What's this? Another new chapter? When did I have time to do this?
In all swriousness, I'm finding myself incredibly motivated to write, which honestly is due to how great of a reception this has been getting! So thank you for that!
So I was thinking of having the next update being a bit of a Q&A thread, or just generally responding to reviews! Please let me know what you think of that idea, and if you like it, feel free to throw a question or two in the reviews or even PM me. If this is a bad idea for some reason, please explain it to me! I'm pretty new to this so I'm relying on y'all to help me be better!
Anyways, please enjoy chapter 9
A stale but sterile scent filled Malic's nostrils as he drifted back into consciousness. His eyes felt like they were weighed down by lead, but he pried them open, squinting against the harsh, artificial light that flooded his vision. He blinked slowly, his vision sharpening. The ceiling above was a pristine white, interrupted only by the lighting panels emitting a steady, fluorescent glow. The soft beeping of monitors provided a stable, mechanical heartbeat that grounded him to the present.
Malic's body felt heavy, his sense of touch muted aside from a dull ache radiating from his shoulder to his fingertips. His injured arm was held against his body with a tight sling, a few pillows propped underneath him in a way that made it impossible to accidentally turn and lay on his sling. Moving his head slightly, he winced as a sharp sting shot through his neck. His gaze settled on the myriad of medical equipment surrounding the bed—IV drips, heart monitors, and various other devices with purposes he couldn't begin to guess.
Memories swirled like a dense fog that he couldn't quite penetrate. The last thing he remembered was the oppressive darkness of the forest, his rescue from the looming threat of the Copperajah, and then Cherie. His heart clenched, the image of her cowering behind him as he faced the Copperajah welling up inside of him. He tried to push himself up, but with a strange sense of Deja vu, a firm yet gentle hand pressed against his chest, urging him to stay down.
"Easy there," a soothing voice accompanied the hand. Malic turned his head to see a nurse dressed in pale blue scrubs, her kind eyes studying him with a mixture of concern and relief. "You've been through quite an ordeal. Don't try to move too much just yet."
"My sister… Cherie…" Malic rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
The nurse offered a faint smile, reaching over to a nearby table to pour a glass of water. She brought it to his lips, allowing him to take small sips that softened his parched throat. "We'll talk about that in a moment. Right now, you need your rest. Even with Ditto Cell treatment, you should still take it easy for another day or two."
Malic was unwillingly settled back against the pillows by the nurse when his hand brushed against something in the bed. He glanced down to see Slakoth's Pokéball nestled beside him, the red and white sphere reflecting the overhead lights. "We couldn't get you to let it go. Even unconscious, you held onto it. Almost like a kid with his favorite Pokedoll." The hint of teasing in her voice made a blush rise on Malic's cheeks, even as a wave of relief washed over him. They had both gotten out of there.
But questions continued to buzz in his mind like a swarm of Beedrill. How had he ended up here? Where was Arthur? Had they found Cherie, or had it been an Illusion like Arthur said? Each thought felt more overwhelming than the last. He closed his eyes, trying to piece together fragmented images—the terrifying encounter with the Copperajah, the sudden appearance of Hopps and Arthur, and then… nothing. A total blank.
The nurse rested a hand on his uninjured arm, bringing him out of his tumultuous thoughts. "You're at the Littleroot Medical Center. A Ranger brought you in late last night. You had a nasty injury to your shoulder, but we've taken care of it. You're going to be okay."
"Arthur… the Ranger, is he here?" Malic asked.
"He's waiting outside. I'll let him know you're awake," she replied, removing her hand and standing up. "But stay in bed."
Malic nodded, and the nurse slipped out of the room. The steady beat of the monitors and the softness of the bed gently lulled his exhausted body into a daze. Malic had never been this tired, though it was hard to tell if it was natural or the result of some sort of medication.
The door opened, and Malic forced his eyes open, fighting off the sleep that clung to him. Arthur stepped inside, his face unreadable, though the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes hinted at the long night he'd had.
"Hey, kid," Arthur said in the gruff but kind tone he always seemed to have. You look better than when I last saw you."
Malic forced a smile. "I wish I could say the same for how I feel. My shoulder is killing me, and my head's a bit fuzzy." They were silent for a moment; Arthur stood awkwardly beside the bed while Malic fiddled with Slakoth's Pokeball. Malic broke first. "Did you… Did you find Cherie?"
Arthur sighed, Malic's words almost acting as permission to pull a chair up beside the bed and sink into it. "That's what I came to talk to you about. After you passed out, I learned a few things about your situation. But first," Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device— aPokégear. "Let me show you something. It might clear things up."
He tapped the screen a few times, then turned the device to face Malic. A video call screen blinked to life, and Malic's breath caught in his throat as the familiar faces of Mrs. Chloe and Cherie appeared, the Grovewood Orphanage framed in the background
"Malic!" Cherie's voice was a mix of relief and exasperation. "What in the world were you thinking? Not even a foot outside Littleroot, and you end up in the hospital? And dragging me into it, too?"
A knot of tension Malic hadn't realized he was holding onto unraveled. "Cherie, thank the Legends. You're okay! I thought you were here, in the woods. I-I'm so glad that's not the case!"
Cherie rolled her eyes, but a softness in her gaze belied her teasing tone. "Please, Malic. If I had been there, I wouldn't have gotten lost in the first place. But seriously, you had me worried. Mrs. Chloe had to hold me back from running after you when we heard you were in trouble if only to give you a good smack on the head!"
Mrs. Chloe, who had been quietly watching the exchange, cut in with an expression halfway between resigned and amused. "Honestly, Malic, you were supposed to be a smart one. You should know better than to go charging off into dangerous situations. And as for Cherie, she's been safe and sound here the whole time."
"Yeah, seems like the only one in danger has been you. Don't go getting yourself almost crushed by Copperajah again. I don't need you giving me gray hairs before I'm even an adult."
Malic chuckled, the sound a bit shaky as the weight of the past few days started to lift off his shoulders. "I'll try to avoid that, Cherie. Promise."
Arthur remained silent, though Malic could swear he could see a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth.
"We'll be having a long talk about this when you visit next Malic. Don't think you're off the hook just because you ended up in a hospital bed."
Malic's smile widened. "Wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Chloe."
Arthur absently listened to the conversation as it devolved from repeated reassurance and comfort to needling remarks and exaggerated outrage that only siblings could achieve. Despite the relatively happy outcome, Arthur couldn't shake the gnawing uncertainty that clung to him like a shadow.
The encounter with the Mismagius replayed in his mind—its chilling presence, the subtle yet unmistakable threat it had posed. The way it had spoken through Cherie's illusion, toying with him, testing his resolve. It wasn't something he could easily forget.
Malic had been through enough. The kid had just faced down a Copperajah and barely escaped with his life. Arthur knew that Ghost-types were already hard for most people to wrap their heads around, even seasoned trainers. But this wasn't just any Ghost-type—this was a Mismagius with a personal connection to Malic, one that, if it was to be believed, had been watching over him his entire life.
But what good would it do to tell Malic that? What would it achieve? Arthur knew that if he told the boy the truth—that a powerful Mismagius had taken a particular interest in him—it might only cause more fear, more confusion. And if Malic started to obsess over it, constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next shadow to move, it could crush whatever sense of safety he still had.
Arthur had seen it before—trainers who got tangled up with Ghost-types often lost themselves in the process. They became paranoid, jumpy, and unable to trust what they saw or felt. They'd start questioning their own reality, and that kind of doubt could destroy a person, especially someone as young and vulnerable as Malic. It took a special kind of person to handle a Ghost Type, and most didn't try until they had a competent team behind them, usually with a dark type or two.
Then there was the Mismagius itself. It had made its point clear—it would protect Malic but also keep its distance, lurking in the background, only intervening when absolutely necessary. If Arthur told Malic about it, he might seek out the Mismagius, try to understand it, or worse, confront it. He didn't think the kid was that reckless, the Copperajah situation notwithstanding, but that was a risk Arthur couldn't take. The last thing he wanted was for Malic to draw more attention to himself or provoke the Mismagius in a way that could backfire.
No, he decided, keeping this to himself was the better option. Malic didn't need to know about the Mismagius' true nature, not now, and maybe not ever. What the kid needed was a chance to recover, to rebuild his confidence, and to get back on his feet without the burden of knowing some spectral guardian was watching his every move.
Arthur took a deep breath, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. For now, at least, the secret would stay buried. And with any luck, it would be a long time before Malic would ever have to face the reality of what had been haunting him.
Malic sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the small window of his room at the Littleroot Medical Center. His sketchpad lay open on his lap, but his pencil was motionless in his hand. The sunlight streamed through the glass, letting dusk's soft rays slowly rise on his legs as the sun disappeared behind the curtain of trees.
The nurse had been in just a few minutes prior, a comically large needle in her hand. She had laughed at the deservedly nervous look he shot the thing, but he didn't do anything beyond a hiss as she jabbed it into the meat of his thigh.
Ditto cell treatment, she explained, was a relatively new process developed in the Unova region that used something known as a Gene Splicer. It essentially allowed for two different DNAs to be recombined into some sort of hybrid. In this case, Malic's own cells were spliced with those of a Ditto to create cells that acted like stem cells, which would propagate throughout his body and target wounded areas. Once there, the ditto cells would restore his body to the "memory" of his original, pre-injured state.
He didn't really follow any of it, but it worked wonders. His shoulder felt more like he had slept on it funny than being partially crushed by a tree. At least it hadn't been his drawing arm. Malic sighed and put down his pencil, leaving a page blank for the first time in his life.
When he left the orphanage, he had never imagined his journey would take such a turn so quickly. The Copperajah, Cherie—or what he thought was Cherie—the mysterious illusion-wielding Pokemon... It all turned so fast. But he felt the resolve, that internal declaration he had crafted in the face of the Copperajah's fury, rise to the forefront of his mind again.
He reached for the Pokéball on the bedside table, its smooth surface cool against his palm. It was strange to think how much he had relied on the Pokémon inside it, despite only being together a short time. He had thought it would take weeks before he could trust his assigned partner and vice versa. Yet, in those critical moments when he thought he might never make it out of that forest alive, it was Slakoth he had held onto, Slakoth he had protected, and who protected him in turn.
Malic pressed the button on the Pokéball, releasing Slakoth into the room. The sluggish Pokémon materialized in a burst of light, claws hooked in a deceptively carefree stance. Its eyes darted around the room before resting on Malic. It stared for a few moments, then blinked lazily as it relaxed. It let out a soft yawn, stretching its limbs before plopping down on the bed beside Malic, its sleepy eyes meeting his.
"Hey, buddy," Malic said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated, unsure of where to start. What did you say to someone—something—that had been by your side through so much? Been willing to risk that much?
Slakoth tilted its head as if sensing Malic's unease and let out a contented sigh, curling up closer to him.
"I've been through a lot since leaving the orphanage," Malic's words started slow but gradually gained momentum, his thoughts spilling out. "I never wanted to be a trainer, you know? I didn't choose this life. But now that I'm here, I can't just run away or pretend it's not happening. And so, I've decided. I will be the best trainer I can be but in my own way. I don't want to be strong just for the sake of it or to get some sort of glory or fame. I just want to be strong enough. Strong enough to protect those I care for. Strong enough to be able to make my own path in life. Strong enough that other kids never have to feel the same way I did. And if I have to become stronger than anyone else to do it, then I will."
Slakoth yawned again, nuzzling its head against Malic's arm. The simple gesture filled Malic with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. He knew that Slakoth wasn't the most active or energetic Pokémon, but he had seen a quiet strength, a resilience that Malic couldn't help but relate to. Like himself, people judged Slakoth on first impressions and outward appearances, never bothering to dig deeper and discover their true worth.
"I've been thinking," Malic said after a long pause. "About what to call you. I never gave you a name, did I? That's not fair. You deserve something that reflects who you really are. Not just who you are now, but who you will be someday."
Malic thought back to the stories he had read about Slaking, the final form of Slakoth. Powerful and formidable, Slaking were known for their overwhelming power when they chose to use it. Malic wanted to honor that future, to acknowledge the potential within his Pokemon, no, his partner.
"How about… Regulus?" Malic offered. "It's a star from the Pyroar constellation, but it means "little king." You might not be the fastest or the strongest right now, but I know you have the potential inside you. What do you think?"
Slakoth stared at him for a moment, then let out a soft, contented sound, almost as if it were approving of the name. It curled up against Malic, its presence a comforting weight against his side.
Malic smiled and softly ran a hand down Slakoth's back. "Regulus it is, then. We're going to get through this together. No matter what happens, I'm not giving up on you, and I know you won't give up on me either."
Malic felt a sense of peace settle over him for the first time since this test had begun. He didn't have all the answers, and the future still seemed uncertain, but he knew one thing for sure: with Regulus by his side, he was ready to face whatever came next.
Professor Birch sat at his desk, the reports covering it like a blanket of snow. The hum of the overhead lights barely cut through the heavy silence that had settled in the room. He had been here only a short time ago, reluctantly but happily filing through all the applicant's paperwork. Now, he only wished he still had that many. At least it would mean they were still alright.
He rubbed his temples, eyes flicking over the damage assessments and injury reports, each more grim than the last. Applicants hurt beyond simple recovery, some with injuries so severe they could never hope to walk without assistance, never mind go on a journey.
The worst part was that these tragedies were not the result of mere happenstance or an unpredictable turn of events. No, this had been orchestrated. The PWO's interference had thrown everything into chaos. Had Birch been more cautious, had he put more safeguards in place, he might have prevented this. But he didn't, and now young lives were paying the price.
He pushed the reports away and stood from his desk, unable to look at them any longer. He paced his office like a caged Ursaring. The question now wasn't about what he could have done; that was in the past, and, barring interference from Celebi or Dialga, nothing could change what had happened. The question was how to proceed. He couldn't administer more tests, that would just be cruel. But he couldn't just pass the lot of them and be done with it.
The answer eluded him, slipping through his fingers like sand. All he knew was that the incident had left scars—on people and pokemon alike.
A knock on the door made him stop in his tracks. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Miranda, his assistant, entered with a paper in her hand.
"Professor Birch, I—"
"What is it?" Birch snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. Miranda didn't react; she simply stood there with a neutral look on her face. The moment he registered his reaction, regret flooded him. He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone softer. "I didn't mean to… It's just this mess with the test. I'm not in the best frame of mind."
Miranda just nodded, though Birch thought he saw her shoulders relax slightly. Maybe it was just him seeing what he wanted to see. "I understand, Professor. I just wanted to let you know that… Mr. Creed is on the line again."
Birch clenched his jaw at the name. "Tell him I'll call back later. I don't have time for his agenda right now."
"I already have. But I had to give him something, so I thought it pertinent to inform you that Mr. Creed has you booked in the morning at ten-thirty."
She closed the door quietly behind her, and Birch let out another sigh, this one laced with frustration. Mr. Argos Creed. Just the name was enough to set his teeth on edge. It wasn't just him, either. Several prominent families had sent their kids to participate in this test, and now they were all making a fuss about what had happened. Complaints, demands for explanations, veiled threats about the future of their support for his research. It was more annoying than anything else, but the fact that it was happening at all showed how much damage his reputation had taken.
Birch returned to his desk, staring down at the reports scattered across it. What was supposed to have been a controlled test to push the boundaries of what trainers and their Pokémon could achieve had turned into a nightmare. And now he was left to pick up the pieces while dealing with the endless complaints of wealthy, influential families who cared more about their reputation than the well-being of the kids who had been hurt.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the migraine that had been lingering at the edges of his mind. He had to get this situation under control and had to find a way to make things turn out alright. Maybe Steven would have an idea; he had a knack for things like this.
Just as he began to sink deeper into his thoughts, the soft ping of an incoming message jolted him back to the present. He reached for his PokéNav, the familiar name of Professor Oak flashing on the screen.
While he wasn't particularly close with his Kanto counterpart, they had collaborated several times over the years, with the ancient Oak offering select usage of his name to help Birch grease the wheels a few times. He wouldn't call them friends; perhaps friendly colleagues was a better term.
Still, with a night like last night, Birch wasn't particularly optimistic about what the message would be. The news couldn't have reached Kanto already, so it must be something else. With nothing to go off of, Birch opened the message, reading the brief but clear words.
One of my sponsored trainers will be arriving soon. Please take good care of them.
Birch stared at the message as if willing the words to reveal more. Oak's trainers were famous, the cream of the crop. They never failed to rise in whatever field they chose to pursue, be it battling or research; even a few top Coordinators traced their start back to Oak. His current batch had made history merely by starting their journey…a whole two years early. Samuel Oak, the originator of the Standardized Trainer Act, which set the trainer age to a minimum of seventeen, had petitioned the PWO to make an exception for three trainers twenty years after his creation.
Gary Oak, the most recent prodigy of the Oak family and grandson to Professor Oak. Some had howled nepotism, accusing the professor of providing an unfair advantage to his grandson. Oak responded with a video of Gary Oak using just a Squirtle to contain and severely weaken an avalanche of Graveler. By age twelve, Gary had already mastered advanced battle strategies that most seasoned trainers struggled with. His analytical mind and innate understanding of Pokémon types and abilities set him apart, making it clear to Professor Oak that waiting until the standard age of seventeen to grant him a license would be a waste of potential.
Leaf Green is a rising star in the world of Pokémon Contests, a rare blend of beauty, elegance, and battle acumen. Her performances in local contests were nothing short of spectacular, with her Pokémon moving in perfect harmony to create stunning displays that left audiences in awe. She had an eye for aesthetics and a knack for creating combination techniques, allowing her to choreograph routines that were as powerful as they were beautiful. Recognizing her potential to become a world-renowned coordinator, Professor Oak argued that holding her back would only stifle her creativity. He pushed for her early license so she could begin her journey to contest stardom, knowing she had the talent to elevate Pokémon Contests to new heights.
As for the last one, unlike Gary and Leaf, he wasn't a prodigy by conventional standards, but what he lacked in technical expertise, he more than made up for in spirit. Ash Ketchum was fiercely determined, with an unwavering belief in the bond between a trainer and their Pokémon. His dream of becoming a Pokémon Master was fueled by a deep passion and relentless optimism that Professor Oak found both admirable and infectious. Oak saw a different kind of potential in Ash—the kind that couldn't be measured by battles won or ribbons earned. Ash's enthusiasm and willingness to learn made him an ideal candidate for early licensing. Professor Oak believed that with time and experience, Ash could inspire others and show that true strength comes from the bond shared between people and Pokémon, not just skill or talent.
Which one?
The answer made him smile. Of course, it would be them.
A young man stepped off the plane, his sneakers scuffing lightly against the tarmac as he adjusted the brim of his cap, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. His black hair was tousled, sticking out slightly beneath the hat, and his brown eyes scanned the ordinary airport terminal as if searching for some grand secret.
A small, yellow Pokémon with large ears and a lightning-bolt tail trotted at his heels, his red cheeks sparking with barely contained energy. The pair entered the small airport. Everything was normal, and nothing distinguished this airport from any other. But as the young man took in the sights of Littleroot Town through the large windows, he smiled, a familiar sense of adventure tingling in his chest. "Come on, Pikachu, time for another adventure!" Ash Ketchum shouted, the Pikachu jumping onto his shoulder with a cheerful cry mimicking his trainer.
"Shhhh!"
Ash and Pikachu turned in sync, sheepishly scratching the back of their heads at the irate glares of a few people who had been trying to coax their now wide awake children to sleep before their late-night flight. "Sorry," he whispered through a childish grin that refused to be parted from his lips. It was just too exciting, a whole new region to explore. New Pokemon, new people, new adventures, all just waiting for him to discover. He gazed at the sunset, unknowingly mirroring Malic in his hospital room. A sense of something welled up inside of Ash, as if there was some sort of greater force guiding him. The touch of destiny, the will of fate, the—his stomach growled, followed seconds later by Pikachu's.
"Man, I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat."
"Pikapi!"
Malic's Team
Regulus - Slakoth