The first thing to touch him was a chill. Not sharp, not hostile, but that quiet pre-dawn cold that seeps through the cracks in old window frames, even when the air outside Sinnoh is already breathing with the promise of spring. He lay on his mattress in the corner, covered with soft, faded fabric that molded into familiar hollows under his side. The fur on his belly, dark green and slightly shorter, soaked up the coolness from the floor, while the long, pale-green fur on his back and flanks held the lingering warmth of sleep. He stretched. Unhurriedly, cat-like, arching his back, feeling each vertebra click softly, the claws on his three-toed paws extending involuntarily, scratching the fabric. Scr-ee-ech. A familiar sound. Pleasure.
Smells. They were always the day's first heralds. Dust, settled overnight in the corners. The faint, stubborn metallic scent from the radiator under the window. And most importantly – their smells. The sharp, slightly ozonic trail of Luxio, curled up asleep on his mat nearby. Electricity seemed to crackle from his yellow-and-black pelt, even in sleep. A little further away, by the slightly open transom, hovered a light scent of feathers and wind – Staravia. She was already awake; he could tell by the sparse, restrained rustling, by the way the air stirred faintly from the movement of her wings. She was looking out the window at the lightening sky, all lean energy and impatience, barely held back. A bird. Always ready to take flight.
The house itself was a quiet, sleepy vessel. Not rich, but cozy. Walls of dark wood, cracked in places. Shelves cluttered with strange human things: books with unintelligible symbols, shiny discs, little boxes. On one shelf stood a small, dusty trophy – a plastic cup from some local tournament. Floragato lazily followed it with his gaze. A badge? No, something else. It didn't matter. A sunbeam, piercing the tulle curtain, crept slowly across the wall, and Floragato watched it involuntarily. His pink eye narrowed. Instinct. "Catch it?" But his body was too relaxed, too heavy from sleep. He only twitched the tip of his fluffy tail.
Then came the sounds. From behind the wall, in the kitchen, came a muffled blub-blub – the kettle. The shuffle of feet. Human breathing, still slightly sleepy but already alert. "Trainer." The smells sharpened suddenly, grew more complex: the bitter, viscous tang of brewing coffee, the sweetish scent of reheated Pokémon kibble. Floragato involuntarily licked his pink nose. Food soon. His own stomach gave a quiet, answering gurgle.
He rolled onto his back, letting the pale-green fur on his chest and belly catch that very sunbeam. The fur was soft, pliable, like warm plush. He loved this feeling – warmth on the skin, almost penetrating inside. Then his gaze fell on the small cabinet in the corner, where among other things, neatly folded, lay a cloak. That one. Dark green, almost like the fur on his legs and muzzle, with a hood. A gift from Paldea, from that uncle. It smelled… strange. Of Paldea? Or simply of adventures, which were in somewhat short supply here in Sinnoh? He looked away. Just a thing.
Luxio stirred, yawned, baring sharp fangs. A quiet sound, like the crackle of a short circuit, "zzzzzrrrrr." Floragato snorted. Electric-type. Always with sparks. Staravia answered with a short, abrupt "Caw!" as if to say, "Quiet! Dawn!" Luxio grumbled discontentedly and curled up again.
Floragato rose. Stood on his hind legs, stretched once more, feeling the muscles tense under his fur. His leaf "poncho" around his neck swayed slightly. He walked to the water bowl – cool, clean – and took a few sips. The water was… water. Ordinary. But refreshing. Then he sat by the kitchen door, tucking his tail, watching the slit under the door from which now poured not only light but also the most delicious smells – toasted kibble, perhaps a drop of honey… His pink eyes followed the movement of shadows behind the door intently. His ears, green at the tips, swiveled, catching every sound: the clink of a spoon, the rustle of a bag, the trainer's soft morning humming – he was muttering something to himself.
It was the warm womb of morning. It was the anticipation of breakfast. It was a light excitement for the coming day – what if there was a battle? Or training, where he could show off all his agility, jump higher, strike more precisely, make Luxio get annoyed and Staravia caw with envy? His fur, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, tightened, grew a bit stiffer around the shoulders – not needles, no, just a hint of readiness. Of eagerness. Of play. Of being here, in this house, on this team, the most agile, the smartest Floragato. For now. While the morning wasn't over, and the world hadn't grown more complicated.
---
The shadow from the porch was short and sharp, almost black under the midday Sinnoh sun. His trainer – Aidan – was rummaging in a worn bag slung over his shoulder. Floragato saw the familiar motions: fingers fumbling among the clinking cans of healing spray, finding the smooth plastic of Poké Balls, pushing aside a packet of sandwiches. The smell of tomato sauce and bread mingled with the dust kicked up by a light breeze from the country road. They were somewhere on the outskirts, near an old warehouse outside Jubilife. Not an arena. Just a cleared patch of ground, bordered by withered grass and rusty barrels. Improvisation, flashed through Floragato's mind with mild disdain. His pink eyes slid over Luxio, shifting nervously from paw to paw beside him, over Staravia, proudly spreading her wings on a sagging fence. Luxio's electricity made the air tingle with static.
"Ready?" Aidan found what he was looking for – a small blue jar. Just in case. His voice was cheerful, but Floragato caught an underlying thread of tension. As always before an unfamiliar opponent.
Floragato nodded, letting out a short mew. Ready? Of course, ready. His pale-green fur lay smooth, only the leaf "poncho" around his neck stirring slightly. He felt the firmness of the ground under the pads of his hind paws, the readiness of his muscles to push off.
The opponent appeared from around the corner of the warehouse. A trainer – a stocky man in a cap with some farm's logo, smirking at Aidan. And behind him – it. A Graveler.
A rock slab on two powerful legs. Rough, gray-brown skin studded with chips and scars from past fights. Small, angry bead-eyes bored into Floragato. The earth trembled slightly under its heavy tread. The smell of dust, stone, and latent power. Rock. Ground. Instinctively, Floragato felt the advantage. His Grass – sharp, living – against this crude solidity. His fur tightened slightly over his shoulders, not needles yet, but a warning. Speed against mass. Wit against brute force. The calculation began instantly, plotting trajectories in his feline mind.
"So, kid, wanna have a go?" the farmer's voice was rough, self-assured. "My old pal Graveler hasn't stretched his legs on such… little flowers in a while." He slapped the stony shoulder of his Pokémon. A dull thud sounded. "Tell you what, I'll be merciful. Two on one!"
Aidan clenched his fist. Floragato saw his fingers tense.
"Enough talk, Harry. Start."
Immediately, two more figures emerged from the warehouse shadow. Young trainers, locals by the look of them. A guy and a girl. Come to watch. Floragato caught their whispers:
"Oh, is that the Floragato from Paldea? They say it's quick…" "Against a Graveler?Doubtful. Rock-types are tough…" "Let's see how Aidan handles this."
Their gazes, curious, assessing, fell on him. Like heavy dots. Don't mess up. The thought pierced him, sharp as a claw. Not in front of Aidan. Not in front of this farmer. And certainly not in front of them. His tail twitched once, nervously. Pride flared hot under his fur. He would show them. Show them all.
Farmer Harry grinned widely.
"Alrighty! Graveler, let's go! Start with a Bulldoze! Secure the ground!"
The Graveler let out a deep rumble. It raised one massive stone arm and shook it downward with force. The earth under Floragato's feet shuddered, rippling in waves. The ground became unstable, treacherous. Luxio yelped in surprise. Staravia shot into the air with an alarmed cry.
Floragato barely kept his balance. Stupid. An obvious move – to strip him of his main advantage, his mobility. But that was fine. The tremors subsided. Graveler stood, legs slightly apart, an immovable boulder, ready for defense. His small eyes glinted with a dull challenge. Wait for the command.
Floragato instantly assessed the distance. The angle. Speed. Graveler was slow, ponderous. His flanks, his back – vulnerable. And the weak spot… between the segments of stone armor on his back, where darker, vulnerable flesh was visible. If he could dash in an arc, using the rusty barrels as cover, come out from the side… Magical Leaf. Quick, precise. Into that gap. Grass against Rock. Pinpoint. Effective. He could already see it – Graveler, stunned, losing his balance. Victory in two moves. His muscles tensed, the fur on his withers grew slightly stiffer, becoming a promise of a strike. He prepared to leap, shifting his weight to his hind legs. His eyes narrowed, aiming at the point between the stone plates on the enemy's back.
"Luxio! Hang in there!" Aidan suddenly shouted. Floragato glimpsed it – Luxio, still recovering from the tremors, stumbled under an unexpected Rock Throw that Graveler tossed almost without looking. The Electric-type yelped in pain. Aidan's panic was palpable. His voice broke: "Floragato! Don't let him recover! Vine Whip! Hold him!"
The command hit like a sledgehammer. Vine Whip. Not a leap. Not a precise strike. Hold him. Floragato froze on half-bent legs. His entire calculated surge, the whole swift arc of attack already mapped out by his muscles, crumbled to dust. Inside, everything clenched, becoming prickly and sharp. His pale-green fur suddenly bristled all along his back and shoulders, turning into actual needles piercing the fabric of his own leaf "poncho." He let out an indignant mew. Conflict. The fury of misunderstanding. "No! Not like that! He's open NOW!"
But the Trainer's voice. It cut through the noise of blood in his ears, through the whistle of wind from a rock chunk Graveler threw past Luxio. The voice was an order. The law. An instinct, dormant deeper than bones, deeper than reason, acted faster than thought. Obey.
With a sharp, almost furious hiss, Floragato lunged forward—but not in an arc, almost straight ahead, low to the ground. From the bud on his chest, hidden by leaves, shot out a flexible, springy vine. It lashed towards Graveler like green lightning, wrapping around his massive, stone-segmented leg. A second vine—around the thick arm just raised for another strike.
"Hold him!" Aidan cried, his voice hoarse with tension. "Don't let go!"
Floragato dug his hind paws into the dusty earth, pulling the vines taut to their limit. They vibrated with the strain, biting into the rough stone skin. Hold him. But this wasn't his way. This was stupid! Graveler merely grinned with his bead-like eyes. His Sturdy ability—made his armor incredibly tough, his ligaments like steel cables. He wasn't vulnerable to being held. He was built to withstand it.
"Heh! Think you can hold me with these little ropes?" Farmer Harry bellowed. "Rock Head, old pal! We don't feel your scratches! CRUSH HIM!"
Graveler roared. Not in pain—in effort. Stone muscles bulged under his hide. He yanked his bound arm upward—and Floragato, still holding the vines, was ripped off the ground like a feather. For a moment he hung in the air, helpless, his needle-fur sticking out in all directions. His eyes, wide with shock and fury, met Graveler's small, dull eyes. Sand Veil. Around Graveler's legs, a sudden, acrid dust veil swirled up, blinding, scratching at the eyes.
"GRRRRAAAAAH!" Graveler's roar merged with the whistle of stone. He didn't just break free. He used the momentum, the power of his Rock Head, and brought his entire monstrous mass down on the still-airborne Floragato with a terrible blow—Stone Edge.
It wasn't a defeat. It was an erasure. Graveler's stone palm, his solid flesh—all concentrated into one monstrous motion. The air choked on the impact.
Floragato didn't even have time to cry out. He only felt a deafening crunch, not so much heard as felt in every bone, every cell. The world exploded in white, searing pain. He was flung across the entire clearing like a ragdoll. He slammed into the rusted side of a barrel, denting it, and crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. His needle-fur flattened, turning into a pathetic, ruffled mess. The leaves of his "poncho" were crumpled, torn in one spot. The breath was knocked out of him. Black and red spots danced before his eyes. Through the pain, through the ringing in his ears, he heard:
"Floragato! No!" It was Aidan. His voice full of horror and… guilt?
But the pain wasn't the worst. The worst was the taste. The bitter, metallic taste of defeat. And the bitterness, acrid as bile, rising in his throat. "I knew. I saw. I could… I COULD HAVE!" The thought shot through the pain, sharp and clear. His plan was right. His strike would have hit the mark. But he was forced to… hold. He was ignored. His strength, his wit—used wrong. And they lost.
He tried to lift his head. Dust settled on his pink nose, stinging his eyes. Through the haze, he saw the figure of Aidan rushing towards him with a spray can in a trembling hand. He saw the farmer's smug mug. The smirks of the onlookers. And Luxio, whimpering in pain but looking at him with a silent question: "Why did we lose?"
Floragato let out a choked mew. Not from physical pain. From a pain much deeper. From the betrayal of his own instinct to obey, which led to this disgrace. He closed his eyes, hiding within them a flash of mute rage and that first, icy drop.
---
The evening light filtering through the curtain now seemed not a warm sunbeam, but a dull, dusty stripe on the floor. The house smelled of medicinal spray and… roasted roots. Aidan was trying to create coziness. But the air was heavy, thick, like syrup. Floragato sat in his corner, tucking his hind legs under him. Each breath echoed with a dull ache in his side, where Graveler's stone fist had left its bluish imprint beneath the pale-green fur. His fur lay uneven, matted, in places stuck together from the spray. The needles had flattened, but it still prickled inside – with tiny, sharp shards of humiliation.
Footsteps. Aidan was approaching. Floragato didn't raise his head. He heard the trainer first stop by Luxio. He was lying on his side, his yellow-and-black flank also bandaged.
"Good job, Lux," Aidan's voice sounded tired but warm. "You held tough. Here, have this." The crunch of a special Electric-type treat. A pleased, though pained, crackling in response.
Then – to Staravia. She sat on her perch by the window, one wing pressed unnaturally to her body.
"And you did great, Star. You took the high ground perfectly. Almost knocked out that Zubat." The rustle of a bag. The smell of dried berries. A satisfied, proud "Caw!" Staravia pecked at the treat.
Footsteps again. Now – to him. Floragato felt the fur on his nape begin to rise on its own, as if anticipating. He saw Aidan's shadow falling on his mattress. Expectation clenched into a knot under his ribs. Now. Now he'll say it. 'I'm sorry. I messed up. My command was stupid. You were right.' That would have been fair. That would have washed away some of the bitterness.
But Aidan crouched down. In his hand, he held a piece of his favorite treat – dried fish with a sea grass aroma. A smell that usually made him purr. Now it just tickled his nostrils, causing a strange nausea.
"Ah, Flori..." Aidan sighed. The sound wasn't an apology, but a tired statement. "Sorry. Today... well, you know. Just wasn't your day." He offered the treat. His hand was slightly dirty with soil. "We'll have to... We'll have to work on your Vine Whip. Hold tighter. So big guys like that can't break free. We'll train tomorrow. Properly."
The words hit harder than Graveler's stone. Not his day? The day had been perfect until that stupid command came! Hold tighter? He'd held on with all his might! But against Sturdy and Rock Head, his vine was like a thread against a steel cable! That wasn't his weakness! It was the trainer's mistake! The expectation shattered. In its place grew something sharp, prickly, burning.
His fur bristled instantly, all over his body, turning into actual armor of small, stiff needles. His leaf "poncho" puffed up with tension. He jerked his head sharply to the side, turning away from the outstretched hand. From the treat. From Aidan himself. A deep, piercing, almost screechy "MEOW!" tore from his throat. Not of pain. Not a plea. Pure, undiluted resentment and fury. "NO!"
Aidan froze. The hand with the treat hung in the air. His face flickered with bewilderment, then – irritation. Weariness and his own frustration over the defeat overpowered any attempt to understand.
"Hey!" His voice grew sharper, curt. "Floragato! Enough sulking! I said – we'll train tomorrow! You'll get your win then! Now – eat and rest. We need to lick our wounds, not get angry."
"Sulking." The final straw. His pride, already wounded to the quick, clenched into a tight, painful knot. He wasn't sulking. He had been betrayed. Betrayed by his own trainer, who couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't understand.
Floragato didn't look at Aidan anymore. He demonstratively turned his whole body, burying his nose in the corner of the mattress, away from the light, the smell of fish, this misunderstanding. He tucked his tail, wrapping it tightly around himself, creating a barrier. His needle-fur trembled with suppressed heaves of breath.
Somewhere behind him, Luxio growled disapprovingly – an electric "zzzzzt" cutting through the silence. Staravia flapped her good wing uneasily, knocking a feather off the shelf. But Floragato didn't hear them. He only heard the echo of his own thoughts, hollow and bitter: "Lick our wounds." Yes. That's exactly what he was going to do. Lick the bruises from the stones. And that huge, invisible wound left by the words:
"Just wasn't your day... We'll have to train." Lick them. Alone.
---
The moon peered through the window with a long, pale finger, laying a silver stripe on the floor. The house breathed silence. Aidan's heavy, intermittent snoring came from his bed. Luxio snuffled, curled in a ball, the yellow stripe on his side rising and falling evenly. Staravia dozed, her beak tucked under her wing, the injured feather sticking out at a helpless angle. Floragato wasn't sleeping. He lay on his back, his pink eyes wide open, absorbing the moonlight and the shadows on the ceiling. The pain in his side had quieted, replaced by a dull, aching echo. But inside, something burned. Burned quietly and fiercely.
His gaze slid to the sleeping trainer. To the one who today said "Vine Whip." Who made him hold. Aidan slept, his mouth slightly open, his face soft, defenseless. He commands, the thought cut through the silence, cold and clear as a blade. He tells me – jump. Strike. Hold. But himself… where is he? Floragato remembered the dust of the clearing, Aidan's shout, his clenched fist. But a clenched fist doesn't strike the enemy. A Pokémon does. He doesn't fight. He stands and commands. And in training, it's the same: "Run faster!", "Strike more precisely!", "Work on your vine!" As if he, Floragato, didn't know his own paws, his own flexibility, his own hidden vine.
But he knew. Today. More clearly than ever. He saw that moment. The moment between Graveler's stone segments. The vulnerability. The opening. He knew that a Magical Leaf, swift as a snake's tongue, into that gap – and the stone mountain would crumble. His paws were already preparing to leap. His mind had already traced the arc. Victory was his idea. His vision. And then – that voice. That order. Hold. And everything fell apart. Not just defeat. A stolen victory. His own thought trampled.
Does a trainer give strength? – the next spiral. A memory surfaced – heat, a wave of energy rolling through his body when he, still a Sprigatito, felt the world grow around him, his paws become stronger, a bud of power blooming in his chest. Evolution. Here. In this house. Under Aidan's guidance. Yes. But… what did Aidan do? Shouted "Train harder!"? Bought vitamins in shiny cans? But who ran until his vision darkened? Who learned to feel the vine as an extension of his own will? He. Floragato. His sweat. His pain. His will. Aidan only… pointed the direction. Like a lantern on a road you walk yourself.
A friend? – a bitter spark. A friend sees. A friend hears. A friend doesn't shout "Hold!" when you see the path to victory. A friend doesn't say "Just wasn't your day… We'll have to train," dumping his mistake on you. A friend doesn't blame you for his own deafness. In his corner, it now smelled not just of medicine, but of betrayed trust. The lie of the word "partner."
Moonlight fell on the shelf. On that very plastic trinket – the trophy cup. Next to it, badges glinted dully. Sinnoh badges. Stone. Water. Their shape, their color… They meant something to Aidan. Proof of his journey. But what did they mean for him, Floragato? Bits of metal. He couldn't wear them. Couldn't pin them to his fur. They were Aidan's trophies. His glory. Earned by his, Floragato's, strength. By his paws. His pain. His lost and won battles. Why? – the thought rang out like a bell strike. Why do I need a trainer? For him to get badges with my blood? For him to command when I see the way? For him to make mistakes, and for me to pay with pain and blame?
The air in his chest grew cold and sharp. He rose on his elbows, the fur on his nape ruffling slightly, but not into needles – more like the fur of a cat in the cold. He looked at the sleepers: at Aidan, at Luxio, at Staravia. A team? Or a cage? His mind, sharp and analytical, scanned reality. If I can see the enemy's weakness… If I know how to move, how to strike… If I know my own weaknesses better than any trainer, because it's my body, my pain!… If I can train myself, run until I drop, strike until the blow is honed…
Then… What do I need him for?
The question hung in the moonlight. Not rhetorical. Finished. With a single, clear, as-this-night-air answer.
I can live on my own.
The thought wasn't defiant. Not rebellious. It was… inevitable. Like a falling stone. Like sunrise. It arrived not with a crash, but with a quiet click, as if a circuit had closed in his mind.
I will live on my own.
---
The moon dipped towards the horizon, casting a cold milky light on the walls of the room. Aidan's snoring had turned into a steady, deep breathing. Luxio twitched in his sleep, emitting sparks that immediately died in the darkness. Staravia ruffled her feathers with a quiet rustle. Floragato stood frozen by the window. Not asleep. Not breathing, it seemed. His pink eyes, narrowed, caught every glint on the glass, every shadow outside.
Quieter than water. Lower than grass. The predator's instinct, dormant beneath his mischief, awoke now in full force. He placed a front paw on the old wooden frame. The pad, soft and springy, pressed against the rough paint. No sound. Then the second paw. His body weight, light as a feather, shifted. His claws? He couldn't retract them like a Meowth. But he knew how to place his paw so the tips barely touched the surface, distributing weight, not scratching, not creaking. His clawed fingers closed around the handle. A light press – down. Then – pull. The old wood sighed with a barely audible "squeeak"… and the gap between the frame and the sash widened, letting in the night's freshness. The smell of wet earth, distant pines, freedom.
He slipped through the gap, flexible as his own vine. Found himself on the narrow ledge outside. The night air hit his muzzle, stirred the fur of his "poncho." Below – dark bushes, a path leading away. His heart pounded louder than Graveler's steps.
He returned. A soundless shadow. To the corner. A familiar motion – his nose nudged under the edge of the mattress. There, in the hideaway, lay a treasure. A soft, battered mouse toy, once bright blue, now faded to grey. It smelled of dust and… home. He tucked it behind the sash of the cloak he hadn't yet put on. Then – to the kitchen cabinet. The bottom shelf, where supplies were kept. A deft, clawed paw hooked a small pouch of sturdy cloth. Inside – a handful of dried Oran berries. The sour-sweet, vital scent. Basic rations. He slung the pouch over his shoulder.
And there it was. The cloak.
It hung on a nail in the corner of his sleeping spot. Dark green, almost like the fur on his lower legs. Sturdy fabric, not tearing like leaves. With a hood that could hide his distinctive ears. A gift. From Paldea. From Aidan's uncle, who saw in him not just a starter, but… a person? Or just wanted to please his nephew?
Floragato took it down. The fabric was cool, slightly rough under his paw pads. He shook it, and dust motes swirled in the moonbeam. Then he threw it over his shoulders. A familiar motion – fastening the snap under his leaf "poncho." The fabric settled over them, slightly constricting, but also… embracing. Like armor? Or a shroud for his old life?
Putting it on, he felt a strange mix. Warmth – from protection against wind and damp. And a cold bitterness – from the memory of that day. Aidan, smiling, handing over the package: "Special for you, to be like a real hero!" He, then still a Sprigatito, had jumped for joy, rubbed against the trainer's leg. Trust. It had been so warm then. Now the memory burned like ice.
He pulled up the hood. The world narrowed. The sharp tips of his ears pressed against the fabric. He was concealed. Complete. Separate.
A last look. At the sleeping Aidan. At Luxio. At Staravia. At the familiar contours of the room, the shelves with trinkets, the trophy cup. No sound. Only the beat of his own heart echoing in his temples.
He turned. Approached the open window. The night met him with its cool breath. He placed a paw on the windowsill, then – on the ledge outside. A leap – light, soundless as a falling leaf. Landing in the soft earth under a bush. Pollen swirled up, tickling his nose. He didn't sneeze.
He looked back. The window gaped as a dark rectangle in the wall of the sleeping house. His house? Not anymore. A point of reference. Just a point.
I will live on my own. The thought sounded not loud, but as a confirmation of what had already happened.
A dark-green shadow in a dark-green cloak set off. Along the wall of the house. Past sleeping Miltanks behind the neighbor's fence. Towards the exit from the yard. Onto the deserted morning street, where the first bird Pokémon were beginning tentative chirps. He walked, not looking back.
---
His sleep was restless, like water in a puddle under rain. Aidan woke before the first rays of sun touched the windowsill. Not from light – from a weight on his heart. It pressed against his breastbone, a cold stone. Yesterday's defeat, Floragato's cry, his turned back in the corner… It all formed a wrong, prickly mosaic. He lay, staring at the ceiling where a crack spread like a star. "I was wrong," something inside admitted, quietly but insistently. The stupidity of the command. Deafness to what Floragato had been trying to say with his gaze, his readiness to leap. Hold. An idiotic word.
He got up, feeling stiffness in his joints, as if Graveler had hit him yesterday too. His first thought – not for the kettle. Not for food. For the corner. For Floragato. Today everything would be different. He'd apologize. Honestly. Admit: "I'm sorry, I gave a stupid command. You saw the right move. I didn't understand you." Maybe get that special Paldean food he'd saved for special occasions? Talk. For real. Like with a partner, not a tool.
He approached quietly, almost on tiptoe, trying not to wake Luxio, snuffling in the corner, or Staravia, sleeping on her perch. The corner was bathed in pre-dawn grey light. Empty. Mattress. Rumpled blanket. No one.
"Flori?" A whisper escaped his lips, muffled by incomprehension.
He bent down. His hand touched the mattress fabric. Cold. Completely. Like the ground on a frosty morning. No trace of a sleeping body's warmth. Aidan's heart clenched, skipping a beat. His eyes darted around the corner. Where was the mouse? That bluish, battered one? You could always find it under the mattress or in the folds of the blanket. Gone. Not a trace. No smell of dust from the old toy. Only emptiness.
Panic flared like a spark on dry grass. A cold wave rose from his stomach to his throat.
"Floragato?" Louder now. His voice trembled. He rushed to the closet, flung the door open – empty. Looked under his own bed, shoving aside boxes – dusty corners, forgotten things. Nothing. Under Luxio's bed? No. Behind the curtains? Empty.
"Where are you?" Almost a shout now, choked with horror. He dashed to the kitchen, glanced hastily under the table, behind the door – all in order. The whole house suddenly seemed huge, eerily quiet, like a crypt. The window. He ran to it. Closed? No. The sash was slightly ajar, barely noticeable. On the windowsill – a barely distinguishable paw print in the dust.
He left.
The word crashed down with monstrous weight. Not ran off to the garden. Not hid in a corner. Left. On purpose. Into the night. With his mouse. Without looking back.
"No…" Aidan exhaled, leaning against the wall. His hands shook. Thoughts raced: the resentment, the cloak, the empty corner, the cold blanket. "I drove him away. With my stupidity. With my reproaches."
He lunged towards Luxio, shaking him by the shoulder. The Electric Pokémon jumped up, stunned, the fur on his nape standing on end, sparks dancing over his body.
"Get up! Now!" Aidan's voice was hoarse, breaking with panic. "He's gone! Floragato left!"
Luxio blinked, not understanding. Then his nose twitched, inhaling the air. His eyes widened. The sweetish scent of grass, leaves, the unique note that was Floragato – it was gone. Only dust and the trainer's fear.
"Caw!" A piercing cry from Staravia cut the silence. She was already alert, by the window, her sharp gaze scanning the yard, the street. Alarm rang in her voice. She felt the emptiness.
Aidan grabbed his bag hastily, not looking at what he threw in. His face was pale, his eyes feverishly bright. He flung the front door open, letting in a stream of cold morning air.
"Search!" his cry escaped, trembling, full of despair. "Everywhere! He can't have gone far! Staravia – the sky! Luxio – the ground, follow the trail! Search for his scent! Grass, leaves… the cloak! Find him! NOW!"
Staravia shot into the sky with a single powerful wingbeat, raising a whirlwind of dust. Her cry – alarmed, piercing – spread over the rooftops, a call to search. Luxio shot forward, pressing his nose to the ground by the doorstep. His body tensed like a spring, his yellow-black fur bristling. He growled low, focused, and dashed down the path leading from the house, disappearing into the grey dawn haze. His senses, heightened by his master's panic, caught the faintest notes of the missing scent – the bitterish greenery, the trail of road dust, and a barely perceptible, foreign hint of cloak fabric.
---
The pre-dawn grey haze clung to house walls, fences, sleeping streetlights. Floragato moved like smoke. The dark-green cloak merged with the shadows under archways, with damp patches on brick. The hood pulled low, hiding the distinctive sharp ears, blurring his silhouette. The city was waking: a door slammed somewhere, a metal shop shutter clattered, steam hissed from a bakery vent. People. Voices. Footsteps. He pressed himself against walls, sucked in his stomach, made himself narrower, flatter. A Pokémon without a trainer – strange property, a suspicious stray, a potential problem. His pink eyes, sharp and wary, scanned every turn, every crevice.
He turned into a narrow alley between the bakery and a hardware store. Smells assaulted his nose: the sweet, intoxicating viscosity of yeast dough, the bitterness of burnt oil, the heavy scent of metal and rust. And there – a sign. Crooked, wooden, nailed above a low door. Faded letters: "Luke's Doughnuts."
Luke. Simple. Solid. A name. It hung in the air, tangible as the smell of pastries. He froze. Not from hunger. From a gnawing emptiness inside. He never had a name. He was Sprigatito. Then – Floragato. Species. Evolutionary stage. A Pokédex entry. Even those Miltanks on the farm outside town had nicknames – Snowball, Ginger, Star. They were called in the morning. That dumb Graveler yesterday – had a name. Harry. Even shortened, affectionately-dismissive – "Flori." Like a pet's name. Not a person. A thing.
Fragments of sounds surfaced in his memory, bright as flashes:
— "Ben, old buddy, how are you?" – Aidan's voice, warm, directed at his red-haired friend.
"Chris! Watch out!" – a woman's piercing scream to a boy a second before disaster.
Names. They were keys. Passes into the human world. Marks of distinction. "I am Luke." "I am Chris." "I am Buddy." Not "that Floragato." Not "Aidan's Grass-type." An "own" essence. One's own path. Independence from species, from a system's stamp, from a trainer's whim who decides who you are and what to call you.
Chris. The thought arose unexpectedly. Cleanly. Like a drop of water on a leaf after rain. Chris. It sounded… simple. Human. Not fancy. Not fearsome. Just simple. Like that boy who was called with love and fear. It held not a trace of "Flori." It was a choice. His first real choice. Not obeying an order. Not instinct. A conscious decision.
Something clicked inside. Like a lock opening to the right key. Goosebumps ran under his fur, hidden beneath the cloak. Not the needles of resentment. Something else. A feeling… of belonging to oneself.
But this feeling was soon interrupted by a wave of goosebumps down his spine. Floragato froze, his gaze slowly glazing over, and a paw ran over his muzzle, touching his pink nose and tracing to the corner of his eye.
But the sound of his rumbling stomach instantly brought him back to reality.
He was no longer Floragato from Aidan's team. He was – Chris.
Smells. They were always the day's first heralds. Dust, settled overnight in the corners. The faint, stubborn metallic scent from the radiator under the window. And most importantly – their smells. The sharp, slightly ozonic trail of Luxio, curled up asleep on his mat nearby. Electricity seemed to crackle from his yellow-and-black pelt, even in sleep. A little further away, by the slightly open transom, hovered a light scent of feathers and wind – Staravia. She was already awake; he could tell by the sparse, restrained rustling, by the way the air stirred faintly from the movement of her wings. She was looking out the window at the lightening sky, all lean energy and impatience, barely held back. A bird. Always ready to take flight.
The house itself was a quiet, sleepy vessel. Not rich, but cozy. Walls of dark wood, cracked in places. Shelves cluttered with strange human things: books with unintelligible symbols, shiny discs, little boxes. On one shelf stood a small, dusty trophy – a plastic cup from some local tournament. Floragato lazily followed it with his gaze. A badge? No, something else. It didn't matter. A sunbeam, piercing the tulle curtain, crept slowly across the wall, and Floragato watched it involuntarily. His pink eye narrowed. Instinct. "Catch it?" But his body was too relaxed, too heavy from sleep. He only twitched the tip of his fluffy tail.
Then came the sounds. From behind the wall, in the kitchen, came a muffled blub-blub – the kettle. The shuffle of feet. Human breathing, still slightly sleepy but already alert. "Trainer." The smells sharpened suddenly, grew more complex: the bitter, viscous tang of brewing coffee, the sweetish scent of reheated Pokémon kibble. Floragato involuntarily licked his pink nose. Food soon. His own stomach gave a quiet, answering gurgle.
He rolled onto his back, letting the pale-green fur on his chest and belly catch that very sunbeam. The fur was soft, pliable, like warm plush. He loved this feeling – warmth on the skin, almost penetrating inside. Then his gaze fell on the small cabinet in the corner, where among other things, neatly folded, lay a cloak. That one. Dark green, almost like the fur on his legs and muzzle, with a hood. A gift from Paldea, from that uncle. It smelled… strange. Of Paldea? Or simply of adventures, which were in somewhat short supply here in Sinnoh? He looked away. Just a thing.
Luxio stirred, yawned, baring sharp fangs. A quiet sound, like the crackle of a short circuit, "zzzzzrrrrr." Floragato snorted. Electric-type. Always with sparks. Staravia answered with a short, abrupt "Caw!" as if to say, "Quiet! Dawn!" Luxio grumbled discontentedly and curled up again.
Floragato rose. Stood on his hind legs, stretched once more, feeling the muscles tense under his fur. His leaf "poncho" around his neck swayed slightly. He walked to the water bowl – cool, clean – and took a few sips. The water was… water. Ordinary. But refreshing. Then he sat by the kitchen door, tucking his tail, watching the slit under the door from which now poured not only light but also the most delicious smells – toasted kibble, perhaps a drop of honey… His pink eyes followed the movement of shadows behind the door intently. His ears, green at the tips, swiveled, catching every sound: the clink of a spoon, the rustle of a bag, the trainer's soft morning humming – he was muttering something to himself.
It was the warm womb of morning. It was the anticipation of breakfast. It was a light excitement for the coming day – what if there was a battle? Or training, where he could show off all his agility, jump higher, strike more precisely, make Luxio get annoyed and Staravia caw with envy? His fur, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, tightened, grew a bit stiffer around the shoulders – not needles, no, just a hint of readiness. Of eagerness. Of play. Of being here, in this house, on this team, the most agile, the smartest Floragato. For now. While the morning wasn't over, and the world hadn't grown more complicated.
---
The shadow from the porch was short and sharp, almost black under the midday Sinnoh sun. His trainer – Aidan – was rummaging in a worn bag slung over his shoulder. Floragato saw the familiar motions: fingers fumbling among the clinking cans of healing spray, finding the smooth plastic of Poké Balls, pushing aside a packet of sandwiches. The smell of tomato sauce and bread mingled with the dust kicked up by a light breeze from the country road. They were somewhere on the outskirts, near an old warehouse outside Jubilife. Not an arena. Just a cleared patch of ground, bordered by withered grass and rusty barrels. Improvisation, flashed through Floragato's mind with mild disdain. His pink eyes slid over Luxio, shifting nervously from paw to paw beside him, over Staravia, proudly spreading her wings on a sagging fence. Luxio's electricity made the air tingle with static.
"Ready?" Aidan found what he was looking for – a small blue jar. Just in case. His voice was cheerful, but Floragato caught an underlying thread of tension. As always before an unfamiliar opponent.
Floragato nodded, letting out a short mew. Ready? Of course, ready. His pale-green fur lay smooth, only the leaf "poncho" around his neck stirring slightly. He felt the firmness of the ground under the pads of his hind paws, the readiness of his muscles to push off.
The opponent appeared from around the corner of the warehouse. A trainer – a stocky man in a cap with some farm's logo, smirking at Aidan. And behind him – it. A Graveler.
A rock slab on two powerful legs. Rough, gray-brown skin studded with chips and scars from past fights. Small, angry bead-eyes bored into Floragato. The earth trembled slightly under its heavy tread. The smell of dust, stone, and latent power. Rock. Ground. Instinctively, Floragato felt the advantage. His Grass – sharp, living – against this crude solidity. His fur tightened slightly over his shoulders, not needles yet, but a warning. Speed against mass. Wit against brute force. The calculation began instantly, plotting trajectories in his feline mind.
"So, kid, wanna have a go?" the farmer's voice was rough, self-assured. "My old pal Graveler hasn't stretched his legs on such… little flowers in a while." He slapped the stony shoulder of his Pokémon. A dull thud sounded. "Tell you what, I'll be merciful. Two on one!"
Aidan clenched his fist. Floragato saw his fingers tense.
"Enough talk, Harry. Start."
Immediately, two more figures emerged from the warehouse shadow. Young trainers, locals by the look of them. A guy and a girl. Come to watch. Floragato caught their whispers:
"Oh, is that the Floragato from Paldea? They say it's quick…" "Against a Graveler?Doubtful. Rock-types are tough…" "Let's see how Aidan handles this."
Their gazes, curious, assessing, fell on him. Like heavy dots. Don't mess up. The thought pierced him, sharp as a claw. Not in front of Aidan. Not in front of this farmer. And certainly not in front of them. His tail twitched once, nervously. Pride flared hot under his fur. He would show them. Show them all.
Farmer Harry grinned widely.
"Alrighty! Graveler, let's go! Start with a Bulldoze! Secure the ground!"
The Graveler let out a deep rumble. It raised one massive stone arm and shook it downward with force. The earth under Floragato's feet shuddered, rippling in waves. The ground became unstable, treacherous. Luxio yelped in surprise. Staravia shot into the air with an alarmed cry.
Floragato barely kept his balance. Stupid. An obvious move – to strip him of his main advantage, his mobility. But that was fine. The tremors subsided. Graveler stood, legs slightly apart, an immovable boulder, ready for defense. His small eyes glinted with a dull challenge. Wait for the command.
Floragato instantly assessed the distance. The angle. Speed. Graveler was slow, ponderous. His flanks, his back – vulnerable. And the weak spot… between the segments of stone armor on his back, where darker, vulnerable flesh was visible. If he could dash in an arc, using the rusty barrels as cover, come out from the side… Magical Leaf. Quick, precise. Into that gap. Grass against Rock. Pinpoint. Effective. He could already see it – Graveler, stunned, losing his balance. Victory in two moves. His muscles tensed, the fur on his withers grew slightly stiffer, becoming a promise of a strike. He prepared to leap, shifting his weight to his hind legs. His eyes narrowed, aiming at the point between the stone plates on the enemy's back.
"Luxio! Hang in there!" Aidan suddenly shouted. Floragato glimpsed it – Luxio, still recovering from the tremors, stumbled under an unexpected Rock Throw that Graveler tossed almost without looking. The Electric-type yelped in pain. Aidan's panic was palpable. His voice broke: "Floragato! Don't let him recover! Vine Whip! Hold him!"
The command hit like a sledgehammer. Vine Whip. Not a leap. Not a precise strike. Hold him. Floragato froze on half-bent legs. His entire calculated surge, the whole swift arc of attack already mapped out by his muscles, crumbled to dust. Inside, everything clenched, becoming prickly and sharp. His pale-green fur suddenly bristled all along his back and shoulders, turning into actual needles piercing the fabric of his own leaf "poncho." He let out an indignant mew. Conflict. The fury of misunderstanding. "No! Not like that! He's open NOW!"
But the Trainer's voice. It cut through the noise of blood in his ears, through the whistle of wind from a rock chunk Graveler threw past Luxio. The voice was an order. The law. An instinct, dormant deeper than bones, deeper than reason, acted faster than thought. Obey.
With a sharp, almost furious hiss, Floragato lunged forward—but not in an arc, almost straight ahead, low to the ground. From the bud on his chest, hidden by leaves, shot out a flexible, springy vine. It lashed towards Graveler like green lightning, wrapping around his massive, stone-segmented leg. A second vine—around the thick arm just raised for another strike.
"Hold him!" Aidan cried, his voice hoarse with tension. "Don't let go!"
Floragato dug his hind paws into the dusty earth, pulling the vines taut to their limit. They vibrated with the strain, biting into the rough stone skin. Hold him. But this wasn't his way. This was stupid! Graveler merely grinned with his bead-like eyes. His Sturdy ability—made his armor incredibly tough, his ligaments like steel cables. He wasn't vulnerable to being held. He was built to withstand it.
"Heh! Think you can hold me with these little ropes?" Farmer Harry bellowed. "Rock Head, old pal! We don't feel your scratches! CRUSH HIM!"
Graveler roared. Not in pain—in effort. Stone muscles bulged under his hide. He yanked his bound arm upward—and Floragato, still holding the vines, was ripped off the ground like a feather. For a moment he hung in the air, helpless, his needle-fur sticking out in all directions. His eyes, wide with shock and fury, met Graveler's small, dull eyes. Sand Veil. Around Graveler's legs, a sudden, acrid dust veil swirled up, blinding, scratching at the eyes.
"GRRRRAAAAAH!" Graveler's roar merged with the whistle of stone. He didn't just break free. He used the momentum, the power of his Rock Head, and brought his entire monstrous mass down on the still-airborne Floragato with a terrible blow—Stone Edge.
It wasn't a defeat. It was an erasure. Graveler's stone palm, his solid flesh—all concentrated into one monstrous motion. The air choked on the impact.
Floragato didn't even have time to cry out. He only felt a deafening crunch, not so much heard as felt in every bone, every cell. The world exploded in white, searing pain. He was flung across the entire clearing like a ragdoll. He slammed into the rusted side of a barrel, denting it, and crashed to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. His needle-fur flattened, turning into a pathetic, ruffled mess. The leaves of his "poncho" were crumpled, torn in one spot. The breath was knocked out of him. Black and red spots danced before his eyes. Through the pain, through the ringing in his ears, he heard:
"Floragato! No!" It was Aidan. His voice full of horror and… guilt?
But the pain wasn't the worst. The worst was the taste. The bitter, metallic taste of defeat. And the bitterness, acrid as bile, rising in his throat. "I knew. I saw. I could… I COULD HAVE!" The thought shot through the pain, sharp and clear. His plan was right. His strike would have hit the mark. But he was forced to… hold. He was ignored. His strength, his wit—used wrong. And they lost.
He tried to lift his head. Dust settled on his pink nose, stinging his eyes. Through the haze, he saw the figure of Aidan rushing towards him with a spray can in a trembling hand. He saw the farmer's smug mug. The smirks of the onlookers. And Luxio, whimpering in pain but looking at him with a silent question: "Why did we lose?"
Floragato let out a choked mew. Not from physical pain. From a pain much deeper. From the betrayal of his own instinct to obey, which led to this disgrace. He closed his eyes, hiding within them a flash of mute rage and that first, icy drop.
---
The evening light filtering through the curtain now seemed not a warm sunbeam, but a dull, dusty stripe on the floor. The house smelled of medicinal spray and… roasted roots. Aidan was trying to create coziness. But the air was heavy, thick, like syrup. Floragato sat in his corner, tucking his hind legs under him. Each breath echoed with a dull ache in his side, where Graveler's stone fist had left its bluish imprint beneath the pale-green fur. His fur lay uneven, matted, in places stuck together from the spray. The needles had flattened, but it still prickled inside – with tiny, sharp shards of humiliation.
Footsteps. Aidan was approaching. Floragato didn't raise his head. He heard the trainer first stop by Luxio. He was lying on his side, his yellow-and-black flank also bandaged.
"Good job, Lux," Aidan's voice sounded tired but warm. "You held tough. Here, have this." The crunch of a special Electric-type treat. A pleased, though pained, crackling in response.
Then – to Staravia. She sat on her perch by the window, one wing pressed unnaturally to her body.
"And you did great, Star. You took the high ground perfectly. Almost knocked out that Zubat." The rustle of a bag. The smell of dried berries. A satisfied, proud "Caw!" Staravia pecked at the treat.
Footsteps again. Now – to him. Floragato felt the fur on his nape begin to rise on its own, as if anticipating. He saw Aidan's shadow falling on his mattress. Expectation clenched into a knot under his ribs. Now. Now he'll say it. 'I'm sorry. I messed up. My command was stupid. You were right.' That would have been fair. That would have washed away some of the bitterness.
But Aidan crouched down. In his hand, he held a piece of his favorite treat – dried fish with a sea grass aroma. A smell that usually made him purr. Now it just tickled his nostrils, causing a strange nausea.
"Ah, Flori..." Aidan sighed. The sound wasn't an apology, but a tired statement. "Sorry. Today... well, you know. Just wasn't your day." He offered the treat. His hand was slightly dirty with soil. "We'll have to... We'll have to work on your Vine Whip. Hold tighter. So big guys like that can't break free. We'll train tomorrow. Properly."
The words hit harder than Graveler's stone. Not his day? The day had been perfect until that stupid command came! Hold tighter? He'd held on with all his might! But against Sturdy and Rock Head, his vine was like a thread against a steel cable! That wasn't his weakness! It was the trainer's mistake! The expectation shattered. In its place grew something sharp, prickly, burning.
His fur bristled instantly, all over his body, turning into actual armor of small, stiff needles. His leaf "poncho" puffed up with tension. He jerked his head sharply to the side, turning away from the outstretched hand. From the treat. From Aidan himself. A deep, piercing, almost screechy "MEOW!" tore from his throat. Not of pain. Not a plea. Pure, undiluted resentment and fury. "NO!"
Aidan froze. The hand with the treat hung in the air. His face flickered with bewilderment, then – irritation. Weariness and his own frustration over the defeat overpowered any attempt to understand.
"Hey!" His voice grew sharper, curt. "Floragato! Enough sulking! I said – we'll train tomorrow! You'll get your win then! Now – eat and rest. We need to lick our wounds, not get angry."
"Sulking." The final straw. His pride, already wounded to the quick, clenched into a tight, painful knot. He wasn't sulking. He had been betrayed. Betrayed by his own trainer, who couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't understand.
Floragato didn't look at Aidan anymore. He demonstratively turned his whole body, burying his nose in the corner of the mattress, away from the light, the smell of fish, this misunderstanding. He tucked his tail, wrapping it tightly around himself, creating a barrier. His needle-fur trembled with suppressed heaves of breath.
Somewhere behind him, Luxio growled disapprovingly – an electric "zzzzzt" cutting through the silence. Staravia flapped her good wing uneasily, knocking a feather off the shelf. But Floragato didn't hear them. He only heard the echo of his own thoughts, hollow and bitter: "Lick our wounds." Yes. That's exactly what he was going to do. Lick the bruises from the stones. And that huge, invisible wound left by the words:
"Just wasn't your day... We'll have to train." Lick them. Alone.
---
The moon peered through the window with a long, pale finger, laying a silver stripe on the floor. The house breathed silence. Aidan's heavy, intermittent snoring came from his bed. Luxio snuffled, curled in a ball, the yellow stripe on his side rising and falling evenly. Staravia dozed, her beak tucked under her wing, the injured feather sticking out at a helpless angle. Floragato wasn't sleeping. He lay on his back, his pink eyes wide open, absorbing the moonlight and the shadows on the ceiling. The pain in his side had quieted, replaced by a dull, aching echo. But inside, something burned. Burned quietly and fiercely.
His gaze slid to the sleeping trainer. To the one who today said "Vine Whip." Who made him hold. Aidan slept, his mouth slightly open, his face soft, defenseless. He commands, the thought cut through the silence, cold and clear as a blade. He tells me – jump. Strike. Hold. But himself… where is he? Floragato remembered the dust of the clearing, Aidan's shout, his clenched fist. But a clenched fist doesn't strike the enemy. A Pokémon does. He doesn't fight. He stands and commands. And in training, it's the same: "Run faster!", "Strike more precisely!", "Work on your vine!" As if he, Floragato, didn't know his own paws, his own flexibility, his own hidden vine.
But he knew. Today. More clearly than ever. He saw that moment. The moment between Graveler's stone segments. The vulnerability. The opening. He knew that a Magical Leaf, swift as a snake's tongue, into that gap – and the stone mountain would crumble. His paws were already preparing to leap. His mind had already traced the arc. Victory was his idea. His vision. And then – that voice. That order. Hold. And everything fell apart. Not just defeat. A stolen victory. His own thought trampled.
Does a trainer give strength? – the next spiral. A memory surfaced – heat, a wave of energy rolling through his body when he, still a Sprigatito, felt the world grow around him, his paws become stronger, a bud of power blooming in his chest. Evolution. Here. In this house. Under Aidan's guidance. Yes. But… what did Aidan do? Shouted "Train harder!"? Bought vitamins in shiny cans? But who ran until his vision darkened? Who learned to feel the vine as an extension of his own will? He. Floragato. His sweat. His pain. His will. Aidan only… pointed the direction. Like a lantern on a road you walk yourself.
A friend? – a bitter spark. A friend sees. A friend hears. A friend doesn't shout "Hold!" when you see the path to victory. A friend doesn't say "Just wasn't your day… We'll have to train," dumping his mistake on you. A friend doesn't blame you for his own deafness. In his corner, it now smelled not just of medicine, but of betrayed trust. The lie of the word "partner."
Moonlight fell on the shelf. On that very plastic trinket – the trophy cup. Next to it, badges glinted dully. Sinnoh badges. Stone. Water. Their shape, their color… They meant something to Aidan. Proof of his journey. But what did they mean for him, Floragato? Bits of metal. He couldn't wear them. Couldn't pin them to his fur. They were Aidan's trophies. His glory. Earned by his, Floragato's, strength. By his paws. His pain. His lost and won battles. Why? – the thought rang out like a bell strike. Why do I need a trainer? For him to get badges with my blood? For him to command when I see the way? For him to make mistakes, and for me to pay with pain and blame?
The air in his chest grew cold and sharp. He rose on his elbows, the fur on his nape ruffling slightly, but not into needles – more like the fur of a cat in the cold. He looked at the sleepers: at Aidan, at Luxio, at Staravia. A team? Or a cage? His mind, sharp and analytical, scanned reality. If I can see the enemy's weakness… If I know how to move, how to strike… If I know my own weaknesses better than any trainer, because it's my body, my pain!… If I can train myself, run until I drop, strike until the blow is honed…
Then… What do I need him for?
The question hung in the moonlight. Not rhetorical. Finished. With a single, clear, as-this-night-air answer.
I can live on my own.
The thought wasn't defiant. Not rebellious. It was… inevitable. Like a falling stone. Like sunrise. It arrived not with a crash, but with a quiet click, as if a circuit had closed in his mind.
I will live on my own.
---
The moon dipped towards the horizon, casting a cold milky light on the walls of the room. Aidan's snoring had turned into a steady, deep breathing. Luxio twitched in his sleep, emitting sparks that immediately died in the darkness. Staravia ruffled her feathers with a quiet rustle. Floragato stood frozen by the window. Not asleep. Not breathing, it seemed. His pink eyes, narrowed, caught every glint on the glass, every shadow outside.
Quieter than water. Lower than grass. The predator's instinct, dormant beneath his mischief, awoke now in full force. He placed a front paw on the old wooden frame. The pad, soft and springy, pressed against the rough paint. No sound. Then the second paw. His body weight, light as a feather, shifted. His claws? He couldn't retract them like a Meowth. But he knew how to place his paw so the tips barely touched the surface, distributing weight, not scratching, not creaking. His clawed fingers closed around the handle. A light press – down. Then – pull. The old wood sighed with a barely audible "squeeak"… and the gap between the frame and the sash widened, letting in the night's freshness. The smell of wet earth, distant pines, freedom.
He slipped through the gap, flexible as his own vine. Found himself on the narrow ledge outside. The night air hit his muzzle, stirred the fur of his "poncho." Below – dark bushes, a path leading away. His heart pounded louder than Graveler's steps.
He returned. A soundless shadow. To the corner. A familiar motion – his nose nudged under the edge of the mattress. There, in the hideaway, lay a treasure. A soft, battered mouse toy, once bright blue, now faded to grey. It smelled of dust and… home. He tucked it behind the sash of the cloak he hadn't yet put on. Then – to the kitchen cabinet. The bottom shelf, where supplies were kept. A deft, clawed paw hooked a small pouch of sturdy cloth. Inside – a handful of dried Oran berries. The sour-sweet, vital scent. Basic rations. He slung the pouch over his shoulder.
And there it was. The cloak.
It hung on a nail in the corner of his sleeping spot. Dark green, almost like the fur on his lower legs. Sturdy fabric, not tearing like leaves. With a hood that could hide his distinctive ears. A gift. From Paldea. From Aidan's uncle, who saw in him not just a starter, but… a person? Or just wanted to please his nephew?
Floragato took it down. The fabric was cool, slightly rough under his paw pads. He shook it, and dust motes swirled in the moonbeam. Then he threw it over his shoulders. A familiar motion – fastening the snap under his leaf "poncho." The fabric settled over them, slightly constricting, but also… embracing. Like armor? Or a shroud for his old life?
Putting it on, he felt a strange mix. Warmth – from protection against wind and damp. And a cold bitterness – from the memory of that day. Aidan, smiling, handing over the package: "Special for you, to be like a real hero!" He, then still a Sprigatito, had jumped for joy, rubbed against the trainer's leg. Trust. It had been so warm then. Now the memory burned like ice.
He pulled up the hood. The world narrowed. The sharp tips of his ears pressed against the fabric. He was concealed. Complete. Separate.
A last look. At the sleeping Aidan. At Luxio. At Staravia. At the familiar contours of the room, the shelves with trinkets, the trophy cup. No sound. Only the beat of his own heart echoing in his temples.
He turned. Approached the open window. The night met him with its cool breath. He placed a paw on the windowsill, then – on the ledge outside. A leap – light, soundless as a falling leaf. Landing in the soft earth under a bush. Pollen swirled up, tickling his nose. He didn't sneeze.
He looked back. The window gaped as a dark rectangle in the wall of the sleeping house. His house? Not anymore. A point of reference. Just a point.
I will live on my own. The thought sounded not loud, but as a confirmation of what had already happened.
A dark-green shadow in a dark-green cloak set off. Along the wall of the house. Past sleeping Miltanks behind the neighbor's fence. Towards the exit from the yard. Onto the deserted morning street, where the first bird Pokémon were beginning tentative chirps. He walked, not looking back.
---
His sleep was restless, like water in a puddle under rain. Aidan woke before the first rays of sun touched the windowsill. Not from light – from a weight on his heart. It pressed against his breastbone, a cold stone. Yesterday's defeat, Floragato's cry, his turned back in the corner… It all formed a wrong, prickly mosaic. He lay, staring at the ceiling where a crack spread like a star. "I was wrong," something inside admitted, quietly but insistently. The stupidity of the command. Deafness to what Floragato had been trying to say with his gaze, his readiness to leap. Hold. An idiotic word.
He got up, feeling stiffness in his joints, as if Graveler had hit him yesterday too. His first thought – not for the kettle. Not for food. For the corner. For Floragato. Today everything would be different. He'd apologize. Honestly. Admit: "I'm sorry, I gave a stupid command. You saw the right move. I didn't understand you." Maybe get that special Paldean food he'd saved for special occasions? Talk. For real. Like with a partner, not a tool.
He approached quietly, almost on tiptoe, trying not to wake Luxio, snuffling in the corner, or Staravia, sleeping on her perch. The corner was bathed in pre-dawn grey light. Empty. Mattress. Rumpled blanket. No one.
"Flori?" A whisper escaped his lips, muffled by incomprehension.
He bent down. His hand touched the mattress fabric. Cold. Completely. Like the ground on a frosty morning. No trace of a sleeping body's warmth. Aidan's heart clenched, skipping a beat. His eyes darted around the corner. Where was the mouse? That bluish, battered one? You could always find it under the mattress or in the folds of the blanket. Gone. Not a trace. No smell of dust from the old toy. Only emptiness.
Panic flared like a spark on dry grass. A cold wave rose from his stomach to his throat.
"Floragato?" Louder now. His voice trembled. He rushed to the closet, flung the door open – empty. Looked under his own bed, shoving aside boxes – dusty corners, forgotten things. Nothing. Under Luxio's bed? No. Behind the curtains? Empty.
"Where are you?" Almost a shout now, choked with horror. He dashed to the kitchen, glanced hastily under the table, behind the door – all in order. The whole house suddenly seemed huge, eerily quiet, like a crypt. The window. He ran to it. Closed? No. The sash was slightly ajar, barely noticeable. On the windowsill – a barely distinguishable paw print in the dust.
He left.
The word crashed down with monstrous weight. Not ran off to the garden. Not hid in a corner. Left. On purpose. Into the night. With his mouse. Without looking back.
"No…" Aidan exhaled, leaning against the wall. His hands shook. Thoughts raced: the resentment, the cloak, the empty corner, the cold blanket. "I drove him away. With my stupidity. With my reproaches."
He lunged towards Luxio, shaking him by the shoulder. The Electric Pokémon jumped up, stunned, the fur on his nape standing on end, sparks dancing over his body.
"Get up! Now!" Aidan's voice was hoarse, breaking with panic. "He's gone! Floragato left!"
Luxio blinked, not understanding. Then his nose twitched, inhaling the air. His eyes widened. The sweetish scent of grass, leaves, the unique note that was Floragato – it was gone. Only dust and the trainer's fear.
"Caw!" A piercing cry from Staravia cut the silence. She was already alert, by the window, her sharp gaze scanning the yard, the street. Alarm rang in her voice. She felt the emptiness.
Aidan grabbed his bag hastily, not looking at what he threw in. His face was pale, his eyes feverishly bright. He flung the front door open, letting in a stream of cold morning air.
"Search!" his cry escaped, trembling, full of despair. "Everywhere! He can't have gone far! Staravia – the sky! Luxio – the ground, follow the trail! Search for his scent! Grass, leaves… the cloak! Find him! NOW!"
Staravia shot into the sky with a single powerful wingbeat, raising a whirlwind of dust. Her cry – alarmed, piercing – spread over the rooftops, a call to search. Luxio shot forward, pressing his nose to the ground by the doorstep. His body tensed like a spring, his yellow-black fur bristling. He growled low, focused, and dashed down the path leading from the house, disappearing into the grey dawn haze. His senses, heightened by his master's panic, caught the faintest notes of the missing scent – the bitterish greenery, the trail of road dust, and a barely perceptible, foreign hint of cloak fabric.
---
The pre-dawn grey haze clung to house walls, fences, sleeping streetlights. Floragato moved like smoke. The dark-green cloak merged with the shadows under archways, with damp patches on brick. The hood pulled low, hiding the distinctive sharp ears, blurring his silhouette. The city was waking: a door slammed somewhere, a metal shop shutter clattered, steam hissed from a bakery vent. People. Voices. Footsteps. He pressed himself against walls, sucked in his stomach, made himself narrower, flatter. A Pokémon without a trainer – strange property, a suspicious stray, a potential problem. His pink eyes, sharp and wary, scanned every turn, every crevice.
He turned into a narrow alley between the bakery and a hardware store. Smells assaulted his nose: the sweet, intoxicating viscosity of yeast dough, the bitterness of burnt oil, the heavy scent of metal and rust. And there – a sign. Crooked, wooden, nailed above a low door. Faded letters: "Luke's Doughnuts."
Luke. Simple. Solid. A name. It hung in the air, tangible as the smell of pastries. He froze. Not from hunger. From a gnawing emptiness inside. He never had a name. He was Sprigatito. Then – Floragato. Species. Evolutionary stage. A Pokédex entry. Even those Miltanks on the farm outside town had nicknames – Snowball, Ginger, Star. They were called in the morning. That dumb Graveler yesterday – had a name. Harry. Even shortened, affectionately-dismissive – "Flori." Like a pet's name. Not a person. A thing.
Fragments of sounds surfaced in his memory, bright as flashes:
— "Ben, old buddy, how are you?" – Aidan's voice, warm, directed at his red-haired friend.
"Chris! Watch out!" – a woman's piercing scream to a boy a second before disaster.
Names. They were keys. Passes into the human world. Marks of distinction. "I am Luke." "I am Chris." "I am Buddy." Not "that Floragato." Not "Aidan's Grass-type." An "own" essence. One's own path. Independence from species, from a system's stamp, from a trainer's whim who decides who you are and what to call you.
Chris. The thought arose unexpectedly. Cleanly. Like a drop of water on a leaf after rain. Chris. It sounded… simple. Human. Not fancy. Not fearsome. Just simple. Like that boy who was called with love and fear. It held not a trace of "Flori." It was a choice. His first real choice. Not obeying an order. Not instinct. A conscious decision.
Something clicked inside. Like a lock opening to the right key. Goosebumps ran under his fur, hidden beneath the cloak. Not the needles of resentment. Something else. A feeling… of belonging to oneself.
But this feeling was soon interrupted by a wave of goosebumps down his spine. Floragato froze, his gaze slowly glazing over, and a paw ran over his muzzle, touching his pink nose and tracing to the corner of his eye.
But the sound of his rumbling stomach instantly brought him back to reality.
He was no longer Floragato from Aidan's team. He was – Chris.