Six hours is a joke. I’ve done worse on less, but not with the tank this empty, and not with an unfamiliar entity circling me, who could probably bite through my wrist if I looked at her sideways.

  The first steps away from the blue-lit cave are easy. The tunnels start wide and clean, sanded by decades of mineral runoff and padded with the powder-soft dust of disintegrated crystal. For maybe a hundred metres, the air still holds some of the old charge, a faint ozone that rides the memory of N’s filtered sanctuary. But it decays fast. The blue is the first thing to go. Then the echo. Then, anything that felt like safety.

  Houndour sets the tempo, nose to the ground, her legs moving in sharp, skittering bursts. She’s not pacing me—she’s scouting for an exit I can’t see. There’s a glitch in her gait, a fraction off rhythm that gets worse the closer she is to starving. Every three or four paces, she stumbles, then catches herself, then slashes the air with a snarl so desperate it would be funny if it wasn’t aimed at the void.

  Metang floats behind us, three paces back and a metre to the right. If I slow down, it slows down. If I turn, it pivots on its axis, always fixing me with the dead weight of those two crimson lenses. The field it radiates is less like a bodyguard and more like a tracking beacon. Every molecule in my spine feels the gravity of its attention.

  I wonder if it’s bored.

  I make it five minutes before I open the link. “Metang,” I think at it, and it responds in a heartbeat—a pulse of binary through the relay, humming behind my eyes.

  “Yes, Kuro”.

  “If she jumps me—” I flick my eyes at Houndour, now actively digging at a patch of wall—“can you put her down?”

  A beat of hesitation. Then: Negative. Psychic-type abilities are categorically ineffective on Dark-type organisms. I would need to employ physical restraint. Collateral damage is likely.

  “She’d bite my hand off before you got a grip,” I say, mostly to myself. Out loud, the words fall flat in the tunnel.

  “There is a nonzero probability.”

  I let that hang. The sand under my boots shifts from powder to gravel, then to a tread of slick iron grating. Houndour hates it—her claws make a scraping, hollow whine on every step—but she powers through. If she notices my attention, she doesn’t show it.

  The tunnel is less a tunnel and more a decayed artery now. The walls pulse with condensation, fat beads of water conducting tiny shocks with every drop. Somewhere above us, the mountain is alive with turbines and rivers and a billion tons of pressure, all waiting for a reason to collapse.

  The map is in my head now. Metang flashed it through the relay as we started moving—one quick-dump of gridlines, exits, and hazard warnings, like it was pasting over my old memory with a better, sharper OS. It isn’t perfect. But Metang corrects, sometimes before I even realize I’m off course.

  An hour in, the roof gets low and the air goes to shit. The ozone is gone, replaced with a coppery, blood-metal taste that leaves a sticky film on my tongue. Houndour sneezes, once, twice, then shakes her head hard enough that it sounds like a whipcrack. The hackles down her back are full up now—every muscle on a hair-trigger. She keeps her distance from me, but there’s a new wariness to it, like she doesn’t trust herself.

  The only time she closes the gap is to veer around a trickle of electric blue water pooling in the gutter. She’s terrified of it. The first time, she leaps the puddle with a yip, lips peeled back over her gums. The second time, she tries to edge along the wall, but the static catches her tail and she yelps, tail tucked, as if the liquid itself is attacking her.

  I ask Metang: “What is it?”

  Metang’s eyes flicker, running a silent analysis. “Dissolved Tynamo”, it says, “their current discharged into the runoff from the old power grid. The effect is similar to exposed wiring. Mildly hazardous to organic tissue, but not lethal in small doses”.

  “Not lethal for me or not lethal for her?”

  “You are both organic, but you have greater mass. She may have a more acute reaction.”

  I look at the Houndour, who has started panting, tongue lolling. I can hear her pulse now—an arrhythmic, double-time tap that matches the vibration in my hands.

  After another hour, I let Metang take point. I’m not doing myself or Houndour any favors pretending I’m still coherent enough to be in charge here. Metang maps the path to the hydrostation with perfect efficiency, never second-guessing, never hesitating, even when the tunnel tries to trick us with false exits or dead ends. We pass a collapsed corridor, the air thick with the stink of ammonium and dead things. Houndour stops, hackles up, but Metang glides forward, field neutralizing the poison fog before it even touches my nose.

  I ask, “You think that N’s map is more complete than the League’s?”

  Metang floats, pausing just long enough to let the question register.

  “Affirmative”, it says. “His cartography is anomalous. I have attempted to model the source, but the logic is occluded. He was able to shield the process from even my most intrusive scans.”

  I try to picture N in these tunnels, alone, mapping each junction and dead end with nothing but a flashlight and his own sense of direction. The vision doesn't gel. N is a surface animal. He’s meant for air and blue light and the sound of an audience, not this endless, grinding tunnel.

  “He’s probably still ahead of us,” I say. “Or up above, already clear.”

  Metang doesn’t answer. I can’t tell if it agrees or if the silence is just its way of conserving bandwidth for real threats.

  Three hours. Four hours.

  Every step is a diminishing return. The hunger is a low, dirty ache, but the thirst is exponential. My mouth tastes like pennies and old paper. I keep catching my tongue between my teeth to see if I’ll draw blood—just for the moisture—but I can’t make myself do it. Metang has no concept of dehydration. It doesn’t drink, doesn’t sweat, doesn’t care if the air is water or dust. Houndour, though, is slowing down. Her legs drag on the grating. She slips once, claws splayed, then pushes up and snarls, blaming the tunnel for her own collapse.

  I want to pet her. I want to say, “It’s okay, you’re just tired.” But my own legs are shaking, and if I bend down, I’ll never get up again.

  At hour five, I hallucinate food. Not the taste. The memory.

  It’s a cheap vending machine in a Driftveil warehouse, a shelf of cold cans with four different flavors of nutrient paste. Each can is sealed under a label so thin you can’t grip it with wet fingers. I remember sitting there, back against the machine, looking at a man and his partner Pokemon, that same brown coat, and gaudy purple tie. I can’t see his face though, it is muddled somewhere between a fever dream and dehydration hallucinations.

  The memory fades and the hunger slams back, uglier than before. My stomach’s been empty for three days, but now it’s a void, an angry red warning light at the edge of my vision.

  I ask Metang, “How much further?”

  “Less than a kilometre, but rough”, it says. Its field is the only steady thing in the world now. Metang slows, matches my pace, so I can keep up without showing weakness.

  I stumble. Not a big one—just a shuffle-step, foot catching on the raised edge of the grating—but it costs me. The weight of the air triples, and my arms go numb, and the next thing I know, I’m on my knees, hands on the metal, breathing so loud I’m sure the whole mountain can hear. Houndour is suddenly there, six inches from my face. Her mouth is open, her breath hot and fetid, and her eyes are wide enough to show the whites all around.

  Stolen story; please report.

  She doesn’t attack. She doesn’t even growl. She just stares, nose quivering, and waits.

  I push up, hands trembling, and wipe the spit off my lip. Houndour pulls back, but keeps her eyes locked on me. I try to smile, but I don’t know if it works.

  Metang hovers, silent, the world’s worst nurse. If it has any commentary, it keeps it to itself.

  We walk the last stretch in a trance. The tunnel tightens, the ceiling closing in to just above my head. The grating vanishes, replaced by a slick, pitted cement that smells of mold and brake fluid. The walls sweat, the beads running together and dripping in a slow, rhythmic tick.

  The sound changes, too. The silence is replaced by a low, constant hum—a sound that gets louder, and denser, the closer we get to the end.

  At first, I think it’s in my head. That my own pulse has finally gone to brown noise and is drowning out everything but the urge to lay down and die. But the hum gets stronger, until it’s a physical pressure in my chest, a shudder that threatens to collapse my ribs every time I breathe.

  The hydrostation is at the end of this. N’s map says so, and the pressure in the air confirms it.

  The last tunnel opens into a vertical shaft, four meters across and maybe thirty meters tall, with a spiral staircase bolted to the wall. The metal stairs are covered in moss the handrail slick with condensation and old rust. At the bottom of the shaft is a black river, moving so fast the surface is a blur. The water here isn’t blue or silver; it’s the color of motor oil, flecked with bits of something organic.

  Across the river is the station.

  It’s a three-story block of raw, pitted concrete, perched on a shelf of rebar and rock. The only windows are slits, covered with wire mesh, and the only door is a rusted slab of metal at the end of a narrow catwalk. The whole building is lit by a line of sodium bulbs, each one a dull, orange halo that does nothing to illuminate the edges. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and right now, it looks like the inside of heaven.

  We cross the catwalk, Houndour leading, every muscle shaking. Metang goes last, making the metal vibrate with every movement.

  At the door, I lean in and press my ear against the slab. The hum of the turbines is louder here, a constant roar that makes my teeth hurt. I try the handle. It turns, but the door doesn’t open.

  Metang?

  The field surges. The hinges whine. The door pops open with a wet, sucking sound, and a blast of freezing, stale air. Inside, it’s colder than I expect. Not the clean, hypoxic cold of the tunnels, but a wet, sticky chill that leeches through my jacket and burrows into the marrow. The first step on the concrete is a shock—my feet feel like they’re stepping into a bath of dead nerves. It’s just a slab room, low ceiling, the only light from an overhead strip running at half-power, so everything is orange and sick.

  The Houndour doesn't cross the threshold. She hovers in the doorway, head low, the whites of her eyes bright in the sodium light. Every time I look up, she looks away. But she won’t leave.

  Metang floats in after me, taking up a third of the room. Its claws brush the ceiling, trailing webs of condensation that glisten for a second before evaporating. If it has a preference for comfort, it doesn't show it. I imagine it would hang out in a pit full of broken glass and smile, if it could that is.

  The room is empty, at least of people. There are three doors: one to the left, marked as "Mechanical," a steel slab with a sticker warning of magnetic fields; one to the right, a lighter door labeled "Admin/Office" in faded stenciling; and a third at the far end, barred, maybe an emergency exit. No cameras in here, just a single, blacked-out lens above the inner door.

  I don’t hesitate. I make for the admin room. The handle is cold, but it turns. The door’s not even locked, but something heavy leans on the other side, so it grinds open only a handsbreadth before jamming.

  I look at Metang, then at the seam of the door, then back at Metang.

  "Get it open?" I ask, and the words taste like static on my tongue.

  Metang’s field surges. It doesn't bother with precision—it slams the door at full force. The noise is a body blow, even through my dehydration haze. There’s a crunch of plastic and a screech of old hinges, then the door swings open and cracks the wall behind it, splintering the plaster. I stumble forward.

  The admin office is a time capsule. The only light comes from a pair of ancient, dust-clogged tubes overhead, and every surface is covered in a greasy, gray film. The first thing I see is a row of industrial terminals—old models, squat and ugly, all painted a flat army green. The screens are off, but the keys are shiny from years of use, and the corners of every desk are chipped down to the metal. The room stinks of mold and machine oil, but behind that is the sharp, plastic sting of something artificial—food, maybe, or chemical cleaner.

  My brain does the rest. It’s the kitchen. There’s a kitchenette at the back wall. The fridge is a battered cube, taped shut at the edges, and the microwave is missing its door, but the shelves above are packed. Not food, but supplies—powdered mixes, sealed packets, even a couple of dented cans. My stomach cramps so hard I almost double over.

  I go for the shelves. My hands are shaking so bad I can’t read the labels, but I don’t care. I find a plastic tub with the word "Electrolyte" in big, blocky type. I twist the lid and dump a handful of blue powder into my mouth. The taste is a punch—salt and fake berry, gritty, but it melts on my tongue and instantly I can feel my jaw unclench.

  There’s a case of water bottles under the lowest shelf. Each bottle is labeled "DISTILLED" in red letters, and they’re sealed, heavy. I pull one free, crack the cap, and drink half in a single go. It hurts going down, but I keep going.

  At the counter, a drawer of plastic spoons. I take one, dig into the next plastic tub—this one marked "Nutrient Paste—Savoury/Unflavoured"—and shovel two spoonfuls into my mouth. It’s bland, but oily, and instantly coats my throat. The cramps in my gut go from nuclear to merely bad.

  Behind me, I hear the Houndour pacing at the doorway. She won’t come in. Not for food, not for anything.

  I pour another bottle of water into a paper cup and set it at the door. She ignores it, but keeps staring.

  I look at Metang. Its eyes track me, then the hound, then me again.

  "She’s not going to last," I say. The effort of talking makes my head spin. "If I try to force her to eat this,” Waving a paste packet, “she might bite off my face."

  Metang doesn’t move. Its ‘voice’, when it comes, is tinny and flat. "She requires protein. Stronger than the paste."

  I nod. I check every cupboard. The first two are empty. The third is packed with cleaning supplies, a brick of old rags, and a box of cans of something I can’t identify. I pull them out, squint at the label: "Wild caught Basculin in Wellspring Water." No expiry. I pop the lid with the back of a spoon. The smell is strong, fishy, but not spoiled. I dump the can into a plastic bowl, then another, then another, until the bowl is full of meat and spring water.

  I slide the bowl to the threshold.

  The Houndour hesitates. She comes forward an inch, then another, growling low in her throat. The fur along her spine bristles, the bone ridges on her head like knives.

  "It’s not poison," I say. "You want to live, eat."

  She bares her teeth, but the hunger wins. She snaps up the bowl and retreats to the far corner of the entry hall. She eats with quick, savage bites, never letting her eyes leave me. Every time she chews, her tail beats the wall, thump-thump-thump.

  I can’t blame her. I’d do the same.

  Metang floats between us, field a little brighter now that the tension has dropped. It hovers by the main terminal, lens fixed on the screen. After a moment, it powers the thing up. The display is garbage—just scrolling diagnostics, blocks of code, meaningless warnings—but Metang doesn’t care. It scans the screen, soaking in whatever it can.

  I take another bottle of water, drink until I want to puke, then slouch against the cold plastic of the kitchenette counter. In the quiet, I notice the space. Every inch is built for function—no comfort, no softness, just the hard edges of survival. The only colour is the green flicker of the screens and the orange light from the hall. There’s a clock above the fridge, but it’s dead, the hands locked at 1:12.

  I set the third bottle of water next to my thigh. My hands are steadying now, but my head is swimming. I pop the next can, dump it into a second bowl, and spoon out a bite for myself.

  It’s fishy. Not good, not bad. Just food.

  I eat until the cramp in my stomach becomes a warmth, then a dull, stubborn throb. I finish the bowl, toss the empty into the bin, then slide to the floor. My head rests against the counter. I close my eyes.

  Metang speaks again. "Do you require medical attention?"

  I shake my head, then regret it. "Just need to—rest. Five minutes."

  A long pause. Then: "I will monitor the perimeter."

  The words are a comfort. I let myself fade, just a little.

  I hear the Houndour finish her bowl, then come closer, claws scratching the concrete, the growl replaced by a heavy, wary breathing. She stops at the door, waiting.

  I keep my eyes closed, listen to the hum of the machines, the slow, building heat in my gut, and finally, I feel the edge of collapse drift away, even if it only lasts five minutes. When I rouse, Houndour is asleep, curled in the corner, the empty bowl between her front paws. Metang hovers, silent, its field a quiet pulse in the static of the room.

  I open another bottle, sip it slow, look at the Poké Balls on my belt: two, red and waiting. Luna and Muse, still in stasis. I pop Luna’s, and thumb the release. She materializes in a shimmer, eyes huge, fur spiked from static and the fatigue of the last few days. Her first instinct is to bolt—she hunches, braced for impact—but when she registers the kitchen, the warmth, the smell of food, her whole body sags.

  I reach out slow, hands open. “Hey, Luna. It’s okay.”

  She doesn’t run. She doesn’t even flinch. She pads forward, nose working the air, then plants herself at my foot, as always. I want to laugh, but my throat catches. She’s so small, even now, but there’s a weight to her that grounds me. I pick her up—she’s heavier than I remember, dense with old muscle and new hunger—and set her at the edge of the little table bolted to the wall. There’s a single, battered chair, but she’s tall enough to sit on the tabletop, front paws gripping the edge for leverage.

  I fill a bowl with water, slide it across. She ignores it. Her eyes track the open bottle in my hand, and when I offer it, she latches on, gingerly tipping the neck to her mouth and gulping it down. It’s ridiculous, but I feel something inside me uncurl. I try to set the bottle down, but she keeps drinking, both paws wrapped around it like a kid with a soda.

  I turn back to the counter, grab another can of Basculin, and pry it open. I spoon the meat into a bowl, not even bothering to drain the water. Luna watches every move, her eyes sharp but not desperate. I set the bowl down. She takes a careful sniff, then goes to work. This time, she eats slow, savoring every bite.

  I watch her for a moment. She glances up, meets my gaze, then goes back to eating.

  Next is Muse. I pull the Lotad’s ball off my belt and aim it at the floor, thumb the button. He pops into being with a splash of light and a faint, familiar burble. He looks around, confused, then locks eyes with Luna and me.

  He shuffles forward, pads sticking to the linoleum. I kneel, set a hand beside him, and he climbs up, settling into the crook of my arm like he’s done it a thousand times. He smells like mud and algae, but under that is the clean scent of the water in the cave. I hold him for a minute. He doesn’t wriggle, just rests there, warm and solid.

  After a while, I set him on the table next to Luna. He looks at the Basculin, makes a face, and turns to the bowl of water. He dunks his whole leaf in, then lifts it, drops of water streaming down. He hums, a low, content sound.

  I glance at Metang, who’s still watching the door.

  “Is there anything here for him?” I ask.

  Metang’s answer is instant: “There is moss on the outer wall. Low in toxin. Place in sink with water. He will extract nutrients.”

  I nod, stand, and wander to the outer room. The wall near the door is slick with a greenish, velvety moss. I scrape a handful, bring it back, and dump it in the kitchen sink. I fill the sink with water, swish it around, then set Muse on the rim.

  He bobs, dunks his leaf again, then slides into the basin with a splash. He settles in, the moss clinging to his leaf and the water turning cloudy as he does his thing. He sings a little, a sound that fills the room with an odd, peaceful resonance.

  I take stock of what’s left: Luna, eating and drinking, Muse in the sink, Metang holding the perimeter, Houndour asleep and full for the first time since the market. For a minute, everything is still.

  I raid the cupboards for anything else: ten bottles of water, a pack of super potion wound sprays, wrapped in plastic; three bandages in sterile wrappers; a roll of gauze; a dozen more cans of Basculin; a box of emergency nutrient paste; and a bag of berry-flavored electrolyte gel shots. I stack it all on the counter, inventorying every item like it’s going to matter.

  It probably will.

  I sit at the table, eating my own bowl of paste and Basculin mix, one slow spoonful at a time, and watch the team. Luna finishes her bowl, then licks the rim clean. She looks up at me, her expression soft and—if I didn’t know better—thankful. Muse floats, making slow circuits in the sink, eyes half-closed. Even the Houndour is still, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep, unguarded sleep. When the bowls are empty and the water is gone, I set my head down on the table. The edge digs into my forehead, but I let myself rest.

  We made it.