Yua's Point of View
He finally went to sleep.
I sank into the couch cushions, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding all evening. The house felt different when he wasn't in my arms, it felt too quiet.
I pulled my Pokegear from my pocket and glanced at the baby monitor app. The screen showed his sleeping form in his crib. Hiding the baby cam in the left eye of the Arbok had been a stroke of genius, it was placed just right so that It could give me a full view of the entire crib without him ever noticing the camera.
And there he was.
My little Orion, curled up in the center of his crib, the blankets tucked around him. His chest rose and fell in that steady rhythm that I had memorized
I watched him for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Then I threw myself backward across the couch, my Pokegear clutched to my chest, and let out a noise that was somewhere between a scream and a squeal into a throw pillow.
MY BABY WAS MEDITATING.
I rolled onto my side, kicking my legs against the armrest, and pressed my burning face into the cushion. The Pokegear screen glowed against my chest, still showing my Orions sleeping form, still showing that perfect little face that had somehow, been meditating for four months.
Four months!
He'd been doing it since we watched that Lucario movie together. Every night before bed he would meditate for one full hour of sitting perfectly still, controlling his breathing, doing... whatever it was he was doing in that head of his.
I remembered trying to learn how to meditate when I was six. Mother had gathered me and Kai in the training hall, her voice as calm as still water, and told us we would learn to unlock our aura. I'd lasted maybe ten minutes before my legs started cramping and Kai had made it to twenty before he started complaining. Mother had just sat there, perfectly composed, watching us with those eyes that could make grown men weep.
We didn't manage to unlock our aura until we were eight. And that only happened because Mother gave us a choice: learn, or battle her. I still remembered the look on Kai's face when he realized she wasn't joking.
I would never admit this to anyone, but I was terrified of my mother.
She was one of the biggest monsters of our entire family. Not because she was cruel—she wasn't. But because she was unstoppable. Relentless. The kind of woman who could stare down a rampaging Gyarados without flinching while everyone else ran for cover.
Shoot, some Gym Leaders feared her to this day in our region.
That's why they called her the Red-Eyed Demon.
I'd seen it happen once, when I was maybe seven. A Gym Leader had come to our estate with some kind of complaint about territory or training grounds or something I didn't understand at the time. Mother had listened to him for exactly thirty seconds, then opened her eyes.
He'd taken a step back. Actually stepped back. A Gym Leader. And my mother hadn't even raised her voice.
The memory made me shiver even now.
But despite all that fear, despite all the reasons I'd run away and never looked back... I'd wanted to call her. I'd wanted to call her the moment Orion was born.
When they'd placed him in my arms for the first time, when I'd looked down at that tiny face with its shock of black hair and those purple streaks that matched my eyes, my first thought hadn't been about Bastien or the betrayal or how I was going to raise a child alone.
My first thought had been: I need to show Mother.
She would know what to do. She always knew what to do.
But I hadn't called. I'd been too scared. Too proud. Too busy convincing myself that I could do this alone, that I didn't need her, that the life I'd built away from her was enough.
And then Orion had started meditating.
I sat up abruptly, the Pokegear clutched to my chest, and started pacing the living room. My bare feet traced the same path I'd worn into the floor over the past year—from the couch to the window, from the window to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the couch.
He's too exceptional.
The thought circled in my head like a Pidgey trapped in a barn.
He can talk. In sentences. He's supposed to be saying his first words right now, maybe getting out a "mama" or "dada" if he's advanced. The book said twelve to eighteen months for first words. Two years for broken sentences.
My son had been speaking in broken sentences for months.
I stopped at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the city stretched toward the mountains in the distance, lights flickering in windows, people living their ordinary lives with their ordinary babies.
My baby wasn't ordinary.
If things kept developing like this, he would be speaking fluently by the time he was two years old. Fluently. Like a child twice his age. And the meditation, the breathing, the way he watched everything with those intense eyes that seemed to understand far more than they should...
His potential alone was beyond normal.
I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room.
Potential like that attracted attention. I knew this. I'd grown up surrounded by people who measured worth in power and lineage and the strength of one's Pokémon. If anyone found out about Orion—really found out—they wouldn't see a baby. They'd see an asset. A bloodline to cultivate. A weapon to shape.
I couldn't protect him from that alone.
I sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room. My eyes drifted to the baby monitor, to Orion's sleeping face, so peaceful and innocent. He trusted me to keep him safe. To give him the best life possible.
And if I wanted him to be the best version of himself, if I wanted him to have every opportunity this world could offer without being devoured by the Houndoom's who would inevitably come sniffing around...
I had to do what was best for his future.
Even if it meant going against my pride.
Even if it meant facing the woman I'd spent ten years running from.
I sank back onto the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. The Pokegear sat on the cushion beside me, dark and waiting.
How the hell am I supposed to talk to her after all these years?
I couldn't just call and say: Hi, Ma, how have you been? I know it's been over ten years since I ran away from home, but you're a grandma now! Also I'm a single mother because I was used by my bastard of a fiancé who left the moment I gave birth! Surprise!
She would kill me. Or worse. She'd give me that look. The one that said she was disappointed but not surprised.
I groaned and buried my face in my hands.
"Just get it over with," I muttered into my palms. "You're a grown woman. You've given birth. You've raised a child alone for over a year. You can make one phone call."
My hands dropped, and I stared at the Pokegear.
I picked it up, my fingers trembling slightly against the smooth casing. My thumb hovered over the screen, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped Pidgey. The contact was still there, after all these years. I had never deleted it. I could never bring myself to do it, no matter how many times I had told myself I was done with that life.
I told myself I needed to do this before I lost whatever speck of bravery I had left.
My thumb pressed down. The screen lit up with her name. Just her name. No photo, no little emoji, nothing that would make this feel more real than it already did. Just the stark letters that spelled out a woman I had not spoken to in over a decade.
Ring.
The sound seemed too loud in the quiet house. I glanced at the baby monitor instinctively. Orion had not moved. He was still curled in his crib, still breathing in that steady rhythm. Good. He needed his sleep.
Ring.
I should have practiced what I was going to say. I should have written something down, prepared a script for all the ways this conversation could go wrong. Instead, I was flying blind, calling the woman who could make Gym Leaders step back with nothing but a look.
Ring.
May Arceus help me.
Click.
The sound of the call connecting sent a jolt through my entire body. For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant, like something waiting to be filled.
Then her voice came through.
"Hello. Who is this?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat had closed up like I was fourteen again, caught sneaking out of the estate to watch the sunset over the mountains. Like I was seventeen, standing at the gate with a bag over my shoulder, knowing I might never come back.
I needed to say something. I needed to say anything.
"Hi, Ma." The words came out smaller than I wanted, thinner than I intended. "It is me."
The silence that followed stretched between us like a thread pulled taut. One second passed. Then two. Then five. I counted each one, my grip on the Pokegear turning white-knuckled.
Then she spoke again.
"...Yua?"
Just my name. Just two syllables. But the way she said it—like she was not sure she had heard correctly, like she was testing the shape of the word after years of not speaking it—made something crack open in my chest.
"Yes, Ma." I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "It is me. It's been a while."
The silence on the other end stretched for three agonizing heartbeats. Then—
"A while?" My mother's voice sharpened, and I could practically see her raised eyebrow, the slight tilt of her head—the same look that used to come before every lecture when I was a child. "Yua, it has been ten years. Ten years since my daughter vanished without a trace, without a word, without so much as a message to tell me she was alive."
I flinched. "I know. I—"
"Do you have any idea what that did to me?" Her words came faster now, her composure cracking just slightly. "Do you have any idea how many nights I lay awake wondering if you were dead? If something had happened to you? If I would ever see my little girl again?"
Guilt crashed into my chest like a wave. I pressed my free hand against my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Mama, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I just… after our fight, I—"
I stopped. The words tangled in my throat. The memory of that day still burned, even after all these years—the shouting, the slammed doors, the look on her face when I screamed that I would never be good enough… never strong enough… never the daughter she wanted.
"I couldn't take it anymore," I said finally, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "The stress of being your weakest daughter in the eyes of everyone. The expectations. The whispers always comparing me to you—the Red-Eyed Demon. I knew I could never be like you. I knew I would never be that strong, that powerful… that terrifying."
My voice cracked. "After our fight, it all just hit me at once. All the pressure, all the fear, all the weight of being your daughter when I knew I could never measure up. I couldn't breathe, Mama. I couldn't think. I just… left. I needed to start fresh—somewhere no one knew my name. Somewhere I could just be… me. So I went to the Kanto region for a fresh start."
Silence returned, but it felt different now. Softer. She was listening.
"So that's where you disappeared to," my mother said slowly. "Kanto."
I could hear the weight in her voice—the years of not knowing, the questions that had gone unanswered. But instead of the anger I'd braced myself for, something else crept into her tone. Something that almost sounded like... amusement?
"I need to fire some of my investigators," she muttered. "It seems they cannot do their jobs properly."
Despite everything—the guilt, the nerves, the ten years of silence—a laugh bubbled out of me. "Mama, you trained me. I can disappear when I want to. Changing my name for an alias was child's play. Plus, I made sure not to do anything that would force me into the spotlight." I paused, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Also don't fire them. I may not have been your strongest child, but I was always the sneakiest of the entire litter."
For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end. Then my mother laughed.
It was a sound I hadn't heard in over a decade—warm and surprised, I had forgotten she could laugh like that. "You always were," she admitted. "You used to give your tutors fits, disappearing into the estate gardens for hours. I'd find you tucked away in the most ridiculous places, reading or drawing or just... watching the world go by."
I remembered those days. The gardens had been my sanctuary, the only place where I didn't feel like the weakest link in a chain of warriors.
"Yua," my mother said, her voice softer now. "Listen to me. You are not the same little girl I remember. The woman I'm speaking to now... she has matured greatly. I can hear it in your voice."
My throat tightened. "Well," I managed, "a few Pokémon tides can make someone mature rather quickly, Mom."
The shift in her voice was immediate. All the warmth drained away, replaced by something sharp and alert. "Pokémon tides?" she repeated. "Yua, those are not something to be taken lightly. A single tide can kill an unprepared trainer. Multiple tides?" She paused, and I could practically see her gripping the edge of whatever surface she was near. "Are you okay? Were you hurt?"
Something warm bloomed in my chest. She still worried. After everything, she still worried.
"No, Mama." I leaned back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling. "I've become quite strong. I have six Pokémon now. Five of them are Pseudo King-ranked, and two of those are close to ranking up to King Rank." I couldn't help the pride that crept into my voice. "I've become stronger. My youngest Pokémon is in Elemental Rank, but she's growing fast."
A long exhale came through the speaker—not quite a sigh, but close. When my mother spoke again, there was something new in her voice. Respect.
"Pseudo King-ranked," she repeated slowly. "Five of them. And two on the cusp of King." She let out a low whistle. "You've been busy, little shadow."
I smiled despite myself. "I learned from watching you, Mama. You don't get strong by sitting still."
"You did." Pride radiated through her words. "You truly did."
The warmth in her voice made my eyes sting. I blinked rapidly, focusing on the baby monitor screen. Orion was still sleeping, still peaceful. My anchor.
"Mama," I said quietly, "it's been... lonely. Without you. Without my big brothers by my side." I swallowed against the lump in my throat. "But I have someone now. Someone who made all of this worth it."
The silence that followed was expectant. Curious.
"When is the wedding?" my mother asked, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
I laughed—sharp and startled. "No, Mama. That... that can't happen. Not anymore."
The silence on her end changed. Sharpened.
"Explain."
I took a deep breath. The words were harder than I expected. "My fiancé left me. In his eyes, I suppose I was just a simple trainer from a middle-class family. Not worthy of being his wife." The bitterness crept into my voice despite my best efforts. "He left me in the hospital. After I gave birth to my son. He couldn't even tell me himself—he sent a friend of mine, someone from his clan, to deliver the news."
For three heartbeats, there was nothing.
Then: "What?!"
The word cracked through the Pokegear like a whip. I pulled the device away from my ear instinctively, wincing.
"Mom, relax," I said quickly. "It's not that important—"
"Not that important?!" Her voice rose, and I could hear it now—the fury that had earned her that name, the fire that made Gym Leaders step back. "He left you in the hospital after you gave birth to his child?!"
My own anger stirred, rising to meet hers. But where hers was a blazing inferno, mine was cold. Controlled. "He is my child. That disgusting male won't claim my son as his own in this life or the next."
The snarl in my own voice surprised me. I hadn't known I could sound like that
For a long moment, my mother said nothing.
Then she chuckled.
It was a low sound, dark and satisfied. "It seems you got my protective side after all, darling." Her voice was warm now, almost fond. "You are just as feral as me. You just hide it better."
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"Now," my mother said, and I could hear her settling into something—a chair, perhaps, or the edge of her bed. Settling in for a long conversation. "I want you to tell me everything. From the beginning. And you better not leave out any details—especially about my first grandchild."
A smile spread across my face, wide and genuine.
"Alright," I said, leaning back into the couch. "I guess I'll begin by explaining what I've been doing ever since running away and building my life here in Kanto."