Yua point of view
.
.
.
I could hear her exhale, the sound of someone deliberately reining themselves in. "Fine. Fine. Start with the important things then."
I grinned, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "Well, Mama, first things first—Orion is the cutest baby in all of the regions, and I won't hear anything that says otherwise."
"Hmph." I could practically see her raising one eyebrow, that familiar look of challenge she'd worn my entire childhood. "I'll be the judge of that, little shadow. You forget—I've seen a lot of babies in my time. And I have very high standards."
I laughed softly, already reaching for my Pokegear's image gallery. "Oh, I'm not worried. Once you see him, you'll agree with me immediately." I paused, a thought occurring to me. "Actually... Mama, does your ancient Pokegear even take images? Or am I going to have to describe him to you like we're living in the dark ages?"
"Ancient?!" Her voice pitched upward with mock offense. "You brat, mine will still work for one hundred more years!! Now send me the images before I reach through this call and smack you."
Still grinning, I navigated to the folder I kept hidden away—the one filled with nothing but Orion. I scrolled through dozens of images, trying to choose the best ones, before finally settling on three.
One click. Two. Three.
The first was him sitting on the carpet in his dark Litleo onesie, the little ears on the hood framing his face perfectly. Both chubby hands were wrapped around his Pyroar plush like it was the most precious treasure in the world, his red eyes wide and bright and so genuinely delighted that the image practically glowed. His black hair with those purple streaks was slightly messy, sticking up in a few places, and his tiny mouth was open in the biggest smile his little face could manage.
(Image here)
The second was almost the same setting, same onesie, same Pyroar plush—but this time he had both hands raised up like tiny little paws, his mouth open wide in what I could only describe as his attempt at a roar. He looked so deadly serious about it that it was almost painful how adorable he was.
(Image here)
The third was him in his Gyarados onesie, the blue hood framing his face, holding both his Dratini and Gabite plushies with that same intense red-eyed focus, his little mouth open in pure excitement.
(Image here)
For a long moment after the images sent, there was nothing but silence.
Then—
"OH MY ARCEUS, YUA."
I pulled the Pokegear away from my ear at the volume.
"WHAT THE FUCK?! HOW CAN HE BE SO FUCKING CUTE?!"
I blinked, genuinely taken aback. I'd expected her to be pleased. I hadn't expected... this. My mother never swore. Well, rarely. And never with this much enthusiasm.
"AND HE HAS MY EYES!" Her voice cracked on the words. "YUA, HE HAS MY EYES! I FINALLY HAVE A FAMILY MEMBER THAT HAS MY EYE COLOR!"
I felt a sweat drop forming at my temple. I mean, yes, his eyes were beautiful—that deep, striking red that matched my mother's exactly, the same shade that had earned her the name Red-Eyed Demon. But was it really this exciting? She had plenty of family members. Dozens of cousins, distant relatives, people who shared her blood. None of them had inherited her eye color, apparently, but still...
I shook my head, deciding not to question it.
"Did you feed him fairy dust?!" my mother continued, her voice reaching pitches I didn't know she could hit. "He looks like a little prince that fell from the stars themselves!! This amount of cuteness should be unfair, Yua! UNFAIR!"
I clapped my free hand over my mouth, stifling the laugh that threatened to escape. The last thing I needed was to wake Orion up and have him come toddling out here in the middle of this conversation. He was a light sleeper—I'd learned that the hard way.
"Mama," I whispered, still laughing behind my hand. "Mama, calm down."
"I will not calm down! I am looking at my grandson for the first time! Being calm is not an option!"
I shook my head, smiling so wide my cheeks ached. "Alright, alright. So what's your judgment, Mother? Am I right or am I right?"
A long pause. Then, in a voice thick with reluctant surrender: "...Fine. You were right."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that—"
"You heard me, brat." But there was no bite to it. Only warmth. Only wonder. "He is the cutest little cub I have ever seen. In all my years. In all the regions I have visited. This child should be illegal."
I heard movement on her end—the shuffle of fabric, the click of claws on floor. Then her voice, directed away from the speaker: "Vulcan! Come here! Look!"
More shuffling. A low rumble that seemed curious, questioning.
"Look," my mother repeated, and I could hear her holding out her Pokegear, could picture Vulcan's massive head tilting as he studied the screen. "This is my grandson, My daughter's cub. Isn't he perfect?"
The sound that came through next made my heart clench.
Vulcan cooed.
My mother's voice returned, softer now. "He agrees with me, by the way. He says your cub is acceptable."
"Acceptable?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's high praise from him."
"It is." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Now Tell me everything about my grandbaby. I want to know it all—what he likes, what he doesn't like, his first word, his first steps, everything. Start from the beginning and don't you dare leave anything out."
I laughed softly, shifting on the couch to get more comfortable. The baby monitor sat on the cushion beside me, and I glanced at it reflexively—Orion was still sleeping, curled in his crib like a little Snorlax. Good. This conversation might take a while.
"Alright, Mama. Where to begin..." I tucked my feet under me, thinking. "Well, first of all—Orion is special. I know every mother says that about their child, but I mean it. He's different."
"Different how?" Her voice sharpened with interest.
"He's so attentive to his surroundings. Always watching, always observing. Even when he was just a few weeks old, his eyes would follow movement across the room. He'd track Pokémon on the television screen like he understood what he was seeing." I paused, remembering. "And he's smart, Mama. Scarily smart. His comprehension is way beyond what the books say is normal for a thirty-month-old."
My mother made a thoughtful sound. "Go on."
"He's also the clingiest baby in existence," I continued, smiling at the memory. "And I love it, Mama. I love every second of it. He follows me around the entire house—never leaves my side. At first I thought it was just normal baby attachment, but it's more than that. He just... wants to be near me. All the time. And honestly? After everything with Bastien, having someone who wants to be around me that much... it means everything."
"That's not a bad thing, darling." Her voice softened. "I remember you clinging to your father like glue when you were small. You'd follow him everywhere—into his study, into the gardens, even into the training grounds. He used to say you were his little shadow."
I laughed, the memory warming something in my chest. "You're right. I suppose I can't complain too much." I glanced at the baby monitor again. "Plus, I turned it into a game. I heard from other mothers and read in those baby books that the more a baby moves, the stronger they'll be in the future. So I started walking through the house, calling for him to follow me. And he would—crawling, then later toddling, after me with this determined little face, so focused on catching up."
I smiled at the memory. "It was fun seeing him try so hard. And honestly? It helped me get through those long days when I was exhausted and alone. His little determined expression made everything better."
"Sounds like he has quite the spirit," my mother said approvingly. "Determined and focused. Those are good traits to have, especially in our family."
"He really does," I agreed, warmth blooming in my chest. "And he's not just determined, Mama. He's smart. Genuinely, frighteningly smart. The kind of smart that makes you stop and stare sometimes."
Her interest sharpened immediately. I could hear it in the way her breathing changed, that subtle shift that meant she was leaning in. "Smart how?"
I smiled, deciding to lead into it slowly. "Well, before I get to that... Mama, how old was I when I said my first words?"
A pause. Then a soft sound, almost like a chuckle.
"About a year and thirteen months, if I remember correctly." Her voice warmed with the memory.
"You said 'dada,' and your father moved so fast I thought a Rapidash had somehow gotten loose inside the estate. I nearly had a heart attack from the noise alone."
I laughed, the sound escaping before I could contain it.
"He did not stop bragging about it for weeks," she continued, and I could hear the fondness layered beneath the exasperation. "He was absolutely insufferable. All of your brothers had said mama first, every single one of them, and your father had been convinced the universe was conspiring against him. Then you came along and said dada and suddenly he was the most victorious man in all the regions."
The image of my father's face—bright and triumphant and so desperately pleased with himself—surfaced from somewhere I'd kept locked away for a long time. My throat tightened slightly, but the smile stayed.
"That sounds exactly like him," I said softly.
"It was exactly him," she agreed. A beat of quiet passed between us, tender and unspoken. Then: "Why do you ask, darling?"
I straightened on the couch, and I couldn't stop the pride from flooding into my voice even if I'd tried. "Because my little Orion said mama on his first birthday."
Silence.
Complete, total silence.
"Mama?"
"...On his first birthday?" she repeated slowly. "As in, the day he turned one year old."
"Yes." I was grinning now, and I didn't bother hiding it.
My mother's silence stretched out for so long I checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"Mama? You still there?"
"I'm here." Her voice came out strange—breathless, almost. "Yua, do you understand what you're telling me? A child speaking on their first birthday isn't just advanced. That's practically unheard of!!!"
I smiled proudly, warmth flooding through my chest. "Then I guess my little Orion is special, Mama. After all he's my little genius!"
There was another pause. When my mother spoke again, I could hear the wheels turning behind her words. "That's... Yua, that's remarkable. Truly remarkable."
"And that's not even the best part," I continued, the words tumbling out now. I couldn't help it—I'd been holding all of this in for so long, that I have been desperate to share it with someone who would understand what it meant. "He's already talking to me in broken sentences, Mama. Full thoughts, just missing a word here or there. And by the looks of it, once he turns two years old, he'll be speaking normally!!!"
Silence.
Then—
"If this is true, Yua, then he isn't just special." My mother's voice had shifted into something I rarely heard from her—genuine, unfiltered excitement. "He's extraordinary! My grandbaby is a genius!"
I laughed at her enthusiasm, relief washing through me. She believed me. She actually believed me.
"He may even be a psychic!" she continued, her words rushing together. "That's the only thing that explains such fast development! The mental capabilities required for that kind of linguistic progression....Yua, this is massive. This is absolutely massive!" She paused, and I could hear her gathering herself. "Is there anything else? Anything at all that he's done that's out of the ordinary?"
I hesitated when she asked that specific question.
The pause stretched just a moment too long it seems since mom noticed.
"Yua." My mother's voice sharpened with immediate suspicion. "What aren't you telling me?"
I bit my lip nervously, this conversation was about to get... slightly complicated.
"Yeah," I admitted slowly. "There are two things I have not told you yet, actually."
"Two?" Her voice pitched upward. "Tell me everything please."
"Well the first thing you should know..." I started to pull up the images I sent to her again subconsciously, studying my little cubs face, his big red eyes were so bright and so focused on his little Pyroar. "The pictures where he's holding his Pyroar plush? The ones I sent you? There's a story behind those."
"Oh?" I could hear her leaning in, could picture her settling deeper into whatever chair she'd claimed. "Well, don't leave me hanging, darling. What happened?"
I smiled at the memory, despite the strangeness of it. "About two weeks ago, I decided to spoil him a little. Nothing too extravagant—just his first set of plushies. I sat him in my lap, pulled up the PokéPrime website on my computer, and let him choose from the options."
"Go on."
"Well, it turns out my baby loves dragon-type Pokémon. He pointed at a Dragonite immediately, then a Garchomp—and Mama, you should have seen his face when he saw that Garchomp. He practically glowed. He said—" I laughed, remembering. "He said 'strong' and looked so excited I thought he might vibrate right off my lap."
My mother chuckled softly. "A boy after my own heart. Dragon-type bonds have always run just as deep as our connection with Pyroar. Most families don't understand it—how we can love the fire and the sky in equal measure. But it's always been our way."
"I bought him the full evolution lines for both," I continued. "Dratini and Dragonair, Gible and Gabite. He was so happy, Mama."
"That's lovely, Yua, but I don't see how this connects to—"
"I'm getting there." I took a breath. "After I added those to the cart, we kept scrolling. And that's when I reached the Pyroar section."
I paused, remembering the moment. The way Orion had gone completely still in my lap. The way his breathing had changed—slowed, deepened, like he was seeing something I couldn't see.
"He froze, Mama. The moment the Pyroar image appeared on the screen, he froze. And I got confused because I knew that was the first time he'd ever seen a Pyroar. We'd never watched anything with one. I'd never shown him pictures. He shouldn't have known what it was or that it even existed."
My mother said nothing, but I could hear her breathing.
"He was like he was in a trance," I continued quietly. "He just stared at that image, and then he whispered two words."
"What words?"
"'Strong.'" I swallowed. "'And loyal.'"
The silence on the other end was different now. Some how it felt heavier.
"Mama? Mama, are you—"
"I'm here." Her voice had dropped, lost some of its warmth. "Yua, do you know what you're describing to me right now?"
"I... I think so?"
"There are only a handful of recorded cases in our family's history," she said slowly, each word careful and measured, "of someone being called by our family's Pokémon. Truly called. Not just liking them at first glance, but... recognizing them. On sight. Like something in our blood recognizing thier future partner."
I gripped my Pokegear tighter. "I didn't know that."
"Most don't. It's rare, Yua. Exceptionally rare. I've only heard of it happening three times in our entire bloodline. And every single time..." She trailed off.
"Every single time what?"
"Every single time, that child grew to be something extraordinary." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "Something the world wasn't ready for."
I sat in the weight of her words for a moment, letting them settle around me like a mantle I wasn't sure I was ready to wear.
"Mama," I said quietly. "That's not even the most shocking part."
"By Arceus and the Legendary's," she breathed. "There's more?"
"The most shocking thing he's done started four months ago after we watched the Lucario movie together."
"The new one? The one about the Tree of Beginning?"
"Yes. I liked how accurate it was—the portrayal of aura, the meditation, all of it. But it seems my baby decided he wanted to be strong just like the Lucario from the movie." I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Because now? Now he meditates every night. For an entire hour before bed, heck I could not even believe it the first time I saw him do it!!!"
My mother made a small sound—not quite a word, not quite a gasp.
"He had trouble at first," I continued. "Getting the breathing right, finding the right posture. But after a few days of him stubbornly trying over and over, he got it. He figured it out. And now he sits there, Mama, for sixty full minutes, perfectly still, perfectly calm, like he's been doing it his whole life."
I paused, letting that sink in.
"I couldn't even sit still for an hour like that when I was six years old. And he's doing it at one and a half."
The silence that followed my statement was absolute.
"Mama?" I ventured after a long moment. "Mama, say something. You're scaring me."
"I..." She stopped. Started again. "I don't... Yua, I don't even have any words."
I waited.
"If what you're saying is true—and I believe you, I do—then his potential..." She let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "His potential is high, Yua. And I mean high. This isn't just a gifted child you are describing to me, or a normal prodigy. This is something else entirely."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.
"Heck," she continued, her voice gaining strength, "if what you're saying is true, his affinity for our family's Pokémon line eclipses anything I've heard of in our currant generation and the ones before including mine. And that's not a small thing to eclipse."
The line went quiet again, but this silence was different. Intentional. When she spoke next, her tone had shifted completely—serious in a way that made my spine straighten automatically.
"Yua. I have decided."
My stomach dropped. I knew that tone. That was the tone she used when something was no longer up for discussion.
"Once Orion turns two years old, I am sending the family jet to pick you both up. If everything you've told me is true—and I have no reason to doubt you—then that child needs protection. He needs resources. He needs every possible advantage to become the best version of himself." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice softened into something I had never heard from her before. Something almost shy. Almost small. "And I want to spoil my grandbaby, Yua. I've missed a year and a half already. I'm not missing another moment more than I have to."
Something cracked open in my chest.
Because that was the thing about my mother—she had never been soft. Not once in all the years I had known her. She was steel and strategy and silence that cut deeper than any word could. And yet here she was, across an ocean and ten years of distance, asking for her grandchild like she was asking for something she wasn't sure she deserved.
Maybe she wasn't sure she did.
Maybe neither was I.
I laughed—a real laugh, warm and watery and maybe a little bit relieved. The tears were still wet on my cheeks, but somehow they didn't feel so heavy anymore.
"Okay, Mama," I said softly.
I glanced at the baby monitor on the nightstand. At Orion's peaceful face. His steady breathing. His small hands curled loosely around nothing at all—still so new to the world, still so unbothered by everything it had already tried to take from him.
Ten years, I had kept my distance. Ten years of silence and survival and telling myself it was better this way. That she was better without the mess of me. That I was better without the weight of who she expected me to be.
And maybe some of that had been true.
But Orion changed things. Orion changed everything.
"We'll come home."
The words felt strange in my mouth. Foreign. Like a language I had once spoken fluently and slowly forgotten. But underneath the strangeness, underneath all the years and the grief and the careful walls I had built around myself—
They felt like the truest thing I had said in a very long time.