I don’t so much dive into the river as get crumpled into it—whipped, dunked, flipped upside-down. Everything’s black and freezing. The current’s locked me in, and it’s not about to bargain. For a moment I’m certain I’ll snap in half from the fall; then the water bends me into whatever shape it wants, and I’m all flailing limbs, gritty river in my mouth, and the weight of Lotad smushed against my chest. I break the surface for half a heartbeat, fill my mouth and lungs with air, then disappear again, water flooding every thought I have until I’m nothing but panic.

  I kick, I flail, I hold my breath until I fight my way back up, coughing and gulping air like I just learned how. The bridge overhead is just a warped mess—cars, shoes, a blur of wings and feathers and something with teeth. For a split second, I spot Skyla’s Braviary plummeting through a sheet of frost, wings spread wide, going full throttle at Cryogonal. Then the current yanks me past the bridge, away from everything, tumbling like spare change down the worst river in Unova.

  Lotad whacks me in the jaw and stares at me, offended, like this is all my fault and he was expecting a hero’s exit. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so busy trying not to drown. I kick for the edge. The current jerks me sideways, shoving me into a mess of dead reeds before I can even think straight. The mud’s a trap, but I latch onto a branch, then a half-dead tyre, and somehow drag myself out. I crawl up onto the icy muck, choking out river water while Beldum floats above, its eye scanning everywhere, never stopping.

  Everything hurts and I’m half-frozen, but I hold Lotad tight anyway. He’s trembling all over, feet stuck out, but he’s alive, so I’m counting that as a win. I look up just in time to catch the chaos on the bridge—Braviary smashing into Cryogonal so hard a ring of shattered light bursts like a second sunrise. I’m far enough that it’s all silent movie—just bodies and colour, cops and Plasma, everyone fighting over the same five feet of bridge like it’s the last piece of land on earth.

  I don’t stick around to see how that mess ends. I haul myself up, legs shaking so bad they nearly give out, and limp along the bank, water dripping off me like I’m my own mobile puddle. Everything’s turned from blinding white to this dull, washed-out grey, and the city’s crowding in from every direction. My teeth are rattling so loud I can barely focus, but I keep going—because freezing beats whatever else might show up next.

  Beldum floats at my shoulder—silent, but every so often zapping a pulse through the wet air to check if we’re being hunted. Lotad clings inside my jacket, shivering like a wet sponge, but he doesn’t try to run; every time I loosen my grip, he just wedges further in. He smells like a pond in late summer, the kind that never really dries up even when the river does. I can respect that kind of stubborn. The river bends tight, slamming me into a bank of rock and garbage. I pick my way through, boots squelching in mud, until I hit a slope mottled with bare trees and century-old beer cans. Above, a maze of overpasses and half-built towers crowd out the sky—Unova’s answer to progress, all glass and wire and not a single place to hide. I claw my way up, using the roots as handholds, and collapse at the top, gasping like a landed Magikarp.

  I’m in the city now. Real city. The kind with buildings that block out the sun and streets that stink of old exhaust and the kind of rain that never makes it to the sidewalk. I take one look at myself: soaked, shivering, mud up to my ears. Not blending in, not one bit. But the city’s moving too fast to care; nobody even glances up as I limp down the embankment, Beldum gliding close, Lotad peeking out with equal parts horror and awe.

  There are cops everywhere, but not for me—not yet. They’re busy cordoning off the bridge, arguing with city workers, yelling at stunned commuters while news drones hover overhead, greedy for the next live update. No one’s watching the edges. Perfect.

  I duck into an alley and follow the stink of old grease and yesterday’s rain, Beldum’s glow throwing shadows against the brick. At the end, a chain-link fence. I try to scale it, but my arm jams up halfway, useless from the cold. Beldum zaps me with a warning—sharper than before. Someone’s on the street, footsteps quick, voices close behind. I drop and slide under a dumpster, Lotad’s lily pad scraping the concrete. We wait there, breath tight, as the footsteps pass.

  Once it’s clear, I crawl out and take stock. I’m behind what used to be a laundromat, now boarded up and home to a rotating cast of wild Trubbish. There are a couple of them gnawing on rotting cardboard, but they don’t care—just ooze along in lazy, toxic harmony. I barge in, trailing river behind me, and the Trubbish scatter like I’m the health inspector. For a second, it’s just me, Beldum, and the Lotad, all three dripping on cracked tile and surrounded by the ghosts of a hundred forgotten coin-op cycles.

  Inside, the smell nearly throws me: bleach and rot, welded together by years of dirty water. The overhead lights are dead, but the front windows let in enough dull light to see the carnage. I set Lotad on top of a washing machine—he just sits there, legs splayed, too stunned to complain. Beldum floats past him to scan the interior, the red of its eye slicing through the corners like a searchlight.

  I check my pockets—nothing. My bag’s gone, probably swirling somewhere downstream, with the last of the food and the used hyper potion. What I have is what I’m wearing, which at the moment is less “outfit” and more “swamp cosplay.” The Poké Balls are still clipped to my belt, a small mercy. Beldum zaps a low warning—someone’s outside, but they’re not looking in; just loitering under the bus shelter, arguing about which line is still running. I risk a glance. Nobody cares about the dead laundromat. Good.

  I snap back to inventory. There’s a pile of lost-and-found on a plastic chair by the dryers: half a kid’s raincoat, a hoodie with a shredded logo, and a pair of sweatpants that could fit a Snorlax. I peel off my jacket, wring it out, and swap into the least disgusting clothes. They smell like old soap and someone else’s life, but at least they aren’t freezing. My teeth still won’t stop chattering. Lotad watches, unblinking.

  I ask Beldum, “See if there’s anything left here—food, water, any kind of kit.” It blinks once, then glides off, trailing a faint corona of static that makes the empty dryers rattle in their cubbies. I grab a broom and sweep a half-circle into the grime near the back, clear enough for me and the others to huddle. There’s a heap of blankets by the coin changer, each stiff with age but less disgusting than the alternatives. I shake two out—one for the floor, one to layer on top.

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  I set Lotad down in the middle of it and he just sits, wide-eyed, lily pad drooping over his face. If he’s traumatized by the last hour, he’s keeping it together better than I am. I pick the least mouldy blanket for him and drape it over him, burrito style. He doesn’t object.

  Beldum materializes from the shadows, dragging behind it a battered gym bag with the persistence of a Roomba targeting the last Cheerio on the carpet. The zipper’s shot, so it opens with one good pull: inside, a half-empty tray of individually wrapped and miraculously unspoiled PokéPuffs, half a pack of jerky, and a bottle of blue sports drink so ancient it might as well be a fossil. There’s also a pair of socks and a roll of physio tape, which I pocket automatically. Never know when you’ll need to tape a limb back on.

  I let Luna out of her Poké Ball, bracing for her to bolt. Instead, she stands there shivering on top of the scratchy blanket, nose twitching, eyes so wide they could drown a Surskit. For a second, I think she might start screaming, but she just stares at me—silent, accusatory, then suddenly so tired it's like she aged a year in the last ten minutes. I rip open the jerky, toss a chunk her way. She snatches it mid-air but doesn't eat, just clutches it in both paws like a life raft. Lotad, wrapped in his blanket next to her, blinks at the food, then at Luna, then at me, like he's waiting for a signal that it’s okay to exist in this particular disaster zone.

  Beldum floats in the space between us, silent but vibrating in that way that means it’s waiting to be useful.

  "Alright," I say. "Roll call." My voice comes out raw, like I haven't used it in years. "Everyone alive?"

  Beldum flashes a pulse at the base of my skull: Alive. Luna lets out a single, high whimper, then shoves the jerky in her mouth and grinds it between her teeth, chewing with a violence I've never seen in a living thing. Lotad shuffles across the blanket, and bumps up next to Beldum, as if its presence is the only thing holding him together. He croaks once, then goes quiet.

  I pull a plastic chair over, sit down, and let my hands go numb. The city’s getting louder outside—sirens still, but now with the echo of helicopters slicing through the cloud cover. Somewhere up there, Skyla is probably coordinating an all-out hunt for "the idiot on the bridge." Or maybe she's still punching holes in Plasma’s mess, but from the sound of it, whatever happened, it’s not over. I look at Luna—her fur spiked, ears twitching at every creak in the pipes overhead—and feel a flash of guilt so sharp it almost makes me dizzy. She’s run herself raw for me, hurt and sucked into a ball every time I couldn’t handle anything else, and all I give her is jerky and more near-death.

  “Hey,” I say, and this time I mean it. She glances up, pupils dark and glossy. “Sorry for the recall. Didn’t have a better option.” She doesn’t blink, just shoves the second half of jerky into her mouth and stares at the floor. I try again: “We’re clear, for now. You did good. Both of you.” I look at Lotad. “You too, buddy.”

  Lotad gurgles. Beldum shivers once, then edges closer—almost touching, but not quite. I can feel the static gathering in the air, the faint hum of a wordless question: What now?

  I grab the sports drink, crack it open, and tip some into the cap, holding it out to Luna. “Here. Not gourmet, but maybe it'll help.” Luna sniffs at the drink, then laps it up like it’s honey, tongue flicking out with this laser focus—like she’s trying to taste everything at once before someone snatches it away. I pour some more into the cap, but only a little; she’s so small I’m afraid the electrolytes might just melt her insides. I take a slug for myself—so cold it makes my teeth sing, but at least it doesn’t taste like river or mud or old Trubbish.

  Lotad shuffles over, bundled up like he’s about to join a weird nature cult, eyeing the cap in my hand. I offer it to him, and he just stares—at me, at the cap, back at me. The look says, “Seriously?” Maybe he’s figured out what’s in there, or maybe he just refuses to settle for sports drink as his post-trauma treat. He edges in anyway, pressing against me for warmth, like I’m the only working radiator in this dump. I do a quick check: Luna’s still trembling, but it’s easing up; she’s watching the water drip off the ceiling like it owes her money. Lotad’s breathing is steady, if a bit on the loud side. Beldum floats quietly above us, eye pulsing every time another siren wails outside.

  “We have to keep moving,” I say. Not loud, not soft, just a fact. “We’ll be big on the news now—Plasma saw us, cops too. They’ll be out looking.”

  Lotad blinks. Luna straightens up, shoving her paws down on the blanket as if daring me to try and drag her anywhere. Beldum gives the mental equivalent of a shrug: I know.

  “I’m not gonna force anyone to stick around,” I say. “If you want out, now’s pretty much the golden opportunity.” I glance at Luna—she just fixes me with this flat stare like I’ve lost my last brain cell. Lotad makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, then wedges himself even closer under my arm, settling in like he never had any intention of leaving. That’s settled, then. Beldum doesn’t bother responding, just hovers in front of me, giving off the absolute minimum level of patience for my nonsense.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Consensus.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to think. I tap the edge of the dryer, searching for the right words. “Hey,” I say, and Lotad’s eyes snap up, perfectly round and too bright for the room. “What do I call you? You got a name?” Lotad shuffles backwards on his stubby toes and stands at attention, if you can call it that when you’re a damp, blanket-wrapped disc. He makes a noise—half-gurgle, half hiccup. Beldum absorbs it and fires back a single, crisp syllable: Muse. The word hangs between us, delicate and kind of accidental.

  I let it settle. “Muse,” I repeat. Lotad—Muse—blinks twice, like he’s not sure if he should be proud or embarrassed. Then he nods, slow and solemn, which is probably the closest thing to a handshake we’re getting.

  “Alright, Muse. You wanna stick with me?” I ask. “No pressure. Could set you loose—go start a swamp commune or whatever—if you want.”

  Muse’s only answer is to clamber higher on the blanket, lily pad flopping forward until it hides most of his face. He bumps his nose against my arm, then tucks his feet under, settling back in with the kind of finality that says this is it. The little guy’s made up his mind: he’s mine now, or I’m his, or maybe it’s mutual.

  Beldum hovers just above, eye narrowed, sending out a flicker of mild reproach, like I’m an idiot for asking in the first place. Then, a short spark: Poké Ball.

  I fish an empty one off my belt. “Suppose we make it official?” I ask. Muse looks at the ball, at me, and then at the ball again. There’s this long pause where he just stares, unblinking. Then, in a single, weirdly graceful motion, he leans his whole weight against the release. The ball snaps open, sucks him in with a flash of red, and the mechanism trembles once in my hand before clicking shut. It’s not like Luna’s entry—no drama, no internal struggle. Muse just… goes.

  The ball shudders, stops, and that’s it. For a second, the room is so quiet I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Then Luna lets out a cautious chirp, padding over to sniff the Poké Ball like she wants to make sure he’s still in there. Beldum floats above, scanning the capsule, and I almost expect them to give it a thumbs up if they had hands.

  I let Muse back out. The red light spills him onto the blanket, right where he started. He blinks, shakes off the static, then peers around like he’s just woken from a nap. Luna nudges him, hard enough to make him skid, then flattens herself into a question mark: Are you okay? He gurgles, then stretches his lips into what might be a smile, and all the tension in Luna’s body drops away. She sniffs at his lily pad, then sits beside him, like she’s waiting for a punchline. I guess that’s what passes for closure in this family.

  Now that the adrenaline’s crashed, my body’s ready to shut down. I stagger over to the busted utility sink in the back, fill it from the mossy tap, and set Muse inside. He settles in like he’s never known another life, the waterline creeping up over his feet as his lily pad soaks it in. He makes a sound—almost a purr—and drifts into a half-sleep, barely aware of the city screaming through the walls.

  I drag the two blankets into the corner, layer them for insulation, and collapse between them. Luna noses in under my arm without asking, her body warm and vibrating with every slow breath. Beldum posts up in the far corner, red eye dimming by degrees until it’s just a soft pilot light, humming at the edge of sleep. For the first time since I woke up in that tank, there’s no plan running, no next move to obsess over. The world can burn for all I care; we’re not dead, and that’s enough for now.

  The city sings all night—sirens, wind, the far-off thud of subways—but it might as well be another planet. I sleep hard, tumble into dreams that make no sense: Luna and Muse running laps around a planet made of honeycomb, Beldum staring down the void like it’s the only game in town. Sometimes I’m in the dream, sometimes I’m just watching, but it’s better than the nightmares I’m used to.