Chapter 1: The Laziest Prince and the Weight of History
Sinbad Mar was having an excellent dream about doing absolutely nothing when reality decided to ruin it.
"Sinbad! What happened in the World Alliance Calendar Year 1792?"
Mr. Ruskin's voice cracked across the classroom like a Thunderbolt through dead air. Thirty pairs of eyes snapped toward the back row where the 12th Prince of Haiti sat slumped against the sun-warmed wall, drool pooling on his folded arms.
Sinbad did not move.
He was too busy dreaming about a beach chair, cold drinks, and a life blessedly free of historical dates, political obligations, and people who expected things from him.
Mr. Ruskin—Pokémon professor, historical pedant, and man whose patience had worn thinner than his hairline—stood rigid behind his lectern. Colegio Brisamar Royal Academy prided itself on being the jewel of Caribbean education. The locals called it the pressure cooker where nobles learned to stab each other politely.
The professor's knuckles whitened around a piece of chalk.
He wound up.
He threw.
The chalk sailed through humid classroom air in a perfect arc, spinning end over end toward Sinbad's oblivious skull—
Flick.
Sinbad's hand moved in his sleep, fingers batting the projectile back with the casual precision of someone swatting a mosquito. The chalk rebounded, bounced off Mr. Ruskin's forehead with a hollow tok, and clattered to the floor.
Several students choked on suppressed laughter.
Mr. Ruskin's eye twitched.
He breathed in. He breathed out. He reminded himself that assaulting royalty—even bottom-tier, twelfth-in-line, Mar-family royalty—was still a criminal offense punishable by imprisonment, public humiliation, and loss of pension.
It's not worth jail to beat up the slacker.
"Candi," Mr. Ruskin said through clenched teeth. "Please answer the question."
Candi Marson sat three rows ahead, posture perfect, notes organized, red jacket draped over the back of her chair. She was everything Sinbad wasn't: engaged, competent, awake. Her toned arms—courtesy of the cheerleading team—flexed slightly as she flipped through her notes.
"World Alliance Calendar Year 1792," she began smoothly, "marked the Russian Alliance's attempted expansion into the Caribbean theater. They deployed the legendary Pokémon Articuno alongside a full naval battle group to seize control of regional trade routes and Outer Realm access points."
Mr. Ruskin nodded, mollified. "Continue."
Candi's voice took on the practiced cadence of someone who'd memorized this section thoroughly. "The Haitian Fleet, under the command of then-General Adéwalé Kenway, resisted for months across multiple island chains. The conflict culminated in the Battle of Port-au-Prince, where King Jarc fell in combat against Articuno. General Kenway immediately engaged both the legendary Pokémon and its trainer, killing the Russian commander and capturing the Beast of Ruin, Chien-Pao, before it could be deployed as reinforcement."
She paused, glancing at her notes.
"The battle marked the first major collapse of Russian expansion in the Caribbean and secured Haiti's continued membership in the World Alliance."
"Correct." Mr. Ruskin's gaze drifted back toward Sinbad, who remained blissfully unconscious. "Though some of us," he added pointedly, "seem to believe history is optional."
Candi followed his stare and muttered under her breath, "Unbelievable."
Mr. Ruskin turned back to the holo-slate mounted behind his lectern. "Since Prince Mar has elected to skip today's lesson, let's review the engagement in detail. Pay attention. This will be on your final exams."
He tapped the slate.
The classroom lights dimmed as the projection system hummed to life, casting flickering blue light across the students' faces. Historical footage—grainy, stabilized by modern AI reconstruction—began to play.
World Alliance Calendar Year 1792
The Caribbean Theater
Salt spray hammered steel hulls as storm clouds rolled low across the horizon. Radar pings and Pokémon cries overlapped in chaotic layers, battle stations alive with tension that never slept.
The Russian Alliance had been grinding through the Caribbean islands for months. Supply routes burned. Ports vanished overnight under orbital bombardments and legendary-class engagements that cracked coral reefs and rearranged coastlines. The Bear Alliance wanted control of the Outer Realms—dimensional pockets bleeding advanced technology and creatures called Pokémon into Earth's reality. Whoever controlled the Realms controlled the future.
Haiti stood in their way.
The Haitian Fleet had been holding the line for sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks of running battles, emergency evacuations, and watching islands disappear under ice storms that shouldn't exist in tropical waters. Articuno, the Winter Bird, brought unnatural cold wherever it flew. Entire fleets had frozen mid-maneuver, crews dying in their bunks as hypothermia set in faster than heating systems could compensate.
Then King Jarc fell.
The footage showed it in brutal clarity: the king's flagship engulfed in a blizzard so dense it turned radar into static, the massive silhouette of Articuno descending through the storm like a frozen god. Energy readings spiked off the scale. The ship's shields collapsed. Ice spread across the hull in seconds, metal shrieking as it contracted and shattered.
King Jarc went down fighting.
His Pokémon—veteran combat units that had survived a dozen campaigns—were flash-frozen mid-attack, their Poké Balls cracking from thermal shock. The king himself lasted thirty seconds longer than he should have, firing a plasma sidearm until the cold seized his muscles and his heart stopped.
The Russian commander stood on Articuno's back, arms raised in triumph.
He had five seconds to enjoy it.
A blur of motion tore through the ice storm—Adéwalé Kenway, riding a Pokémon moving too fast for the cameras to track clearly. He didn't slow down. Didn't call a challenge. Didn't waste time on honor or protocol.
He just killed the man.
One moment the Russian commander was celebrating. The next, Adéwalé's blade—a cutlass reinforced with Aura-conductive alloys—had opened his throat. Blood sprayed across Articuno's frozen feathers, steaming in the subzero air.
Articuno shrieked.
The legendary Pokémon turned on Adéwalé with the fury of a demigod, ice and wind condensing into a killing storm. The footage became a chaotic blur of motion—Adéwalé's Pokémon engaging in close quarters, elemental attacks colliding with enough force to generate shockwaves visible on satellite feeds.
Articuno was injured. Badly. It had been fighting for hours, burning through stamina reserves that even legendaries couldn't sustain indefinitely. Adéwalé pressed the advantage with ruthless efficiency, rotating his team to exploit every opening, every moment of hesitation.
The Winter Bird fell.
Not dead—legendaries didn't die easily—but broken enough to retreat, vanishing into the storm with a final defiant cry.
Adéwalé didn't chase it.
He turned toward the second Russian flagship, where another containment field glowed ominously. The Russians had brought a backup: Chien-Pao, the Beast of Ruin, a creature of malice and frozen hatred that could collapse entire ecosystems if released improperly.
Adéwalé reached it first.
The footage showed him boarding the enemy ship alone, cutting through security teams with the same brutal efficiency he'd used on their commander. By the time Russian reinforcements arrived, Chien-Pao's containment unit was already locked in Haitian custody, and Adéwalé was gone.
The Russian fleet broke.
Without their commander, without their legendaries, without the morale to keep fighting, they scattered. Some ships surrendered. Others fled. A few tried to fight and were destroyed.
The Battle of Port-au-Prince was over.
Haiti had won.
Barely.
The holo-slate flickered as the footage transitioned to the aftermath. Mr. Ruskin's voice cut through the silence.
"General Kenway was crowned King Adéwalé Kenway three days later. The Russian Alliance withdrew from the Caribbean entirely within the year. Questions?"
A student raised her hand. "How many ships did Haiti lose?"
"Twenty dreadnoughts. Twelve carriers. Thirty-four thousand casualties." Mr. Ruskin's expression was grim. "Victory is expensive."
In the back row, Sinbad snored softly.
Port-au-Prince Naval Base
War Room, Hours After the Battle
Adéwalé Kenway stood in the war room and felt the weight of a crown he hadn't wanted.
His uniform still carried scorch marks and frozen fractures along the armored seams. His knuckles bore healing scars where ice had bitten through reinforcement plating. One of his Pokémon's Poké Balls showed visible microfractures, emergency repairs barely holding the shell together.
Victory had not come cheap.
Fleet Admiral Edward Nassu entered the room and saluted. "Your Majesty."
The title still felt wrong. Three days ago, Edward had been his comrade, his student, someone he could joke with over bad coffee and worse rations. Now there was a wall between them built from protocol and necessity.
Adéwalé gestured toward the tactical table. "Report."
Edward activated the holo-display. Blue light spilled across the scarred metal, forming rotating silhouettes of ships, troop counts, and containment sigils.
"We lost twenty dreadnoughts and twelve carriers in the battle. Thirty-four thousand men reported missing or dead. We've secured six enemy carriers intact, three damaged dreadnoughts, and approximately eight thousand Russian personnel surrendered after their command structure collapsed."
Icons flared amber across the display.
"We recovered over twelve thousand standard Poké Balls, military-grade capsules, and thirty-seven high-value Pokémon assets. Two pseudo-legendaries, multiple elite battalion-class combat units, and…" Edward hesitated. "The legendary-class specimen."
Even through layers of shielding, the temperature in the room dipped.
Chien-Pao remained sealed beneath Port-au-Prince's naval citadel in a triple-layer containment prism. Psychic suppressors, Aura anchors, and dimensional locks formed a lattice designed by three different allied nations. No one trusted a single system with something that could erase cities.
Adéwalé studied the projection silently. "Combat-ready personnel?"
"Eighty-three thousand across all fleets and island garrisons. Another forty-two thousand wounded but expected to return within three weeks."
"Carriers?"
"Eight fully operational. Four undergoing reconstruction. Two are total losses."
Adéwalé's fingers tapped the table once. "Pokémon units?"
"Seven hundred fifty units still combat-ready."
A unit could contain anywhere from one thousand to twelve thousand Pokémon depending on classification and deployment structure. The numbers sounded impressive until you remembered how many they'd started with.
"Supply lines?"
"Ammunition reserves at sixty-one percent. Food shipments remain vulnerable through the Windward routes."
Adéwalé absorbed the numbers without visible reaction. They'd won. They'd survived. But the Russian Alliance wouldn't accept this defeat quietly.
"That will be all, Edward."
Edward straightened. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The holo-display dimmed. Officers dispersed back to their stations. The war room emptied with the low hum of machinery and distant echoes of alarms bleeding through steel bulkheads.
The war did not pause.
But the briefing did.
The Next Morning
The bugle's cry tore through the humid dawn like a blade dragged across bone.
Sleep vanished instantly. Crews poured from barracks and med bays, half-armored sailors fastening harnesses while running, mechanics vaulting tool crates, trainers yanking open Poké Ball racks with hands still shaking from yesterday's battle.
Radar alarms howled.
A wall of red contacts bloomed across command screens, spreading from the eastern horizon like a spreading infection. Fast movers. Heavy signatures. Energy spikes large enough to warp weather patterns.
The Russian Alliance had returned.
Orbital rail slugs screamed in first, punching into the water kilometers out and erupting in geysers high enough to blot out the rising sun. Pressure waves slammed into hulls like invisible fists. Shock dampeners groaned. Fighter wings launched in dense swarms, contrails carving jagged scars through low clouds.
Then the monsters arrived.
Massive silhouettes breached the surface in rolling explosions of displaced seawater—armored leviathans dragging sonar towers and broken coral across their backs. Electrical arcs danced along spined fins. Superheated steam vented from glowing scales. Every movement generated shockwaves that smashed into escort vessels.
Haitian artillery answered immediately.
Heavy plasma cannons thundered from carrier decks, beams punching molten scars across thick hides. Missile swarms streaked low before detonating against exposed joints. Trainers unleashed their own living artillery—towering elemental beasts surging forward in disciplined formations, walls of flame colliding with glacial shock fronts.
The battlefield became layered hell.
One carrier took a direct hit, the explosion tearing the vessel open like a peeled shell. Aircraft and fuel tanks ignited simultaneously. Emergency shields flared before collapsing. Burning hull fragments rained into the surrounding water.
A massive enemy beast lunged through the smoke, jaws wide enough to swallow a gunship. Before it could fire, synchronized elemental beams tore into its skull from three angles, liquefying armored bone. The creature collapsed in a cascading avalanche of burning flesh, its corpse slamming into the ocean hard enough to generate a wave that nearly capsized two destroyers.
Adéwalé stood on his flagship's forward command deck, tactical visor scrolling endless targeting data. Orders flowed through his command channel in overlapping layers.
"Rotate the third carrier group behind the shield wall. Deploy reserve aerial squads into corridor seven. Keep pressure on their heavy units. Do not let them anchor."
A nearby explosion rocked the flagship. Through the armored viewport, a massive enemy unit slammed into a Haitian cruiser, its mass crushing armor plating inward. Defensive Pokémon swarmed the breach, elemental detonations rippling across the hull.
Adéwalé's hand closed around the Ultra Ball at his belt.
"Out."
Light detonated outward as his lead Pokémon manifested, immediately projecting a defensive field that stabilized local turbulence. Adéwalé vaulted onto the deployment rail and launched himself forward, landing cleanly onto the energy field as the battle raged around him.
His second and third Poké Balls followed in rapid sequence.
"Mega Evolution."
The command snapped through his neural interface. The responding aura surge detonated outward in a violent cascade, his partner Pokémon's silhouette warping and hardening as amplified power flooded its systems. The Mega form stabilized, immediately accelerating into high-velocity assault patterns that carved a path directly through enemy ranks.
Enemy units attempted to intercept.
They were erased.
Adéwalé chained commands fluidly, rotating shield reinforcement between strikes while his supporting Pokémon unleashed synchronized barrages. A Dynamax-class enemy lunged into the corridor, its massive form blotting out visibility. Adéwalé triggered a stored Z-Move sequence mid-charge. The accumulated energy discharged in a blinding explosion that punched straight through the creature's core, collapsing its containment field.
Blood and superheated vapor rolled outward in expanding shock rings.
The flagship's sensors lit up with cascading kill confirmations. The enemy's forward coordination grid destabilized. Haitian formations surged forward, exploiting the opening with disciplined aggression.
The Russian push buckled.
Not retreat. Not surrender.
Collapse.
Their formation fractured under compounded losses. Heavy units disengaged violently, leaving rear elements exposed. The battlefield slowly stabilized into controlled chaos, fires still burning across damaged hulls while recovery teams moved into extraction lanes.
Adéwalé returned to the flagship platform with armor scorched and energy residue crackling across his equipment. He did not celebrate. He watched the tactical grid settle into survivable margins and allowed himself one controlled exhale.
The Bear Alliance had been bloodied.
But the war was far from finished.
Back in the Classroom
Candi's voice cut cleanly through the lingering silence as the holo-slate dimmed.
"And that battle marked the first major collapse of Russian expansion in the Caribbean. King Adéwalé's direct intervention broke their momentum and forced a strategic withdrawal. The capture of Chien-Pao shifted the regional power balance and secured Haiti's continued position within the World Alliance."
Mr. Ruskin nodded slowly. "Correct."
Several students murmured among themselves, caught by the sheer scale of destruction and legendary involvement.
Sinbad remained asleep.
Completely.
Utterly.
Unimpressed by history, war, and geopolitical consequences.
Candi glanced toward the back row and spotted him still drooling on his folded arms.
"Unbelievable," she muttered.
Port-au-Prince, Hidden Mansion
The structure sat hidden deep within the mango groves like a smug secret the jungle refused to give up. Thick branches wrapped around polished stone balconies and reinforced glass walls, leaves forming natural camouflage that broke aerial scans and visual tracking. From above, it looked like nothing more than an unusually aggressive tree.
Inside, sunlight filtered through layered canopy windows and scattered across marble floors and hanging vines. The place felt surreal—too clean, too expensive, too alive for something that technically shouldn't exist.
Sinbad Mar had stopped asking questions about this life a long time ago.
He sprawled across an oversized couch in the main living room, one arm draped over his eyes, the other dangling toward the floor where a half-empty glass of mango juice sat precariously balanced on the edge of a side table.
Dying a virgin and having to spin multiple wheels of reincarnation just to appear in some ultra-realistic version of a Pokémon world had burned through his capacity for surprise early. After working himself to the bone in his previous life—climbing corporate ladders, chasing promotions that never quite materialized, sacrificing sleep and sanity for spreadsheets and quarterly reports—he'd discovered that none of it bought happiness, peace, or even a decent death scene.
He'd died alone in a shitty apartment at thirty-seven, heart attack triggered by stress and energy drinks, body not discovered for three days.
No family at his bedside. No lover holding his hand. No children to mourn him. Just a landlord annoyed about the smell and back rent.
So when whatever cosmic bureaucracy handled reincarnation offered him a second chance, Sinbad had made a firm executive decision:
This life? Easy mode.
He was a prince now. Not a CEO. Not a corporate war slave. A literal prince in an actual country. If destiny wanted him to relax, he was going to lean into that invitation like it owed him interest.
Granted, his family situation hadn't changed much.
Back on Earth, his Haitian roots were poor—church-run, barely scraping by, faith and community holding things together with duct tape and prayer. Here it was similar, especially on his father's side. Noble blood didn't magically translate into luxury when you sat near the bottom of the inheritance ladder.
His mother, Jennifer Kenway, was part of the royal family, but she wasn't a trainer and had zero interest in becoming one. No ambition for glory. No hunger for money or political power. His father wasn't much different, preferring quiet administration work and staying far away from the battlefield politics that chewed nobles into statistics.
Still, being born a prince came with one unavoidable rite of passage.
At sixteen, every royal heir officially inherited the right—and obligation—to become a Pokémon Trainer.
Originally, Sinbad would've said absolutely the hell fuck not and lived lazily while expanding his bloodline with a wife or two.
Hey.
He'd died a fucking virgin last time.
He fully intended to correct that cosmic injustice in this life and actually have a family instead of dying surrounded by spreadsheets and regret.
Unfortunately, destiny had different opinions.
Sinbad's gaze drifted toward the reinforced case sitting on the coffee table like an unexploded bomb.
Three weeks ago, a letter had arrived. No return address. No postal markings. Just his name written in elegant script on expensive paper that smelled faintly of ozone and something else—something that made his hindbrain scream danger in a language older than words.
The letter's contents were simple:
Sinbad Mar,
You will become a Pokémon Trainer.
Refusal is not an option.
Your life is forfeit otherwise.
The tools you need are enclosed.
Do not disappoint me.
No signature. No explanation. Just existential blackmail delivered with the casual confidence of someone who could absolutely follow through on the threat.
Sinbad had spent the first day after receiving it trying to figure out who sent it. Family? Unlikely—they didn't have the resources or the balls. Political rivals? Possible, but the letter's tone felt wrong for that. Some secret organization? Maybe, but why target a bottom-tier prince with no influence?
He'd spent the second day trying to find loopholes. Could he technically become a trainer but never actually train? Just catch one Pokémon and let it rot in storage? The letter's phrasing suggested that wouldn't fly, but maybe—
He'd spent the third day accepting reality.
Someone—something—with enough power to bypass royal security, deliver untraceable mail, and credibly threaten his life wanted him to become a trainer.
And they'd sent him the tools to do it.
Sinbad sat up slowly and stared at the case.
It was heavy. Military-grade construction. Reinforced corners. Biometric locks keyed to his DNA. Inside, according to the included manifest, were Weathergy catalysts—eighteen different types, one for each elemental classification.
He'd done his research after that.
Weathergy wasn't just "weather effects." It was systematic environmental warfare. In the games he'd played in his previous life, weather was a nice bonus—rain boosted Water moves, sun boosted Fire moves, whatever. Neat but manageable.
Here?
Here, Weathergy could turn a small squad into a regional threat or erase cities if misused.
Smooth Rock extended sandstorms from five turns to eight. Heat Rock did the same for harsh sunlight. Damp Rock for rain. Icy Rock for hail. But that was just the beginning. There were dozens of variants now—terrain extenders, weather amplifiers, hybrid catalysts that could stack effects in ways that broke conventional battle theory.
Used correctly, a trainer with proper Weathergy support could hold off entire battalions.
Used incorrectly, they could accidentally trigger ecological collapse.
And someone had just handed Sinbad eighteen of them.
"Next time I meet that fat motherfucker," Sinbad muttered, "somebody's catching hands."
He stood and walked over to the case, fingers drumming against its surface.
The smart play—the safe play—would be to become a trainer as minimally as possible. Catch something cheap and easy to maintain. Do the bare minimum to satisfy whatever cosmic asshole was watching. Avoid attention. Avoid danger. Avoid becoming another statistic in the meat grinder that was competitive Pokémon training.
Sinbad had done the math more than once.
Starter Pokémon from a licensed Day Care ran sixty to eighty thousand currency units for something with decent potential. That was just the entry fee. Then you factored in items, berries, medical supplies, training equipment, rental battlefields, transport permits, insurance premiums, and the endless diet regime Pokémon required just to stay healthy while growing stronger.
Most people went broke training two Pokémon. Three if they were reckless. Four if they were either rich, insane, or sponsored by something that didn't care about human survival rates.
Elite trainers didn't raise teams.
They raised ecosystems.
Every evolution stone was priced like a luxury watch. TMs fluctuated like stock markets. Rare berries were auctioned like fine art. Healing compounds for high-output Pokémon cost more than rent in three cities combined.
And that wasn't even touching battlefield damage repairs, Poké Ball replacements, or emergency medical extraction fees when something went wrong and your monster tried to eat a tank.
Sinbad wanted comfort. Food. Air conditioning. A decent bed. Time to sleep in. Maybe a girlfriend or two. A peaceful, low-effort existence that didn't involve getting vaporized by some overachieving twelve-year-old with a god complex and a Legendary rental contract.
So he'd formulated a strategy.
Bug types.
Bug types were cheap. Bug types evolved fast. Bug types didn't eat like industrial furnaces. Bug types didn't require exotic minerals, solar reactors, or emotional therapy after every battle.
Most importantly, Bug types snowballed early.
Fast growth. Fast power curve. Low overhead. Perfect for someone who wanted results without bleeding money or lifespan.
Sinbad had spent the last two weeks researching optimal Bug-type candidates. Scyther evolved into Scizor with a Metal Coat—expensive but manageable. Heracross had excellent attack stats and required minimal investment. Durant was underrated and thrived in urban environments.
He'd made spreadsheets. Calculated costs. Mapped out training schedules that maximized efficiency while minimizing effort.
It was perfect.
It was foolproof.
It was exactly the kind of min-maxed strategy that would let him coast through this obligation and get back to his comfortable, lazy life.
Sinbad took a deep breath and popped the latches on the case.
The seals disengaged with a soft pneumatic hiss, pressure equalizing as the lid lifted slowly. Cold mist spilled out first, thin and faintly shimmering with suspended energy particles.
Inside sat a compact bio-cradle padded with adaptive gel and stabilization rings.
Something shifted.
A small aquatic creature floated lazily within the containment field—sleek blue body curved like a living ribbon, pale fins drifting gently as if suspended in invisible current. A thin tail extended behind it, ending in a small metallic hook-like structure capped with a red nodal bead that pulsed softly with low energy.
Its eyes were large, bright, and alert, watching Sinbad with quiet curiosity.
It didn't look dangerous.
Which immediately made Sinbad suspicious.
A laminated data card slid free from the inner casing and hovered upright, projected text scrolling across its surface.
POKÉMON IDENTIFICATION CARD
Species: Lurish
Classification: Tether Fish Pokémon
Type: Water / Steel
Growth Tier: Pseudo-Legendary Line
Ability: Huge Power
Secondary Ability: Tempted Steal (Contact moves deal no damage but raise Defense by one stage.)
Hidden Ability: Mega Launcher
Temperament Profile:
Carnivorous foragers. Natural prey includes insects, worms, crustaceans, small fish, and progressively larger aquatic organisms as growth advances. Displays high curiosity, environmental intelligence, and strong imprinting behavior toward consistent handlers.
Habitat Range:
• Ocean depths exceeding 1,006 meters (3,301 ft)
• Polar and iced waters
• Submerged tunnel systems, abyssal trench networks, flooded megastructures
Biological & Physiological Notes:
Lurish possess flexible aquatic physiology capable of operating in both freshwater and saltwater environments under extreme depth pressure. Skeletal musculature and tail-hook structures are specialized for prolonged deep-sea foraging, high-speed tethering maneuvers, and rapid vector changes during pursuit or evasion.
Oxygen retention is stored primarily within slow-twitch muscle fibers, enabling extended endurance cycles and sustained maneuverability without frequent surfacing. Elevated myoglobin density supports deep-dive oxygen efficiency and pressure tolerance.
A dense subdermal blubber layer measuring approximately 50–100 mm (2.0–3.9 in) constitutes roughly one-third of total body mass and provides thermal insulation against hypothermic environments.
Male Lurish typically reach sexual maturity between 12–20 years of age, attaining lengths of up to 2.5 meters (8.2 ft) in mature forms.
Sinbad stared at the floating card.
Then at the fish.
Then back at the card.
Water/Steel type.
Pseudo-legendary line.
Huge Power ability.
Will grow to 2.5 meters.
Carnivorous.
Deep-sea apex predator.
Everything—everything—about this Pokémon was the exact opposite of his careful, calculated, min-maxed strategy.
Bug types were supposed to be cheap.
This thing would eat like a small navy.
Bug types were supposed to evolve fast.
Pseudo-legendaries took years to reach full potential.
Bug types were supposed to be low-maintenance.
This thing required specialized aquatic habitats, temperature-controlled environments, and a diet that probably cost more than his monthly stipend.
Sinbad looked at Lurish.
Lurish looked back, curious and innocent.
Somewhere in the universe, a fat motherfucker was laughing.
"...FUCK!"