. "Mama, I want."
She added it to the cart without any comment, but her hand trembled just slightly on the mouse.
Then, after a moment, that glint that scared me anytime she was going to do something that would embarrass me entered her eye.
Uh oh.
She set me down gently on the floor, where I couldn't reach anything, couldn't see the screen, couldn't track what she was doing that might be the end of me. "Your things will come tomorrow," she said, her voice too sweet. "And I got you a little surprise, too."
I narrowed my eyes. "Surprise?"
"You'll see." She turned back to the computer, clicking away at something I couldn't see. Then, casually, she asked, "Baby, why did you choose Pyroar?"
I hesitated.
In this life I'd never seen a Pyroar. Not on TV. Not in any of the books Mom read to me. Not in passing during our games. The name shouldn't mean anything to me.
So I had to play this carefully.
"Py...roar?" I sounded out the word carefully, the way a baby would.
Mom nodded. "Yes, baby. Pyroar is a Fire and Normal type Pokémon." She paused, watching me carefully. "Have you ever seen one before?"
I shook my head. Honest.
"But..." I frowned, trying to find the words. "It felt... felt like..." I touched my chest. "Felt like you, Mama. That why I like."
I wasn't lying with that comment. Something about Pyroar—the pride, the warmth, the fierce protectiveness—reminded me exactly of the woman who'd held me every night of my this new life mine. And yes, it had been one of my favorites in my past life too. But that wasn't why I'd reacted the way I did.
Mom froze again.
For a long, terrible moment, she didn't move at all. Then, slowly, she knelt down in front of me and pulled me into a hug so tight I squeaked.
"Okay, baby," she whispered into my hair. "Okay."
She pulled back, and her eyes were suspiciously bright, but she was smiling. "I love you so much, Orion. Do you know that? I'm so, so proud of you."
I patted her cheek clumsily. "Love Mama too."
She laughed—a wet, happy sound—and scooped me up for another hug.
But in the back of my mind, gears were turning.
That reaction. That "how," That frozen moment of shock. Something about Pyroar meant something to her—something I didn't understand. That something I'd have to figure out later.
For now, I just enjoyed the hug.
---
The next morning, I to the convenience of my mothers plan forgot about all about the feeling of dread that I had.
The packages arrived early, and Mom laid out my new plushies like an army ready for a generals inspection. Dragonite's round smile. Garchomp's fierce gaze. Dratini's curled serpent body. Gabite's tiny fin. And Pyroar, regal and proud, taking its place at the center.
I was so distracted by my new treasures that I didn't notice Mom slipping out of the room.
Then I heard it.
An evil chuckle.
The kind of chuckle that promised horrors beyond mortal comprehension. The kind of chuckle that had launched a thousand ships and ruined countless lives.
Literal chills raced down my spine.
Slowly—so slowly—I turned my head.
Mom stood in the doorway, and in her hands, she held... it.
A Litleo onesie.
It had an Orange fabric. Tiny brown tufts for ears. A little tail puff sewn onto the back. And a pair of ears on the hood that practically screamed with innocent, adorable menace.
I scrambled backward, chubby legs pushing against the floor. "No. Mama. No."
Her voice dripped with honeyed sweetness. "We're going to have a photoshoot, baby. And you're going to be the star."
"No!" I tried to crawl away, to escape, to reach the safety of—
Her hands closed around me.
"Nononononono—"
The onesie went on. It was soft. It was warm. It probably would have been comfortable under different circumstances. But as Mom fastened the last snap and lifted me up to admire her work, all I felt was the cold embrace of doom.
She squealed. Actually squealed.
"OH MY ARCEUS! You are the most adorable cub in all the regions! In ALL the regions, Orion! Look at you! Look at your little face! Look at your little tail!"
I hung in her hands like a condemned criminal, which I suppose I was.
"If I had known this would happen," I muttered—or tried to mutter; it came out as mostly baby babble—"I never would have picked Pyroar. Never. I regret everything."
Mom either didn't hear me or didn't care. She was already positioning me next to my new Pyroar plushie, pulling out her phone, preparing to document my shame for eternity.
The first photo captured my resigned expression perfectly.