Day seventy-five, and Professor Oak was sitting in Giovanni's office.
This was, by a considerable margin, the most dangerous situation Marcus had been in since arriving in this world. More dangerous than catching Kyogre. More dangerous than negotiating with Groudon. More dangerous than sitting next to Sabrina for three hours while her thighs existed four inches from his.
Because Professor Samuel Oak was not an idiot.
The man sitting across from Marcus—grey-haired, bright-eyed, wearing a lab coat that had seen better decades and a smile that radiated grandfatherly warmth the way a nuclear reactor radiated heat—was, by any reasonable assessment, one of the five smartest human beings on the planet. He had spent his entire life studying Pokémon. He had invented the Pokédex. He had mentored generations of trainers, including Red. He had forgotten more about Pokémon biology, behavior, and evolution than most people would ever learn.
And he was here to ask Giovanni about Mega Evolution.
Marcus had prepared for this meeting the way a general prepares for a battle—obsessively, comprehensively, with contingency plans for his contingency plans. He had spent three days running through possible questions, formulating answers, testing his cover story for weaknesses, and practicing his facial expressions in the mirror until Giovanni's face could project "helpful but cautious cooperation" with the consistency of a trained actor.
The cover story was simple: Giovanni had discovered Mega Evolution through private research. He'd found the Key Stone and a handful of Mega Stones during a personal expedition to "an unexplored region" (vague, unverifiable, plausible). He'd experimented with them in private, discovered the transformation mechanic, and debuted it at the tournament because he felt the world was ready to see it.
The story had weaknesses. A determined investigator could pull at its threads and find inconsistencies. But Marcus was counting on two things: first, that Oak was a scientist, not a detective, and his curiosity about how Mega Evolution worked would overwhelm his interest in where it came from. And second, that Giovanni's post-tournament reputation as a trustworthy, beloved public figure would provide a social shield against aggressive questioning.
"Professor," Marcus said, rising from his desk with a warm, respectful smile. "Thank you for coming. I've been looking forward to this."
Oak shook his hand with the firm, no-nonsense grip of a man who had been shaking hands with important people for forty years and had long since stopped being impressed by any of them. "Giovanni. I appreciate you making time. I know you've been busy since the tournament."
"Please, sit. Coffee?"
"Tea, if you have it."
Marcus pressed the intercom. "Tea for Professor Oak, please."
They settled into their chairs—Marcus behind his desk, Oak in the visitor's chair, the two men separated by three feet of polished mahogany and approximately forty-seven layers of deception.
"I'll be direct," Oak said, because Oak was always direct. It was one of the qualities that made him dangerous. "The transformation your Kangaskhan underwent during the tournament has generated significant scientific interest. The Pokémon League has asked me to lead the investigation into what the media has been calling 'Mega Evolution.' I've reviewed the available footage extensively, and I have questions."
"I expected you would."
"May I see the stones?"
Marcus had anticipated this request. He reached into his desk drawer and produced two items: the Key Stone, set into a simple metal band that he wore on his wrist (he'd had R&D fashion it into a more practical mount than keeping it in his breast pocket), and the Kangaskhanite, a smooth amber sphere in a velvet-lined case.
Oak leaned forward, his eyes bright with the particular intensity that only scientists displayed when confronted with something genuinely new. He didn't touch the stones—Marcus noted this with approval; Oak understood that unknown artifacts should be treated with caution—but he examined them closely, pulling a small magnifying lens from his coat pocket and studying the Kangaskhanite's surface with the focused attention of a jeweler appraising a diamond.
"Remarkable," Oak murmured. "The internal structure is crystalline, but the lattice pattern doesn't match any known mineral formation. And the energy signature..." He pulled out a small device—a portable scanner, custom-built, probably worth more than most people's houses. "May I?"
"Please."
The scanner hummed. Oak studied the readout, his eyebrows climbing progressively higher on his forehead as the data populated the screen.
"The energy wavelength is completely unique," he said. "It doesn't correspond to any known Pokémon type energy, any geological phenomenon, or any artificial energy source in our databases. It's... new. Genuinely new." He looked up at Marcus. "Where did you find these?"
Here it was. The critical moment. The question that would determine whether Oak accepted the cover story or started digging.
"During a private expedition," Marcus said, keeping his voice casual but respectful—the tone of a man sharing information he wasn't obligated to share but was choosing to share because he valued the scientific community. "I've been conducting personal research into Pokémon evolution for several years. Not professionally—I'm a trainer, not a scientist. But the subject fascinates me."
"Where, specifically?"
"A cave system. Remote. I'd prefer not to disclose the exact location—I'm concerned about the ecological impact of publicizing a site that may contain more of these stones. If word got out, every treasure hunter and collector in the world would descend on it." He paused, then added: "I hope you understand."
Oak studied him. Those bright, intelligent eyes—eyes that had been evaluating people and Pokémon for four decades—searched Giovanni's face for deception.
Marcus let him look. He had nothing to hide on his surface—the cover story was plausible, his concern about ecological impact was genuine (even if his real reason for secrecy was completely different), and Giovanni's face was projecting "honest, well-meaning privacy" with the conviction of a man who had been practicing this expression for three days.
"I understand," Oak said finally. "And I respect your caution. The scientific community can be... overzealous when presented with new discoveries." He set down his scanner and folded his hands. "Can you tell me how the transformation works?"
This was the part Marcus had prepared most carefully for. He needed to give Oak enough information to satisfy his curiosity and keep the investigation on a track that Marcus could control, without revealing enough for Oak to replicate the process independently.
"The Key Stone—this one—" he tapped the wristband, "—serves as a catalyst. It responds to the bond between trainer and Pokémon. The stronger the bond, the more responsive the stone. The Mega Stone—the Kangaskhanite—resonates with a specific Pokémon species. When the Key Stone and the Mega Stone are activated simultaneously, in the presence of a Pokémon that matches the Mega Stone's resonance frequency, the transformation occurs."
"The bond between trainer and Pokémon," Oak repeated slowly. "You're saying the emotional connection is a necessary component?"
"Essential. Without a genuine bond, the stones are inert. I've tested this—" he hadn't, but Oak didn't need to know that "—and the transformation fails completely if the trainer and Pokémon don't have a deep, authentic emotional connection."
Oak's eyes lit up. Not with suspicion—with excitement. The professor was, at his core, a romantic about Pokémon training. He believed, passionately and publicly, that the bond between trainer and Pokémon was the most important aspect of the relationship—more important than type matchups, more important than strategy, more important than raw power. The idea that this bond could literally trigger a physical transformation was, for Oak, not just scientifically interesting but philosophically validating.
Marcus had counted on this. He'd specifically framed the explanation in terms he knew would appeal to Oak's existing beliefs, turning the professor from a potential threat into an enthusiastic ally.
"Extraordinary," Oak breathed. "This aligns with several theoretical frameworks I've been developing about the nature of Pokémon evolution. The idea that emotional energy could serve as a catalyst for physical transformation isn't new—we've observed it in friendship-based evolutions for years—but the scale of what you demonstrated at the tournament goes far beyond anything we've documented."
"I believe there are more stones," Marcus said. "For different Pokémon species. The cave where I found these had geological formations suggesting a much larger deposit. I'm planning additional expeditions."
"I'd like to be involved," Oak said immediately. Then, catching himself: "If you're willing, of course. I understand the sensitivity. But the scientific implications of this discovery are... well, they're potentially the most significant advance in Pokémon biology in a generation. Perhaps ever."
Marcus pretended to consider this. In reality, he'd been planning to make exactly this offer—bringing Oak into the research under controlled conditions, feeding him information at a rate that Marcus determined, positioning Giovanni as the gatekeeper of Mega Evolution knowledge.
"I'd welcome your involvement, Professor. On two conditions."
"Name them."
"First: the research remains confidential until we both agree it's ready for publication. I don't want half-formed theories and speculative articles creating public confusion about what Mega Evolution is and how it works."
"Agreed. Premature publication would be irresponsible."
"Second: any expeditions to locate additional stones are conducted jointly, with my team handling logistics and security. The locations I'm investigating may be remote and potentially dangerous."
"Also agreed. I'm too old to go spelunking without backup." Oak smiled—a genuine, warm, trusting smile that made Marcus feel exactly one (1) twinge of guilt before his crime lord instincts filed the emotion in the "irrelevant" folder and moved on.
They spent the next hour discussing the mechanics of Mega Evolution in detail—Marcus sharing carefully curated information, Oak asking brilliant questions that occasionally came uncomfortably close to things Marcus didn't want to discuss, both men engaged in a conversation that was simultaneously genuine scientific collaboration and an elaborate chess match of information control.
By the time Oak left—carrying a small sample of Kangaskhanite that Marcus had provided for laboratory analysis, along with a set of energy readings from the Key Stone that would keep the professor's research team busy for weeks without actually revealing anything strategically useful—Marcus was confident that the situation was under control.
Oak believed the cover story. Oak was excited about the research. Oak was going to be a cooperative, enthusiastic partner who provided the legitimacy of academic credibility while Marcus maintained exclusive control over the actual technology.
The most dangerous conversation of his career, navigated successfully.
Marcus closed the door behind the professor, sat down at his desk, and exhaled a breath he felt like he'd been holding for three days.
"That man," he said to Boss the Persian, who was watching from the couch with feline omniscience, "is terrifyingly smart. If he ever decides to investigate me instead of my stones, I'm finished."
Boss purred. The purr was not reassuring. It was the purr of a cat that knew something and was keeping it to itself.
The Z-Ring arrived six days after the tournament, delivered by a Ditto operative who had traveled from Alola to Kanto via a series of commercial flights, cargo ships, and one memorable incident involving a Wailord that had been used as an improvised ferry across a stretch of open ocean.
The operative—currently in its natural Ditto form, a pink blob of protoplasm sitting on Marcus's desk next to a padded case—seemed pleased with itself. It wobbled slightly, which Marcus had learned was the Ditto equivalent of a proud smile.
"Good work," Marcus told it. "Bonus stickers for you."
The Ditto wobbled more enthusiastically.
Marcus opened the case.
The Z-Ring was beautiful. A band of dark stone—Sparkling Stone, refined and shaped by an Alolan artisan into a smooth, elegant bracelet—set with a socket in the center where a Z-Crystal could be placed. The stone's surface was shot through with tiny, glittering inclusions that caught the light and scattered it into prismatic fragments, like stars embedded in obsidian.
And it hummed. Not audibly—Marcus could feel it through his fingertips, a subtle vibration that resonated with something deep in his chest. The Old Fire. The Z-Ring was responding to the same bond-energy that powered Resonance and Mega Evolution—the cosmic connection between trainer and Pokémon that Groudon had called ancient and that Tapu Koko had apparently found interesting enough to facilitate from half a world away.
He slipped it onto his left wrist. The Key Stone band was on his right. Mega Evolution on one wrist, Z-Moves on the other.
He looked ridiculous. He looked like a Pokémon trainer who had raided a jewelry store. He looked like exactly what he was—a man who had accumulated so many power-enhancing accessories that his wrists were starting to resemble a display case at a gaming convention.
He didn't care. Function over fashion. Always.
He selected a Z-Crystal from the collection—Dragonium Z, because if he was going to test this for the first time, he was going to test it with his strongest Pokémon and his most dramatic move—and slotted it into the Z-Ring's socket.
The crystal clicked into place and the Z-Ring blazed.
Not with light—with energy. A surge of draconic power that ran up Marcus's arm like an electrical current, through his chest, into the bond, and out to every Pokémon on his belt simultaneously. He felt them react—Dragonite with excitement, Ace with curiosity, Shadow with its characteristic "hmph" of edgy indifference, Titan with the geological patience of a creature that had been alive when Z-Crystals were first forming in Alola's volcanic soil.
"Training room," Marcus said. "Now."
He took the elevator to the basement, walked past the crater in the hallway (still unrepaired; the structural engineers had given up and were drinking), and entered the training facility.
He released Dragonite.
The dragon materialized in all its seven-foot, grinning, tail-wagging glory and immediately attempted to hug Marcus, which Marcus dodged with the practiced agility of a man who had learned that five hundred pounds of enthusiastic dragon was an extinction-level affection event.
"Focus," Marcus said. "We're testing something new."
Dragonite focused. Its grin sharpened from "golden retriever" to "golden retriever who has been told there are treats involved." Same energy, slightly more intensity.
Marcus raised his left wrist. The Dragonium Z glowed in the Z-Ring's socket—deep purple, pulsing with draconic energy, responding to Dragonite's presence the way a tuning fork responds to its resonant frequency.
"Okay," Marcus said. "I've seen this in the games. I've seen it in the anime. I know the theory. You channel your energy through the Z-Crystal, I channel my bond-energy through the Z-Ring, and together we produce a Z-Move—a single, overwhelming, once-per-battle super attack that hits with force that conventional moves can't match."
Dragonite nodded. It didn't understand the technical details, but it understood "super attack." Super attacks were good. Super attacks meant destruction. Destruction was fun.
"The Dragon-type Z-Move is called Devastating Drake. It summons a massive dragon construct of pure draconic energy and launches it at the target. In the games, it does approximately twice the damage of a standard Dragon-type attack. In reality..." Marcus looked at the training room's reinforced walls, which were already showing stress fractures from previous training sessions. "...in reality, we should probably do this outside."
They went outside.
Marcus found an empty field on the outskirts of Viridian City—a large, flat expanse of grassland that was far enough from any buildings, roads, or people to minimize collateral damage. He positioned Dragonite at one end of the field, placed a series of training dummies at the other end (approximately two hundred meters away, because he genuinely didn't know what was about to happen and wanted a safety margin), and took his position beside his dragon.
"Ready?" he asked.
Dragonite spread its wings. Its eyes blazed with anticipation. Its tail stopped wagging and went rigid—the only sign that the goofy, loveable, grinning dragon had shifted from "play mode" to "war mode."
"Ready."
Marcus raised his left arm. The Z-Ring blazed. The Dragonium Z erupted with light—purple-gold, swirling with draconic energy that was visible to the naked eye, a vortex of power that spiraled up Marcus's arm and across his body, filling him with a sensation that was—
Incredible.
Not painful. Not overwhelming. Incredible—in the original, literal sense of the word. Beyond belief. Beyond experience. Beyond anything Marcus had felt from any other power source, including the Key Stone, including Resonance, including the orbs of Kyogre and Groudon. The Z-energy was different—not an amplifier, not a catalyst, but a channel. A conduit that took the bond between trainer and Pokémon and focused it, compressed it, refined it into a weapon of singular, devastating purpose.
His body moved on its own. Not involuntarily—he chose to move, but the movements themselves were guided by the Z-energy, choreographed by the crystal, a sequence of poses and gestures that felt simultaneously absurd and right.
He crossed his arms. Swept them outward. Raised his right hand to the sky.
It was a dance. A ritual. The Z-Move activation sequence was, Marcus realized, a prayer—a physical expression of the bond between trainer and Pokémon, offered to the universe in exchange for a moment of transcendent power.
He felt silly.
He also felt like a god.
The energy peaked. Marcus slammed his hands together, pointed at the training dummies, and released.
Dragonite roared—not its happy roar, not its playful roar, but its war roar, a sound that came from the deepest, oldest, most dragon part of its being—and the Z-energy erupted from its body in a cataclysm of draconic power.
Devastating Drake.
The dragon construct materialized above the field—a massive, spectral dragon made of pure, solidified Z-energy, fifty feet long, blazing with purple-gold light, its jaws open, its eyes burning with the combined will of Marcus and Dragonite focused through the lens of the Dragonium Z into a single, all-consuming, absolutely devastating attack.
It screamed as it launched. Not a sound that any living dragon would make—a sound that the concept of dragon would make if the concept itself could open its mouth and express its essential nature through raw sonic force. The scream tore across the field, flattening the grass in a perfect circle of displaced air, and the construct dove—
The training dummies were two hundred meters away.
The training dummies ceased to exist.
Not broke. Not shattered. Not burned. Ceased to exist. The Devastating Drake hit the target zone with an impact that Marcus felt through the ground from two hundred meters away—a detonation of draconic energy that obliterated the dummies, the ground beneath the dummies, the ground around the dummies, and a significant portion of the field behind the dummies. A crater—a real, geological, "this will be visible on satellite imagery" crater—appeared where the targets had been, roughly fifteen meters in diameter and three meters deep, its edges glowing with residual Z-energy that crackled and spat like purple lightning.
The sound reached Marcus a moment after the impact—a rolling, bass-heavy BOOM that echoed off the mountains north of Viridian City and startled a flock of Pidgey into panicked flight approximately two miles away.
Marcus stared at the crater.
Dragonite stared at the crater.
A long, ringing silence filled the field, broken only by the distant, fading echo of the explosion and the soft plink plink plink of heated pebbles settling in the crater's basin.
"Okay," Marcus said.
His voice was very calm. Too calm. The calm of a man whose brain had evaluated what just happened and decided that emotional reactions were inadequate and would not be attempted.
"That's. That's quite strong."
Dragonite turned to look at him. Its grin was back—the big, goofy, gleeful grin of a dragon that had just discovered it could delete portions of the landscape with its brain.
It chirped.
Not the deep, mature vocalization of a fully evolved Dragonite. A chirp. The same chirp it had made as a Dratini, tiny and musical and innocent.
The most devastating Pokémon attack Marcus had ever witnessed, delivered by a creature that still chirped like a baby.
"We are never using that indoors," Marcus said.
Chirp.
"Or near buildings."
Chirp.
"Or near people."
Chirp.
"Or near anything I don't want to not exist anymore."
Chirp chirp!
Marcus looked at the Z-Ring on his wrist. Looked at the Dragonium Z, still glowing faintly in its socket. Looked at the crater that had been a field thirty seconds ago.
He had eight Z-Crystals. Eight types. Eight Z-Moves, each one presumably capable of similar devastation, tailored to different types.
He had Mega Evolution on the other wrist.
He had Resonance in his chest.
He had two literal gods on his belt.
He had ancient Pokémon, a psychic fortress, a martial arts weasel with a cloak, and a dragon that could delete geography.
And somewhere on Cinnabar Island, the most powerful Pokémon in the world was about to wake up.
Marcus sat down in the grass—carefully, away from the crater's edge—and began to laugh.
Not a villainous laugh. Not a maniacal, "I have the power" laugh. Just a laugh. The laugh of a man who had once been a dead Pokémon fan on a couch in Sacramento and was now sitting in a field next to a Dragonite, wearing two magical bracelets, commanding an army, and possessing more power than any single person in the history of this world.
It was absurd. It was glorious. It was the best video game he'd never played.
Dragonite sat down next to him—carefully, because five hundred pounds of dragon sitting down carelessly would create its own impact crater—and leaned its massive body against Marcus's side.
They sat together in the grass, trainer and dragon, watching the sun set over the crater they'd made, and for a few quiet minutes, the grind stopped.
Forge made her decision on day seventy-eight.
Marcus had been visiting the Pewter Museum every other day since Forge's resurrection, bringing food (large quantities of mineral-rich Poké food that the ancient Pokémon consumed with the dignified appetite of a creature that considered eating a necessary inconvenience rather than a pleasure), spending time in the reconstructed laboratory (which Forge had continued to modify according to her own preferences, creating a nest of heated stone and crystallized minerals that resembled a volcanic forge—hence, Marcus suspected, the name she'd chosen), and simply being present.
He didn't try to catch her. Didn't try to train her. Didn't try to impress her or manipulate her or convince her of his worth through grand gestures or displays of power. He just... showed up. Sat with her. Talked to her—through Titan, who served as translator, and increasingly through direct psychic impression, as Marcus's exposure to Forge's powerful psychic field gradually attuned his mind to her communication frequency.
He told her about his team. About Ace and Resonance. About Shadow and its cloak. About Blaze and its unbridled enthusiasm. About Dragonite's evolution from pen-eating baby to geography-deleting dragon. About Kyogre and Groudon and the orbs and the responsibility of carrying gods.
He told her about the Old Fire. About what it meant. About why it burned.
And Forge listened. Watched. Evaluated.
On day seventy-eight, Marcus arrived at the museum, walked into the reconstructed laboratory, sat down on the heated stone floor across from Forge, and—
Found the ancient Pokémon waiting for him.
Not in her usual position—lounging in her volcanic nest, radiating heat and psychic judgment. She was standing. Fully upright, her five-foot frame drawn to its full height, her armored plates gleaming in the laboratory's light, her white eyes blazing with a focused intensity that Marcus had come to recognize as "I have made a decision and you will hear it now."
Titan was there too—standing behind Marcus, a silent, supportive presence, the guardian bearing witness.
Forge spoke. Through psychic impression, through vocalization, through the ancient language of her kind that Marcus could now, haltingly, partially understand.
I have watched you, Fire-Carrier. I have watched you for twenty days. I have seen you with your Pokémon—seen the way they look at you, the way you look at them. I have felt the fire in your chest and measured its heat and tested its truth.
Marcus waited.
You are not a good creature.
The words hit like a slap.
You lie. You manipulate. You use others for your benefit. You build power for yourself and call it protection. You carry gods on your belt and call it responsibility.
Marcus said nothing. There was nothing to say. Forge was right. About all of it.
But.
The ancient Pokémon took a step forward. The floor cracked under her weight. Her white eyes found Marcus's, and in their blazing depths, he saw something that had not been there before.
But the fire is real. The love for your Pokémon—it is not a strategy. It is not a tool. It is the truest thing about you. I have seen warriors, Fire-Carrier. I have seen kings and tyrants and heroes and monsters. The truest warriors are not the purest ones. They are the ones who carry darkness AND fire, who are broken AND whole, who do terrible things AND love with all their hearts.
You are a terrible creature who loves beautifully.
I have decided.
She lowered her angular head. The gesture was the same one Kyogre had made, the same one Groudon had made—the universal Pokémon gesture of acceptance.
I will be your forge. Your fire. Your steel.
Do not make me regret it.
Marcus stood. His hands were trembling—not with fear, but with the overwhelming, chest-cracking weight of being seen completely, being judged honestly, being found wanting in so many ways and being accepted anyway.
He pulled a Poké Ball from his belt. A standard ball. Not an enhanced one—Forge didn't need artificial warmth. The connection between them had been built over twenty days of honest presence, and it was real, and it was enough.
He held it out.
Forge pressed her head against it.
Click.
No shaking. No resistance. Just acceptance.
Marcus clipped the ball to his belt and felt Forge's presence join the constellation of bonds that burned in his chest—Ace's gold, Dragonite's amber, Shadow's obsidian, Titan's volcanic orange, Blaze's warm fire, and now Forge's blazing white.
Titan rumbled. The ancient guardian projected an impression of deep, quiet satisfaction—the contentment of a creature whose kin had found a home.
Marcus stood in the laboratory, his team complete in a way it hadn't been before, and felt—for the first time—like he was ready.
Ready for Mewtwo. Ready for Red. Ready for whatever the world threw at him.
Because he had a forge now. A fire. A steel.
And a terrible creature who loved beautifully.
He learned what Forge actually was three days later, when Silph Co.'s genetics lab finished analyzing the DNA samples from her capture.
The lab report landed on his desk at 9 AM, flagged PRIORITY ALPHA, and Marcus opened it expecting confirmation of what he'd already suspected—that Forge was some kind of ancient, unknown species, something that predated modern taxonomy and occupied its own branch of the Pokémon evolutionary tree.
What he got was different.
SPECIES IDENTIFICATION: Rhyperior (Hisuian Variant)
TYPE: Steel/Psychic
STATUS: Previously unknown regional variant. No existing records in any global Pokémon database.
Marcus set down his coffee.
Rhyperior. Rhyperior.
His Rhydon—regular, modern Rhydon, a member of his gym team for months—evolved into Rhyperior. The standard Rhyperior was a Ground/Rock type, a hulking physical powerhouse with enormous Attack and Defense, held back by abysmal Speed and Special Defense.
Hisuian Rhyperior was something else entirely.
Steel/Psychic typing. Armor composition: crystallized psychic-steel alloy, a biological material with no modern equivalent. The armor plates that cover the specimen's body are not volcanic rock (as initially assumed) but a unique metallic compound produced by the specimen's own biology—a self-generating armor that combines the physical resilience of steel with psychic-conductive properties that channel and amplify telekinetic energy.
Physical characteristics deviate significantly from modern Rhyperior. Hisuian Rhyperior is smaller (5'2" versus modern Rhyperior's 7'10"), lighter (approximately 350 lbs versus 625 lbs), and significantly more mobile. The reduction in size appears to be compensated by increased psychic capability—specimen's telekinetic output exceeds standard Alakazam by a factor of twelve.
Behavioral notes: Specimen demonstrates intelligence, communication ability, and social complexity far beyond modern Rhyperior or any known Steel or Psychic type. Specimen appears to possess language, cultural memory, and a sophisticated understanding of social hierarchy. Further study recommended.
Steel/Psychic. Marcus rolled the typing around in his mind the way a sommelier rolled wine across their palate.
Defensively, Steel/Psychic was phenomenal. Resistant to Normal, Flying, Rock, Steel, Grass, Ice, Dragon, Fairy, and Psychic—nine resistances. Immune to Poison. Weak to only Fire, Ground, Ghost, and Dark.
Nine resistances and an immunity. That was one of the best defensive typings in the game.
Offensively, Steel moves hit Ice, Rock, and Fairy. Psychic moves hit Fighting and Poison. Combined with Forge's telekinetic power—which could presumably be channeled through physical attacks as well as ranged ones—the offensive coverage was solid.
And Forge wasn't just a defensive wall. She was a psychic defensive wall. A creature that could take hits that would fell normal Pokémon, shrug them off with Steel-type resilience, and respond with telekinetic attacks that hit from every angle simultaneously.
"You're a Rhyperior," Marcus said aloud, staring at the report. "You're a psychic, steel-armored, self-forging, language-speaking Hisuian Rhyperior."
He felt Forge's psychic presence through her Poké Ball—warm, amused, carrying the distinct impression of Yes, obviously. What did you think I was?
"I thought you were something entirely new."
The impression shifted to something that might have been a psychic eye-roll. I am a Rhyperior. I am also entirely new. These things are not contradictory, Fire-Carrier.
Marcus couldn't argue with that.
He updated his team roster, adding Forge's species and typing, and stared at the result. His roster now included two Hisuian Rhyperior-line Pokémon—Rhydon on his gym team and Forge on his battle team. One modern, one ancient. One Ground/Rock, one Steel/Psychic.
The contrast was fascinating. Ten thousand years of evolution had taken the same base species and produced two completely different Pokémon—one a physical bruiser, the other a psychic fortress. Same family. Different paths.
He wondered what other Hisuian variants were buried in the earth, waiting to be found.
He made a note to expand the fossil survey.
Day seventy-nine, and the Giovanni Appreciation Society went public.
This was not intentional.
The Society—which had grown from its original forty-seven members to, according to the latest internal communications that Marcus was completely unaware of, one hundred and eighty-three members spread across every division of Team Rocket and several external organizations that had no official connection to Team Rocket but whose female employees had somehow heard about the club and wanted in—had been operating in strict secrecy since its founding.
Meetings were held in Conference Room B every Thursday at 8 PM. Minutes were taken. Dues were collected (used to fund the matching t-shirts, which had gone through three design iterations and now featured a surprisingly high-quality screen-printed portrait of Giovanni on the front and the text "PROPERTY OF THE GAS" on the back, "GAS" being the acronym that the Society had reluctantly adopted after someone pointed out that "Giovanni Appreciation Society" abbreviated to it and everyone had decided to just lean in).
The secrecy was maintained through a combination of encrypted communications, code words, and the unspoken understanding that if the Boss ever found out about the Society, approximately one hundred and eighty-three women would simultaneously die of embarrassment and take the secret to their graves.
The secrecy lasted seventy-nine days.
It ended because of a printer error.
Specifically, it ended because Agent Luna—the same Luna who had experienced the "collision incident" in the hallway on Day One and had been dining out on the story ever since—had been tasked with printing the agenda for the Society's next meeting. The agenda included:
Minutes from last week's meeting (summary: "Luna retold the collision story AGAIN, everyone cried, Mira brought cupcakes")Treasury report ("We have enough funds for new t-shirts AND a banner")Discussion topic: "The Tournament - An Analysis of the Boss's Battle Poses and Their Effect on Our Collective Mental Health"Special presentation: "Sabrina: Threat or Idol? A Debate"New member inductionsPlans for the Boss's upcoming birthday (date unknown; intelligence division refuses to help; considering asking the Boss directly, which would defeat the purpose of the surprise)
Luna had printed this agenda on the Team Rocket headquarters' main printer.
The same printer that, due to a network configuration error that IT had been meaning to fix for three weeks, was shared with the Executive Floor—the floor that contained Giovanni's office.
The agenda printed on Giovanni's printer.
It printed at 7:47 AM. Marcus arrived at his office at 7:52 AM. He sat down at his desk at 7:53 AM. He picked up the stack of papers in his printer tray at 7:54 AM.
He read the agenda at 7:55 AM.
He read it again at 7:56 AM.
He read it a third time at 7:57 AM, because his brain had rejected the information on the first two attempts and was now being forced to accept it through sheer repetition.
At 7:58 AM, he set the paper down on his desk, folded his hands, and stared at the wall for approximately ninety seconds.
"Persian," he said.
Boss opened one eye from the couch.
"There is a fan club."
Boss purred.
"A fan club. For me. With one hundred and eighty-three members. And matching t-shirts. And a treasury."
Boss purred louder. The purr had a distinctly "I've known about this for weeks and have been watching you not notice with immense personal satisfaction" quality to it.
"They have a debate topic about whether Sabrina is a threat or an idol."
Boss closed its eye. Its work was done. The entertainment value of this moment had peaked and the cat was choosing to preserve it in memory rather than dilute it with continued observation.
Marcus looked at the agenda again. Then he looked at his communicator. Then he looked at the agenda again.
He should address this. He was the Boss. A secret fan club operating within his organization was, from a security standpoint, a breach of protocol. From a professional standpoint, it was inappropriate. From a leadership standpoint, it required acknowledgment, boundaries, and clear communication about workplace conduct.
He picked up his communicator. Put it down. Picked it up again.
He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another one. Deleted that too.
Finally, he typed:
To: All Personnel
From: Giovanni
Subject: Organizational Matters
It has come to my attention that an employee social organization exists within our ranks. I have no objection to employee social activities, provided they occur outside of operational hours and do not interfere with mission-critical duties.
However, I have two requests:
1. Please use the correct organizational font on all materials, as previously instructed.
2. My birthday is March 15th.
That is all.
He sent the message before he could change his mind.
The response was immediate.
His communicator buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then began buzzing continuously, a sustained vibration that suggested every single member of the Giovanni Appreciation Society had received his message simultaneously and was now experiencing a collective emotional event that was registering on whatever scale was used to measure organizational morale.
The buzzing didn't stop for forty-five minutes.
Marcus turned off his communicator, drank his coffee, and decided that some things were better left unexamined.
He had work to do. He had a Z-Ring to master. He had ancient Pokémon to train. He had Mewtwo approaching consciousness on Cinnabar Island. He had a global intelligence network feeding him data that shaped the future of the world.
He did not have time to think about one hundred and eighty-three women in matching t-shirts debating whether Sabrina was a threat or an idol.
He absolutely was not going to think about it.
He was thinking about it.
He stopped thinking about it.
He started thinking about Groudon instead.
The excuse to use Groudon came on day eighty-one, and it came from the last direction Marcus expected.
A wild Pokémon outbreak.
Specifically, a swarm of ultra-aggressive Onix—seventeen of them, each one approximately thirty feet long—had emerged from an underground cave system south of Pewter City and begun rampaging through the countryside, destroying farmland, collapsing roads, and generally behaving in a manner that suggested something deep underground had pissed them off.
The Pokémon League dispatched an alert to all available Gym Leaders: contain the outbreak, protect civilians, minimize property damage. Standard procedure for wild Pokémon emergencies—strong trainers deployed to handle threats that local law enforcement couldn't manage.
Marcus received the alert at his office, read it, assessed the situation, and saw an opportunity.
Seventeen aggressive Onix. Rock/Ground types, each one thirty feet long and weighing several tons. A legitimate threat to public safety that required a powerful response.
A response that could, plausibly, justify deploying a very powerful Pokémon.
Not Kyogre. The Onix were on land, and deploying a Water-type god to handle a Ground-type outbreak would be suspicious—too targeted, too obviously "I have the perfect legendary for this situation."
But Groudon...
Groudon was a Ground-type. The Onix were Ground/Rock types. A Ground-type legendary deployed against a Ground-type threat was, from a tactical standpoint, not the most efficient choice—it lacked type advantage, and Ground moves against Ground-types were resisted. But from a containment standpoint, it was perfect. Groudon's sheer presence—its size, its power, its primal authority over the earth itself—would be enough to cow the Onix into submission without a fight. It was like sending a general to quell a barroom brawl—overkill in terms of force, but effective through sheer intimidation.
And more importantly, it would give Marcus an excuse to deploy Groudon publicly. To establish the precedent that Giovanni had access to a Legendary Pokémon. To normalize the idea in the public consciousness so that when—inevitably—he needed to use it again, the reaction would be "Giovanni and his legendary" rather than "WHERE DID HE GET THAT?"
The cover story wrote itself: Giovanni, civic-minded Gym Leader and Elite Four member, encountered a legendary Pokémon during his private expeditions (the same expeditions that produced the Mega Stones). Through his exceptional bond with Pokémon (publicly demonstrated at the tournament through Mega Evolution and the glowing Persian), he had earned the legendary's trust and partnership. He was deploying it now, in a crisis, to protect the people of Kanto.
Hero stuff. Noble stuff. The kind of stuff that made people say "wow, Giovanni is amazing" rather than "wow, Giovanni is suspicious."
Marcus grabbed his coat and headed for the helicopter.
The Onix outbreak was centered on a stretch of farmland between Pewter City and Route 3—gently rolling fields of wheat and vegetables that had been thoroughly destroyed by seventeen panicking rock snakes, each one burrowing, surfacing, and thrashing with the blind, aggressive fury of creatures that had been driven from their home by some unknown underground disturbance.
Marcus arrived by helicopter, surveyed the damage from the air—crushed fences, plowed-under crops, three collapsed barns, and a road that now had a thirty-foot-long trench running across it—and set down in a clearing approximately a hundred meters from the nearest Onix.
Local authorities had established a perimeter. Trainers and police officers were keeping civilians at a safe distance while attempting to contain the outbreak with their own Pokémon. They were failing—the Onix were too large, too numerous, and too aggressive for the local trainers to handle. Several Pokémon had already been injured in containment attempts.
Marcus stepped out of the helicopter, assessed the situation one final time, and made his decision.
He pulled Groudon's Poké Ball from his belt.
The Loyalty Ball—his custom design, the enhanced bonding matrix—was warm in his hand. Through the shell, he could feel Groudon—awake, alert, aware that it was about to be called upon. The god of the earth, patient and powerful, waiting for the word.
Marcus had spoken with Groudon—through psychic impression, through the bond—about Team Aqua and Team Magma. The eco-terrorists were gone—arrested, imprisoned, their organizations dismantled. The threat that Marcus had used as justification for their partnership had been neutralized.
And Groudon had chosen to stay.
Not because of the Loyalty Ball's enhanced bonding matrix—though that had certainly helped in the beginning, establishing a baseline of warmth and trust that accelerated the early stages of the relationship. But the matrix didn't create feelings that weren't there. It amplified genuine connection. And over the weeks since capture, Marcus and Groudon had developed a genuine connection—built on respect, on shared purpose, on the Old Fire that burned in Marcus's chest and resonated with Groudon's ancient, primal nature.
Groudon stayed because it wanted to stay. Because the Fire-Carrier was interesting. Because the world, seen through Marcus's eyes, was more complex and more fascinating than the eternal, unchanging sleep of the deep earth. Because there were things to do, battles to fight, ground to hold.
And because, if Marcus was being honest with himself, Groudon was a little bit lonely.
Gods got lonely too. Especially gods who had been sleeping alone in the earth's core for millennia.
Marcus threw the ball.
Groudon materialized.
The reaction was immediate and absolute.
The Onix—all seventeen of them, each one thirty feet of aggressive, panicking rock snake—stopped. Simultaneously. Instantly. As if someone had hit a cosmic pause button.
They stopped because they felt Groudon before they saw it. The god's presence radiated outward like a shockwave—not physical force but authority. Primal, geological, incontestable authority. The authority of the earth itself, the ground upon which everything stood, the foundation beneath every foundation. The authority of the creature that was the ground, that had shaped the ground, that could reshape it again with a thought.
The Onix, being Ground/Rock types, being creatures of the earth, felt this authority in their bones—in their stone segments, in their crystalline cores, in the deepest, most instinctive part of their being. And they responded the way any creature of the earth responded when the god of the earth said stop.
They stopped.
Then they saw Groudon.
Forty feet tall. Armored in plates of volcanic stone that glowed with the dull red of magma barely contained beneath the surface. Claws the size of cars. Eyes burning with ancient fire. A body that radiated heat intense enough to wilt the remaining crops in a hundred-meter radius and turn the morning dew into steam.
The largest Onix—the alpha, presumably, the one that had been leading the rampage—looked up at Groudon from its position half-buried in a wheat field and made a sound that Marcus had never heard an Onix make before.
A whimper.
A thirty-foot rock snake whimpered.
Groudon looked down at the Onix. The god's expression was—Marcus could feel it through the bond—not angry. Not aggressive. Disappointed. The way a parent looks at a child who has been making a mess and knows better.
Groudon growled.
One sound. One low, subsonic, earth-trembling growl that lasted approximately two seconds and carried with it a psychic impression so powerful that even Marcus, bonded to the god and accustomed to its communication, felt his knees weaken.
GO HOME.
The Onix went home.
All seventeen of them. Simultaneously. They dove underground—quietly, carefully, with the exaggerated, tiptoeing caution of creatures trying very hard not to attract any more attention from the angry god—and burrowed their way back to wherever they'd come from, leaving behind a field full of tunnels and a crowd full of people who had just witnessed a Legendary Pokémon cow seventeen rampaging rock snakes into submission with a single growl.
The crowd was silent.
Then: chaos.
People screaming, crying, cheering, photographing, filming. Reporters who had been covering the outbreak as a local emergency were now covering it as a global event—Giovanni, the Elite Four member, the Mega Evolution pioneer, had just revealed that he possessed a Legendary Pokémon. Not just any legendary—Groudon. The Continent Pokémon. The god of the earth.
Marcus stood beside his god and let the cameras capture the moment. Giovanni's face was calm, composed, projecting the serene confidence of a man who had been walking beside legends for so long that it had become routine.
"The threat has been contained," he said to the nearest reporter, who was holding a microphone with trembling hands and staring at Groudon with an expression that suggested her worldview was undergoing emergency reconstruction. "The Onix have returned to their habitat. I'll be working with the League to determine what caused the disturbance and ensure it doesn't happen again."
"Mr.—Mr. Giovanni—is that—is that a Groudon?"
"It is."
"How—when—WHERE—"
"I'll be happy to discuss the details at a more appropriate time. Right now, my priority is ensuring the safety of the local community."
He recalled Groudon—the god dissolving into red light, its massive form collapsing inward, the forty-foot avatar of geological power returning to the tiny sphere on his belt with a final, rumbling growl that shook the ground one last time.
The crowd erupted.
Marcus walked back to his helicopter through a gauntlet of screaming, crying, camera-wielding humans who were experiencing a collective religious experience, and he allowed himself—behind the mask of Giovanni's composure—a small, private, deeply satisfied smile.
Phase one of the "normalize Giovanni's legendary Pokémon" strategy: complete.
The world now knew that Giovanni had Groudon. They would be shocked. They would be awed. They would ask questions.
And then, gradually, they would accept it. Because Giovanni was a hero. Giovanni was beloved. Giovanni had earned the trust of a god through the power of his bond with Pokémon.
Giovanni could be trusted with anything.
That was the narrative. That was the story. And Marcus was going to make sure it was the only story anyone ever heard.
Back at headquarters, Marcus sat at his desk, Forge's ball warm on his belt, Groudon's ball warm beside it, the Z-Ring humming on one wrist and the Key Stone glowing on the other, and updated his master plan.
Day 81. Status: Winning.
The world knows about Mega Evolution. The world knows about Groudon. The world is watching.
Good. Let them watch.
Let them watch while I build something they can't stop.
Let them watch while I become something they can't challenge.
Let them watch while the most terrible creature who loves beautifully prepares for the next phase.
The grind continues.
He closed the notebook, drank his coffee, and got back to work.
END OF CHAPTER 11
Next Chapter: Mewtwo awakens. For real this time. No more previews, no more delays. The most powerful Pokémon in the world opens its eyes, and Marcus sits in a room full of sunlight and growing things, armed with nothing but the Old Fire, and waits to see what happens next.