Ever have that moment where your chest is raw, your legs want to quit, and the only thing keeping you moving is your total refusal to faceplant between rooftops? That’s me right now, flinging myself over the last ledge. Beldum gives me a nudge so I don’t end up eating gravel. I hit the roof, try to roll, and almost tumble straight off the other side before I manage to stop myself. Underneath, sirens are going off everywhere—makes me feel like the city’s been waiting for an excuse to throw a light show. Somewhere in the mess, Jeffries and Sato are busy calling in so much backup I half expect a marching band to come around the corner.

  I drag myself to the edge and make myself look. The whole block’s crawling with cops, a bunch of bystanders staring up, and clouds of smoke cutting through it all—none of it adds up, but that’s about how things feel. A tight ring is forming fast: rangers, security guys with badges that look borrowed, and a few League officers who still look crisp and spotless like they’re allergic to reality. The building’s boxed in, radios going wild, Growlithes already on the trail.

  Beldum buzzes at the back of my mind. Not quite panic, but a steady stream of “abort mission” and escape routes. Fine. I stick to the roof, legs shaking, until one unit splits off for the alley behind the grocery store. The others are spreading out, covering the whole block. Past the police tape, Mistralton’s “downtown” is basically just prefab cubes, empty lots, and this gigantic park that looks even bigger from up here. Nothing but bare trees—no cover, zero subtlety. It’s that or squeeze myself into a busted air vent and hope no one’s working overtime.

  Beldum’s already floating ahead, low and quiet, so I go after it. Rooftop hopping in broad daylight is not exactly subtle, but I’m betting everyone’s got their eyes on the street. Four more rooftops: the first two are empty, the third has a bunch of Pidove that freak out as soon as I land, and the last is a daycare. A kid presses his face against the window and gives me a casual wave, like this is just part of his day. I wave back, and for some reason, the moment sticks with me.

  The last stop is a pharmacy, shutters down for lunch and the sign doing its best weather vane impression. I drop off the fire escape, land way too hard, and my ankle has some strong opinions about it. Beldum shoots me a mental prod—basically, get moving or get caught. So I cut through the loading bay, dodge past a landfill’s worth of dumpsters, and pop out onto a side street that leads straight toward the park. The sirens are so close now they rattle in my teeth; first police car fishtails onto the corner, tires shrieking like it’s making a statement. The whole place is wide open—just empty picnic tables and those topiary Pikachus that never looked right. Nothing to hide behind. Doesn’t matter; I go anyway, sprinting after Beldum like something vital depends on it, biting back each jab from my ankle.

  I hit the park edge and immediately drop into a low sprint, threading between benches and gritty snowbanks. For once, there’s nobody—no power-walkers with headphones, no kids running wild. Just this heavy quiet and my breath sounding way too loud in my ears. Five seconds in, another police car screeches up to the curb—two officers jump out with Poké Balls ready to go.

  Beldum gives me an urgent ping—left, over the footbridge—so I veer that way, ducking around a “NO EVOLVED POKEMON” sign like it's actually going to slow me down. There’s a water channel here: shallow, ugly, ringed with half-frozen cattails and rocks. A bunch of Ducklett explode into flight as I crash past them; blue feathers everywhere. I skid through a patch of mud, slide under a railing by pure panic reflex, and thud down next to the concrete bank. My heart is pounding so hard it’s drowning out everything else.

  I curl up under a spindly willow tree, knees to chest in cold mud, muscles locking up in protest. Beldum hovers close by, its eye blinking fast—scanning for options I’m too wrecked to see. Through the branches I spot three police officers spreading out on the far side of the park; they’re quick but not quick enough yet. Everything in me says keep running but my ankle is busy swelling up like it’s got plans of its own, and my head feels about ready to split open again. I just need sixty seconds where nobody needs anything from me.

  I hunch lower, wriggle off my backpack, and dig around until my hand closes on the half-used hyper potion Lin left for me this morning—label peeling off and god knows what on the outside of that bottle. I give it a shake or two for good luck before popping open Luna’s Poké Ball behind the willow trunk. She pops out shivering from the cold but locks right onto me and makes this sound—a mix of angry, scared, and on-the-edge—that I really did not know she had in her. Before I even uncap the potion she’s already latched onto me tight, her claws digging through my jacket as she buries her face beneath my arm.

  It takes a bit of coaxing to pry her off, and when she finally loosens her grip, I spot the blood seeping into the orange fluff at her shoulder. It’s new—bright, stubborn red, not the dried stuff from earlier. Guess the Growlithe did more than just graze her. She’s trembling, definitely not from the cold this time. My stomach does a flip but I shove it down, spraying the hyper potion onto the wound, already bracing for the sting myself. Luna yelps, tries to wriggle free, but I just hold her and mumble whatever junk comes to mind—anything to drown out the sirens and the crunch of boots nearby.

  I barely manage to jam the empty bottle into my bag before the first set of police bikes comes howling up, gravel flying everywhere. Unova patrol—classic: all mirrored shades and “don’t talk to me until I’ve met my quota” faces. Three bikes, neat as a row of dominoes, start sweeping the park’s edge with the kind of focus that says they do this for fun. Beldum hovers closer, nearly nudging my ear, its panic condensing into sharp focus. We do not have time, the feeling says—and yeah, I’m already on board.

  I scoop Luna up, awkward but determined, and start half-crawling, half-hauling us farther into the undergrowth. At the edge of the park, there’s a culvert—just a runoff ditch, nothing scenic, not somewhere you’d find on a tourist map. That’s my target. Every muddy step sends a fresh jolt through my ankle, but I keep going; the grind of tyres and clipped radio chatter are way too close for comfort. The search pattern is classic—close the net, squeeze out the hiding spots. Textbook.

  We duck under the first footbridge and I flatten myself against the concrete, Luna crushed between my ribs and the wall. Her breathing’s rough and quick, but she’s dead silent. Beldum keeps itself low, almost blending in with the shadows on the water. Above us, an officer pulls up on her bike, visor down, looking for trouble with one hand on her Poké Ball. She’s so close I see my own filthy reflection in her helmet: mud, panic, the whole mess. I go still and pray Luna stays cool.

  A few stretched-out seconds, then the officer gives the water a lazy scan, shrugs, and revs off, engine crackling behind her. Beldum gives a careful flicker: wait. I freeze, barely daring to breathe.

  As soon as the sound dies, I edge along the culvert, hugging the curve as tight as I can. There’s a drainage pipe ahead, just wide enough if you sort of fold yourself in half. I squeeze in, Luna tight to my chest, Beldum scraping quietly along the ceiling to keep its light hidden. The place reeks—like wet moss and city runoff and things I don’t want to think about—but I shove it down and keep moving, hands raw and stinging. Behind us, the park is filling up: police everywhere, guys in suits too, and even a few news drones circling, ready to pounce on a new story.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Inside the pipe, it’s pitch dark and dead quiet—so silent my own breathing sounds like an alarm. I crawl on hands and knees until my legs start whining and my back aches. It should stink in here, but it’s so damp and cold all I get is metal in the air and the taste of wet concrete. Beldum’s red eye is the only thing lighting the way, throwing just enough glow to catch Luna’s wide eyes, scared out of her mind. We keep crawling, shins slipping over slimy patches, until something shifts in the dark—the space opens up around us.

  We’ve hit a junction. Old runoff lines feed into this spot, water echoing in slow loops. It’s a round concrete pit, probably ten feet across, floor covered with a mess of water, oil, and other stuff I’d rather not identify. Opposite us is another tunnel—barely tall enough for me if I duck.

  Beldum halts me with a quick pulse: Hold up. It drifts ahead, scanning the water with its light. For a second there’s nothing—just ripples and shadows—then something stirs on top of the water. At first glance it looks like some sad chunk of garbage floating by, but then I spot the mossy green and that drooping face: a Lotad.

  It’s caught in the iron teeth of a grate, half-submerged, flower broken and wilted by the constant suck of water past its’ body. The current is slow but relentless, and every so often it shoves the Lotad’s face deeper against the bars. Legs kick, feeble, but there’s no way out. I recognize the look: not panic, just the raw exhaustion of knowing you don’t even have the energy to panic anymore.

  Luna sees it too. She tenses in my arms, every muscle hot and hard, but there’s no fight left in her—just a kind of low whine, a sound equal parts fear and recognition. I gently thumb her Poké Ball, and she dissolves in a blink of red light. She’ll hate me for it, but this is the only way through. I stuff the ball into my pocket, then strip off my jacket and tie the sleeves around my waist, not wanting it to get soaked with whatever lives in the water.

  I lower myself in, boots first. The cold is a scream up my legs, but I bite it back and push in deeper, keeping to the wall. The slime on the concrete nearly pitches me in face-first, but Beldum hovers above, tracking my progress and calculating the odds of me making it across alive. I ignore the odds. I’d rather not know.

  The pool’s surface is a membrane of grease, rainbowed and slick. Something soft brushes my ankle—probably just a clump of old leaves, but I kick it away on reflex. Two steps, three, then I’m chest-deep and the current is trying to take me. I grab a handhold on a jag of rebar and look over my shoulder. The Lotad is watching me, big eyes glassy and still. There’s no point calling to it—not over this noise, not with it half-drowned—but I reach out a hand anyway.

  For a second, nothing happens. Then the Lotad blinks, tongue barely visible, and makes one last, shuddering effort. It’s stubby paw slaps my fingers, then slips. I lunge, nearly going under, and clamp a hand around the edge of it’s lily. It’s heavier than I thought—sodden, awkward, and cold as the water itself—but I get it up against my chest and kick the both of us free from the sucking pressure of the grate. My shins scrape raw against the concrete, but the current loses its bite once I clear the mouth of the pipe. I haul it up and out, then flop, gasping, onto the sloped lip of the junction.

  Beldum drops down right above me, close enough that I can feel that weird, cold static it gives off. It bumps my wrist—firm, not pushy—and shoves a thought through my brain so clear it’s basically yelling: let go. So I do. Lotad slides out of my grasp and into Beldum’s psychic grip, just floating there like this is normal Tuesday business. Lotad blinks at the sudden lift, looking lost for a second, then lets itself get carried over to the dry ledge. Beldum sets it down carefully and hovers close, eye scanning it like it’s running a checklist.

  I drag myself after them. My whole body's a patchwork of bruises and pinprick cold, but I manage to squirm up out of the water, leaving a trail of muck behind me. I check my hands—they're trembling, pale, but nothing's broken. The Lotad sits on the concrete, dripping and vibrating, but alive. It gives me a look that's pure shellshock, then shuffles itself behind Beldum as if it’s the only safe thing in this nightmare. Can't blame it. Beldum gives me the thought: Lotad is a He.

  I fumble out Luna’s Poké Ball and give it a half-hearted shake. “Sorry,” I whisper. “You’re up.” The light snaps open and Luna tumbles out, eyes wild, fur darkened with sweat. She shivers once, then launches herself at me, clinging to my hip as if she’ll never let go. I press her to my chest and try to steady my breathing. There’s a small cut on her shoulder, but the hyper potion’s already knitted the muscle below, doing it’s work until it ran out. She looks at the Lotad, then at Beldum, then back at me, as if to say, “can we please never do that again?”

  The group of us huddle on the shelf while sirens and engines pound the world above. I know the clock is ticking, somewhere, but it takes a few breaths before I can move again. The Lotad keeps her eyes on Beldum, every so often making a tiny, squeak-like noise. Beldum glances at me, and for a second, the link between us goes almost soft—a sense of approval, or maybe just relief, but it’s enough. We’re not dead. Yet.

  This pipe is tighter than the last, but at least it’s dry—aside from the smell, which is kind of like licking a battery. I crawl ahead, elbows and knees scraping, leaving behind a proud streak of sewer gunk for someone else to admire later. The tunnel keeps going—and going—but honestly, I’ll take endless pipe over walking straight into a League gaol. Luna’s claws tap along right by my ear, and Beldum’s glow throws just enough light that we don’t get lost in the dark.

  Lotad sticks close to the wall, feet gripping the slime like he’s been training for this all his life. Every so often, he sneaks a look back at me, eyes wide like he’s expecting the whole system to give out beneath us. Same, honestly. We keep crawling—my hands are pins-and-needles by now—until we hit a fork: left is a dead end; right narrows down to a rusty old ladder bolted into the wall, caked in about a hundred years’ worth of whatever passes for minerals underground.

  I nod at Beldum. “Check it out.” It shoots up the ladder, scanning with quick, sharp sweeps, then signals me with a flicker that it’s clear. I tuck Luna under one arm and haul myself up, her grip tight but silent, while Lotad clambers onto my shoulder like this is just how things go now. At the top, there’s a grate—bolted, but nothing impressive. I shove my fingers through and give it a push; it groans loud enough for Beldum to slip in and pop the latch open, about as discreet as fireworks at midnight.

  We’re in some maintenance room that probably hasn’t seen a mop since before I was born—bare cinder blocks, lights flickering like they’re about to quit, and an ancient generator making the floor vibrate under my feet. The air reeks like something between static shock and gym socks. I set Luna down; Lotad stays put.

  I slide the hatch back closed—not perfect, but no one’s going to notice unless they’re really bored. There’s a door across from us with a yellow safety stripe and “ACCESS RESTRICTED” stencilled on it like that means anything anymore. I lean in, listening for trouble.

  Nothing.

  I try the handle—locked, obviously. I give Beldum a look and mouth “of course.” It floats over, magnets twitching impatiently. There’s some static and then—pop—the lock gives out with a pathetic little snap and plastic crumbs fall to my shoes. On the other side is another staircase winding up, painted that sad institutional green that never looks clean no matter how new it is. Up we go: me limping first with Luna close behind and Lotad dripping puddles on each step. Halfway up, the sirens are silent, replaced by the low rush of river noise ahead. Almost there.

  The last flight ends at a slab of steel: an exit door, windowless, with a battered panic bar and a sign warning about “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” The bar is cold, sticky with old paint and flecks of something probably worse. I brace, shove, and the door shrieks open into the blinding clean of river daylight. The slap of it nearly takes me off my feet, and for a second I’m blinking so hard I think I might throw up. The white roar of the river is right there—thirty feet below, brown water bucking against the concrete supports like it wants to knock this whole city loose. The catwalk I’m on stretches out across the water, chain-link on one side and nothing on the other. No people. No cops. Just a walkway and the sick drop on both sides.

  The riverbank’s a mess—broken ice, trash bundles, and at least two bikes mangled in the current—but the bridge is empty except for the wet slap of air and the ghost of the sirens, way behind me now. I take three steps onto the catwalk before my legs remember they’re supposed to have bones. Luna clings behind my heel, her pawprints already washing away in the spray. Beldum floats above the rail, eye on the far end where the walkway hits the opposite bank.

  We move fast, boots ringing on metal, every step a dare. I’m halfway across before I realize the walkway isn’t empty. On the far landing, shadowed by the bridge’s rafters, a shape unfolds: tall, robed, the fabric a swirl of purple and that familiar, stomach-turning blue. I clock the Plasma crest before I even register the face. He’s older, face a mask of angles and patience. Not a grunt—someone who knows how to wait for a target to come to him.

  He lifts a hand, and the air goes sharp and cold. “Cryogonal,” he says, voice low but carrying over the river like a gunshot. In half a breath, the air splits and there it is: a Cryogonal, all sharp lattice and burning blue, eye fixed on me with a blankness that feels more final than any League badge.

  Before I react, the world around me crackles. Frost blossoms on the rails, races up the bolts, and before I can even turn to yell, a pane of pure ice shoves out from the door behind me, knifing straight across the walkway. I spin, but too late—the path is sealed, door already rimed and unreachable.