Sleep wasn't just elusive–it felt dangerous. Each time exhaustion started to drag me under, some part of my brain would jolt awake, terrified that closing these eyes meant losing whatever thread still connected me to myself. To the person who died chasing a phone game rather than the person I was wearing.

The hotel room's ceiling fan spun lazy circles, each rotation collecting shadows that looked too much like the fractals of psychic energy I'd seen during Mewtwo's awakening. That had been real. All of it had been real. The clone tank's fluid still burned in borrowed lungs whenever I breathed too deeply, a sharp chemical taste that belonged in sci-fi stories, not reality. Not supposed to be my reality.

I caught another glimpse of mint-green hair in the dark TV screen and had to look away. Ten years old. I was ten years old again, or at least this body was. The wrongness of it sat like lead in my stomach–adult thoughts trapped in a child's form, muscle memory that belonged to someone else entirely. Even my fingerprints felt foreign when I ran them across the scratchy hotel blanket; too small, too smooth, too new.

Through the darkness, I could hear Fuji's steady breathing from the other bed. The sound made my chest ache. He'd moved heaven, earth, and every ethical boundary to bring his daughter back, and instead he got... what? A Pokemon fan with an encyclopedic knowledge of trading card meta and anime plot points? Someone who knew more about his daughter from gaming wikis than actual memories?

The irony was suffocating. I was technically just as much a copy as Mewtwo–but while it had been engineered with purpose, with power, with intent, I was just... here. An accident of consciousness in a form that should have failed. Each breath felt stolen. Each heartbeat was a reminder that somewhere in this world, there was a grave with Amber's name on it, marking where this body's original owner rested while I played at being alive in her place.

Laughter drifted through the walls from other rooms–probably tourists enjoying their island getaway, planning tomorrow's outings to the volcano or the beach. How many of them had walked these halls, never knowing about the laboratory hidden beneath their feet? About the clone tanks and the failed experiments and the most powerful Pokemon in existence now tasting its first breath of freedom?

The volcano's silhouette loomed beyond the window, a darker shadow against the night sky. Somewhere out there, Mewtwo was probably as confused by existence as I was. But at least it had been made to be itself. I was neither the person who died nor the person who should have lived. Just a consciousness trapped between identities, trying to reconcile how to exist in a world I'd only known through screens and cartoons.

Memories of my old life flashed before my eyes like someone else's home videos–crystal clear but impossibly distant. Mom's patient smile as I explained why this new Pokemon game was different from the last six. That lazy orange tabby who'd earned his Snorlax nickname. The thrill of finally pulling that Charizard VMAX during lockdown, when Pokemon cards became an escape from endless Zoom lectures. That last, stupid battle–Tsunami the Gyarados getting crit twice in the mansion right before...

I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind them. Even that sensation felt wrong–the pressure, the size of my hands, the way the joints bent. Everything was off by degrees so small they shouldn't matter but somehow added up to a symphony of wrongness that made me want to crawl out of this skin.

And beneath all of it, a deeper terror lurked: Team Rocket. They'd lost their prize weapon and their secret lab, but they hadn't lost their reach. The future splintered in my head–competing versions of what could come next. In the anime, they'd eventually capture and control Mewtwo, bending its will to Giovanni's ambitions until it finally escaped. In the games, it would flee to Cerulean Cave, becoming a legend whispered about by trainers. The manga version seemed least likely–Blaine hadn't been involved in this creation.

Each version of the future felt equally possible now, equally real. How could I plan for all the different timelines? And more terrifyingly–what would Team Rocket do if they realized one of their failed experiments was walking around with a head full of future knowledge? With an adult's understanding of their plans wrapped in a child's vulnerable form?

Through the window, Cinnabar's stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to the impossible thing breathing beneath them. Not a success, not a failure–something entirely new. Something no one, not even God… no, Arceus, himself, had planned for. And tomorrow... tomorrow I'd have to wake up and keep pretending. Keep breathing. Keep existing in a form that wasn't mine while carrying memories that didn't belong here.

The fan spun on, its shadows still dancing like psychic fractals, each rotation seeming to ask: who are you really? The person who died chasing a mobile game, or the experiment who stole a second chance?

[<.<]

The beach slowly filled with passengers, fifteen others in total–a couple of families clutching travel bags, a businessman in a suit that probably cost more than a starter Pokemon, and two trainers who looked like they'd stepped out of a contest poster. I stifled another yawn, wiggling my toes in shoes that still felt new. The volcanic sand was oddly warm even this early, with black crystals skating across the beach with each gust of wind.

The businessman checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. One of the kids had fallen asleep against her mother's leg. The contest trainers had given up on looking cool and were now sitting cross-legged in the sand, sharing what looked like a breakfast pastry.

Suddenly, the air... shifted. Like the moment before a storm breaks, when everything goes still and electric.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Then I heard it.

A whistle cut through the dawn–three sharp notes that made everyone freeze. The sound of wings came next, starting as a whisper and building to a rush that seemed to push the very mist aside.

They emerged from the dawn like something out of a dream–eight massive shapes descending in perfect formation. Four Pidgeots on each side, their wingspans casting moving shadows across the beach. A Fearow cut through the morning light on one flank, all sharp edges and deadly grace, while a Noctowl glided silently on the other.

Holy shit.

Holy actual shit.

Those were Pidgeot. Eight real, breathing, absolutely massive Pidgeot, arranged in a perfect V with a Fearow and Noctowl flanking them like feathered fighter escorts. They descended with practiced precision, and I found myself counting pixels that weren't there because some part of my mind was still trying to process this like a game sprite or cartoon. But there was nothing pixelated about them.

I'd had this dream before–every kid with a Gameboy or TV had. But dreams didn't come with the smell of sea salt and feathers, didn't include the way morning light caught their crests and turned them into living flame. My hands were shaking. These weren't just Pokemon–they were POKEMON. Actually real, actually here, close enough to touch if I wasn't frozen in place trying to remember how breathing worked.

The closest Pidgeot turned its head, preening a feather back into place with the casual grace of something that could probably break the sound barrier before breakfast. When the formerly-sleeping kid stumbled forward, it tilted its head with bird-like curiosity. Just a big, well-trained flying type going about its morning routine. Completely normal. Totally ordinary. Just a Pidgeot, doing Pidgeot things, while my internal monologue alternated between incoherent screaming and 'don't cry don't cry don't cry.'

The trainers landed behind their Pokemon, boots crunching on volcanic sand. The woman moved with the easy grace of someone who'd learned to walk on wind, her flight jacket a patchwork of badges I didn't recognize. Her Raichu prowled between the Pidgeot, tail held high like an airport marshal's wand. The man was all business, his weathered face creased in permanent concentration as his Magneton hovered nearby, cores spinning in perfect sync.

"Morning folks!" The woman's voice carried easily over the sound of wings settling. "I'm Captain Lin, that's Captain Reed. We'll be your scenic tour to Celadon today." She grinned at the businessman's barely concealed wince at the word 'scenic.' "Don't worry–we'll have you there in time for your meetings. Now, let's get you all sorted."

The division happened with practiced efficiency: three sets of passengers and their bags for each group of four Pidgeot, carefully distributed for balance. Lin's Noctowl watched from the side with ancient eyes that seemed to measure each soul that passed, while Reed's Fearow stalked the perimeter like a feathered drill sergeant.

I pressed my nails into my palms, using the small pain to ground myself. This was happening. This was real. In about ten minutes, I was going to fly on an actual Pidgeot.

Lin appeared beside me, her Raichu's static making my new hair float slightly. "First time?" she asked, grinning at whatever expression was on my face. "Don't worry–Storm here is gentle as they come." She patted the nearest Pidgeot, whose feathers rippled like silk in the morning light. "Though you might want to take a breath–you're starting to look a bit blue."

Right. Breathing. That was a thing I should probably keep doing.

The safety briefing washed over me in a blur of buckles and emergency procedures. Lin moved between passengers with the casual grace of someone who'd done this a thousand times, her Raichu trailing behind like an anxious flight attendant, occasionally zapping bags that weren't properly secured.

"Remember," she called out, "you're riding a Pokemon, not a train. They respond to tension. Relax, and they'll relax." Her Noctowl punctuated this with a soft hoot that somehow managed to sound both wise and slightly judgy.

The first step onto Storm's back felt like breaking some unspoken rule of the universe. Feathers shifted beneath my fingers, warm and alive and impossibly strong. I'd spent countless hours flying on Pidgeot in games, but nothing had prepared me for the reality of settling between wings that could split clouds.

"Knees soft," Lin advised, appearing beside me to check the straps. "And try not to grab feathers if you get nervous–Storm's understanding, but nobody likes having their hair pulled." Her Raichu demonstrated proper handle-holding with exaggerated care, then scampered back to its special harness near Lin's position.

Fuji settled behind me, his presence both steadying and strange. The businessman ended up with a lovey dovy couple on the Pidgeot next to us. The couple flirted constantly while the businessman looked like he wanted to kill himself in the moment.

"Clear skies ahead!" Lin's voice carried over the morning breeze. Her Noctowl lifted off first, silent as a shadow, while Reed's Fearow took point with a cry that scattered sleeping Wingull from the nearby rocks. "Celadon Express is ready for departure!"

The takeoff stole my breath, my heart, and possibly several years off my new life. One moment we were earthbound, the next – glory. Storm's wings spread like sails of light, each downbeat a thunderclap of power. The beach fell away, black sand scattering in our wake, and my stomach did something that probably violated several laws of physics.

We climbed through layers of dawn, each wingbeat carrying us higher until the ocean spread out like a mirror below. The sun painted everything in impossible colors–rose gold and amber and colors I didn't have names for. Lin's group formed up on the right, Reed's on the left, their Pidgeot moving with the kind of precision that made my gaming brain want to count frames that didn't exist.

Raichu's cheeks sparked occasionally, tiny arcs of electricity dancing between them and Magneton’s magnets. The morning air grew thin and cold, but somehow a bubble of warmth surrounded us.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, exhaustion finally caught up. The steady rhythm of Storm's wings, the salt-sweet wind, the gentle rise and fall of flight–it was a lullaby written in motion. My head nodded forward, then back, then forward again.

"Sleep if you need to," Lin called back, her voice carrying easily despite the wind. "Storm's got you."

I tried to protest. Tried to explain that sleep was for people who weren't living through every childhood dream at once. But my body–this new, strange, wonderful body–had other ideas. The last thing I remember was Fuji adjusting my straps, making sure I couldn't slip. Storm's feathers were softer than any pillow, and the wind sang stories of freedom in a language I was finally learning to understand.

I slept without dreams. Just the wind, the waves far below, and the steady heartbeat of a Pokemon carrying me toward whatever waited ahead.