The first five hundred metres are a hard reset for the senses. The tunnel is a shaft of jagged, dark rock, veined with glowing blue crystal and clusters of floating, magnetic stones. Metang drifts just ahead, its heavy metal arms tucked in, while its eyes scan the dark on parallel tracks. The only sound is the rhythmic hum of the cave’s electricity and the crunch of my boots on the thick, blue-tinted sand.

  Houndour runs interference. She sniffs every crack in the wall, every patch of discolored gravel, bouncing ahead in stutter-steps, then doubling back to check if I’m still there. She’s not trained for this. She’s a living contradiction: teeth bred for violence, brain built for the perimeter of a backyard. Every time she gets more than ten metres ahead, she pivots on a dime and sprints back, tail wagging so hard it could probably propel her into flight.

  It would almost be funny if it weren’t so sad.

  Metang keeps a tight, gliding formation, never more than two metres from my right side. Its field gives off a pressure I can’t explain—like an elevator starting up, or the instant before a storm hits, that sudden heaviness in the air. It doesn’t bother me, but it keeps the walls from closing in.

  I let it stay silent for the first leg. I owe it that much. We’ve never been the talkative pair, Metang and me. So far, its been about function: I point, it executes. But there’s something gnawing at me, a hollow spot I can’t ignore.

  We make a turn into a collapsed access shaft, the ground squishy with biofilm and some kind of fungal mat. My boot hits a soft spot and the stench rolls up around my shins like an accusation. Houndour starts dry-heaving, her whole body convulsing like a piston, but she doesn’t puke—just glares at the puddle and keeps moving. Metang floats over the worst of it, perfectly level.

  After a kilometre of sludge, the tunnel opens up. The ceiling lifts and the walls are carved with patterns—old contractor graffiti, the kind of marks you leave when you don’t expect anyone to ever come back. The lines loop and spiral, some in ink, some in the scorched, glassy aftermath of a laser cutter. There’s a story here, but it’s in a language I’ve never bothered to learn.

  I clear my throat. The echo is sharp.

  “Metang,” I say.

  It stops on a dime, not a sound from its joints. It rotates in the air, both eyes settling on me.

  “Yes, Kuro?”

  The voice is new. Not new-new, but new since it went through its Beldum-to-Metang molting. Before, it was just a raw electric itch at the base of my skull; now it’s doubled, a stereo effect that makes my brain want to pull apart at the seams. The words are correct, the inflection is neutral, but there’s a weird undercurrent to it. Not metallic. Just precise.

  I shuffle closer. “You ever get tired of it?”

  “Tired of what?”

  “Running,” I say. “Every time we come up for air, the world just... starts hunting us again. It’s like a joke with the punchline cut out.”

  Metang’s field shifts, and a scattering of dust on the wall shivers in response. “I do not experience fatigue as you do,” it says. “But I am aware of the feedback loop. The environment is hostile. The pattern is non-random.”

  I let out a breath. “Do you ever think about just quitting?”

  Metang processes this for a long time. Its eyes flick left, then right, running the data before it answers.

  “No,” it says. “Quitting is statistically more lethal.”

  I bark a laugh, loud enough to make Houndour skid and turn, eyes wide.

  “That’s fair,” I say. I slide down the wall, wincing as a rivulet of something cold soaks through my pants. “But what about... I don’t know. Something else. You ever think about what you’d be if you didn’t have to do this?”

  Metang floats closer, its heavy metallic body tilting. It doesn't just watch me; it tracks the pulse in my neck, the heat of my breath. It feels less like a teammate and more like a mountain leaning in.

  "Our function is to hold," the voice resonates in my skull, a dual-layered weight. "You are the centre of the field. What is outside does not matter."

  "That’s not what I mean." I rub my face, feel the stubble scraping under my palm. "Forget me. Pretend you just... exist. What would you want to do?"

  The crimson in its eyes doesn't flicker like a screen; it glows like a furnace.

  "There is no 'want,'" it says, the voice in my head grinding like stone on stone. "Before the white rooms, we claimed the high crags. We crushed the air out of anything that drifted into our pull. Now, the pull is you."

  I look at it’s massive, sharp claws. "So that’s it? You’d just keep hunting? Guarding me forever?"

  "You are our territory, Kuro," it says, drifting an inch closer. The cold pressure of its magnetic aura washes over me, heavy enough to make my lungs work harder. "To lose you is to be halved. We would grind the world to dust until the field was whole again or until all resources are depleted."

  It doesn’t sound sad. It doesn’t sound anything. But there’s something about the way it says “until resources are depleted” that makes my chest go tight.

  Houndour yips. She’s found something—an old strip of insulation, maybe, or a bit of dead Patrat. She brings it over and drops it at my feet, wagging and looking up like she expects a treat. I pat her head. She jumps, not used to the contact, but then sits down hard, tail thumping.

  Metang watches all of this, silent.

  “Okay,” I say, “my turn.”

  Metang’s field ripples, an acknowledgment.

  “I think,” I say, and it’s weird to even admit this, “I think I always wanted to just... rest. Not forever. Just a little while. Somewhere nobody wants to kill us, and the food isn’t poison, and it’s not all just putting out fires until something finally gets us.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Metang hovers, unspeaking, for several seconds.

  “There is a location,” it says finally. “A scenario. Not with zero probability, but extremely low. The variable is trust.”

  “Trust?” I snort. “In what, the world?”

  “In others,” it says. “In the existence of a safe zone.”

  I lean back, let my head rest against the chill of the stone. “Yeah. Well. Not a lot of that going around.”

  Metang glides over, so close the tips of its claws could slice open my jacket. “The probability of reaching a safe zone increases with allied units,” it says, voice dropping to a lower resonance. “You are less effective in isolation.”

  I look at the Houndour, at the way she sits—alert, but never at ease. I think of Luna and Muse, sleeping in their capsules. I think of N, running headlong into the dark, searching for a world that fits his ideals.

  “Metang,” I say, “if we get out of this—if we find that safe spot—I want to see what you do with a day off.”

  Its claws twitch. The field hums. “I do not know what that would look like,” it admits.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say. “That’s the job, right?”

  Metang’s eyes flicker. “Yes, Kuro.”

  Houndour paces a circle around us, then settles at my feet, gnawing her insulation strip with a focus that borders on religious. I close my eyes, let the tension drain out. There’s a strange peace in this—just being, for a minute. I’m not naive enough to think it’ll last, but I take it. I stand, dust myself off. Houndour perks up, ready. Metang drifts a little closer, almost as if to catch me if I fall. We move on.

  The next part of the tunnel is a nightmare, tight and canted, lined with a mesh that snags at my clothes and skin. Every step is a gamble—will the floor hold, or will it drop us into the black? Metang maps the way ahead, its eyes switching to infrared, the light dim but functional. It calls out the hazards, never more than three words at a time.

  “Drop. Left. Seventeen centimetres.”

  “Sharp. Acid. Avoid.”

  “Bio. Hostile. Likelihood low.”

  At the second junction, I stop again, more out of breath than I want to admit. Houndour is panting, tongue lolling. She nudges my hand with her nose, insistent.

  “Metang,” I say, “can you tell if Luna or Muse are okay in their balls?”

  Metang’s eyes flicker. “They are stable. Heart rates in normal range. Stasis effect is effective for up to four days without adverse outcome.”

  “Good,” I say. “Can you tell me if anything changes?”

  “Yes, Kuro.”

  I look at the Houndour. Her eyes are wide and a little too bright.

  “You hungry, girl?”

  She tilts her head, makes a sound that is halfway between a whine and a bark. Metang processes this.

  “Estimated caloric deficit is high. Subject is domesticated; may not tolerate raw protein.”

  I laugh. “Not built for this, are you?” I scratch her behind the ear. She tolerates it for half a second, then pulls away, like she remembers she’s not supposed to like it. We keep moving. It takes another hour before the tunnel shifts. The air grows colder, the stone underfoot slick with something that isn’t water. Houndour slows, nose to the ground. Metang moves ahead, then stops.

  “Obstacle,” it says. “Live magnetic signature detected. It is moving.”

  I hesitate. “How big?”

  “Comparable to my own mass. Class: Mineral. Species: Nosepass.”

  I exhale, slow. “Hostile?”

  “Unknown. It is not approaching, but the field is strong. It may be territorial.”

  Houndour is already moving forward, her hackles up, teeth bared but not snarling. Metang glides to the front of the formation, claws out. I let them take point. I’m not an idiot.

  We hit the bend, and there it is: a Nosepass, wedged in the wall like a misplaced boulder, its nose twitching as it tracks us. The thing is ancient—half its body is covered in mineral growth, crystals of salt and iron flaking off with every move. Its eye is blank, but it’s definitely not asleep.

  Metang hovers, field tight. The two Pokémon face off, the air vibrating.

  “Metang,” I say quietly. “You hungry?”

  The claws twitch. “Affirmative,” it says.

  “Do what you need to do.”

  The next thirty seconds are a lesson in violence. Metang snaps forward, field amplified to the point where my teeth hurt. The Nosepass tries to repel, but it’s outclassed; Metang’s claws dig in, twisting the rock until it fractures with a crack loud enough to make Houndour yelp.

  The Nosepass spasms, then collapses, its internal magnetics bleeding into the air like a radio dying. Metang’s eyes pulse; it holds the body in place, then pulls the shattered mineral mass into itself, one clawful at a time. I turn away, more out of respect than disgust.

  Houndour watches, not with fear, but with a kind of weird awe. When Metang finishes, it turns to me, field a little brighter, eyes a little clearer.

  “Thank you,” it says.

  I nod. “Don’t mention it.”

  We keep moving until the ache in my legs is the only thing I can feel. The air is thinning, sharp and dry as we ascend. Every instinct says we are burrowing deeper, but the constant incline of the blue sand confirms the climb.

  The silence is broken by Metang forcing its mass into the narrow tunnel. It lacks grace. Its magnetic field lurches against the walls, and the electric crystals respond with violent, high-pitched snaps. Every time its steel chassis brushes the rock, a web of static jumps across its hull, illuminating the dark in blue strobes. It is a foreign object, grinding the earth to a fine powder.

  The rock pulls back into a shallow pocket of air and static. Metang stops, its drift slowing until it hovers inches off the sand.

  “Five-minute stasis,” it says, “Oxygen saturation is low.”

  The urgency is not in the words, but in the way its magnetic field tightens around me. The air thickens. Metang is physically holding the space. It feels the hitch in my chest through the link. I slide down the wall. My back hits the cold, vibrating stone. The blue sand pools around my boots. Above us, the crystals are dense, pulsing with a rhythm that matches the throb in my temples. Every breath tastes of copper and the static..

  The Houndour collapses at my feet. Her ribcage works fast. She stays quiet, eyes fixed on the mouth of the tunnel we just exited. Her ears swivel to catch the sound of snapping crystals echoing behind us. Metang does not look at us. It turns toward the path ahead, eyes two red flares in the blue haze. It is not resting; it is marking the boundary of the hollow.

  I rest a hand on the Houndour’s flank. Her heat is a sharp contrast to the cave’s chill. She doesn't lean in, but she doesn't pull away. We are three heartbeats in a dead space, waiting for the air to catch up. The Houndour begins panting. She tries to lick condensation off the wall, but the moisture is tainted with a bitter, slick byproduct—old oil from the corridor's machinery. She slumps back next to me, tail tucked, eyes on my hands.

  I pop the top on my canteen. The water inside is less than a finger’s width, the rest lost in the last twelve hours of running and coughing. I swish it, then tip it back. It’s warm, and it tastes like the inside of a circuit breaker, but it goes down easy. Houndour watches every move, her ears perked and trembling. I pour three drops into my palm and hold it out. She licks it clean, then presses her nose into the hollow of my hand, desperate for more.

  “Sorry, girl,” I say. She whines, a small, guttural sound that echoes off the tunnel walls.

  Metang floats behind us, silent and motionless. It stares down the tunnel, processing every sound and vibration. I can almost feel it recalibrating, searching for threats, for anything that might help us get out faster.

  I lean back, let my head thump against the wall, and close my eyes. The after-image of the Nosepass murder is still bright in my skull, the sound of the stone cracking, the way the dust and mineral splinters drifted into the air like snow. I should be more disturbed, but all I feel is envy. At least Metang knows how to take care of itself.

  My own stomach has started to knot. The last thing real thing I ate was that Double-Stack Tauros burger from the Raging Bull Grill, days ago. N tried to force sustenance—crushing an Oran berry against my gumline in the middle of a fever, but that did little to fill my stomach. Now I can feel the acid gnawing through my insides, a slow, ugly burn that makes it hard to focus on anything else.

  I flick open Luna’s capsule. She materializes at my feet, blinking up at me with huge, round eyes. She looks thin, her fur patchy and stained from the weeks running, but she holds herself together. I reach out and scratch her behind the ear. She leans into it, then presses her head into my thigh, purring low in her throat.

  Muse is next. He pops onto the damp stone, shakes himself like a wet towel, then pads over and settles between Luna and the wall. He’s sluggish, his leaf a shade paler than it should be.

  Houndour watches them, but doesn’t move. She’s not part of this family, not really. She wants something—maybe food, maybe just a place in the line. She doesn’t know how to ask.

  I run my hand over the empty cases on my belt. We’re out of resources.

  “Metang,” I say. “Any ideas?”

  Metang glides forward, lowering its body until its face is level with mine. “There are two options,” it says, no hesitation. “One: reach the exit in less than twelve hours. This will require high exertion, and caloric deficits may cause severe reduction in performance.”

  “Not ideal,” I say. “What’s two?”

  “Two: divert course,” Metang says. “There is a hydro station two-point-six kilometres east. The probability of potable water is high. Probability of edible biomatter: low. However, local fauna may be utilized as an emergency food source.”

  I look at the map flickering in my mind. The station is a blip in the opposite direction of the Mistralton exit. We aren't on the League’s maintained transit tunnels; we’re in the gut of the mountain where the path is a series of jagged, winding fractures.

  “How long?” I ask.

  “Six hours at current pace,” Metang responds. “The topography is unstable. Several corridors have been minimally surveyed.”

  I look down at the team. Luna is dozing, curled in a tight ball in my lap. Muse is humming, a sound so soft I have to strain to hear it. Houndour hasn’t taken her eyes off me.

  “What about them?” I ask.

  Metang’s field hums, a low-frequency vibration that feels almost apologetic. “Luna and Muse can survive up to forty-eight hours in stasis with current reserves. The Houndour is at higher risk. Behavioral models suggest increasing aggression if caloric intake is not restored.”

  I look at the Houndour. Luna barely ate while I was under, and the lake was barren—no algae for Muse to scavenge. They’ve been out of their balls for most of the last three days. The stasis of a Poké Ball can only do so much; it won't keep them alive for more than another forty-eight hours. They need to eat.

  “She’s going to get mean?” I glance at the dog. She bares her teeth at the words. It isn't a threat, just a confirmation of the hunger gnawing at her.

  “Yes,” Metang says. “If options are exhausted, she may attack local fauna. Or, in extreme cases, her teammates.”

  “Not happening,” I say, too quick. Luna’s eyes open at the sound. She doesn’t seem worried, just tired. I stand, wipe my palms on my pants. “Okay. Option two. We find the hydro station.”

  Metang tilts forward in a kind of nod, and I can feel the agreement in its field. “Affirmative. Do you wish to proceed now?”

  I look at Houndour, at Luna, at Muse. I want to give them a break, but every minute we wait is another minute of running on fumes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  Metang floats ahead, setting the pace. I recall Luna and Muse, clipping their balls back to my belt. Houndour follows, her steps lighter now, like she knows there’s a plan. As we move, I keep glancing at Metang. It never complains, never slows, never asks for more than what’s absolutely necessary.