(Hailey's POV)
The clock above the outpost's main hall ticked to 21:07. The hands moved with that same patient rhythm they always had, though everything else about the world seemed faster, louder, and sharper these last few years.
I dropped my patrol jacket onto the bench by the lockers, the fabric still wet with rain, smelling faintly of pine. The outpost walls hummed with quiet typing from the communications room, the scrape of boots in the hallway, the low rumble of a generator beneath the floor.
Another night on the perimeter. Another round of reports. Another reminder that the world hadn't settled down since that damned flood three years ago.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease out the stiffness of a twelve-hour patrol. My vest creaked under the motion, leather straps worn from rain and claw marks. My belt, still heavy with empty Poké Balls and a Ranger-issued sidearm, clinked faintly as I sat down at the operations table.
The report screen glowed blue in front of me. I began dictating, my voice rougher than usual.
"Patrol south perimeter, Vermilion Sector Three. Time: 06:00 to 20:30. Contact: hostile poacher group at coordinates 09-41. Three apprehended, one escaped east. Seized: three injured Pokémon, stasis crates. Condition: stable. Wild activity: heightened Ursaring presence near ridge line. Requesting reinforced patrol for following week."
I leaned back when the recorder chimed completion. Ran a hand over my face.
Poachers. Always poachers now. Before, they'd been scattered opportunists. Now, more organized syndicates, even whispers of coordination with certain "underground" cells. Some called it terrorism. Others, just desperation.
And still, we Rangers were the ones standing between them and the forests. Between them and the trainers too green to defend themselves. Between them and… him.
My gaze flicked to the message tab in the corner of the screen. No new alerts from home.
Arata would still be awake, though. He always trained late. Always pushing himself too far.
I smiled despite myself.
Three years had turned that boy into something I hadn't expected.
His Pidgeotto Livia towered larger than most her kind, wings cutting the sky like steel. She carried herself with the sharpness of a veteran flier, eyes always calculating. His Axew Caesar was the same. Stockier than a hatchling had any right to be, tusks gleaming like weapons carved for war. Both of them fought with a ferocity that startled even me, and I'd seen my share of ferocity.
And they sparred with trainers two, three years older and made them sweat. Some even whispered he was already as strong as a three-badge holder.
Fourteen. Nearly fifteen. I had Rangers twice his age who didn't command with that kind of clarity.
It made me proud. It made me scared. Both in equal measure.
Pride and worry twined together every time she thought of him. He trained with a discipline she hadn't taught him, a fire she hadn't expected.
She found herself smiling faintly, Her sister would have been proud. That thought always cut, even now.
"Long patrol?"
I blinked, pulled from my thoughts. Kurt leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Younger Ranger, maybe late twenties, hair slicked back. He always carried that half-grin, the one that made the rookies trip over their words.
"South perimeter," I said, voice flat. "Poachers. Three down, one out."
He let out a low whistle. "You don't slow down, do you?"
"Job doesn't either."
He stepped closer, the grin tugging wider. "You going home tonight?"
Hailey exhaled, rolling her neck. "No. I'll bunk here. Roads are slick, and I'm not dragging myself through the rain this late."
"Great" His tone dropped just enough to carry a different meaning. He leaned his weight onto the table beside me. "Grab a drink. Relax for once"
I arched a brow. "Relax? With you?"
He chuckled. "I'm told I'm great at helping people relax."
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a twitch. "I'm too damn tired for games tonight."
"No games." He pushed off the table, backing toward the barracks wing. "Just an offer. You'll know where to find me."
Men like him never stopped trying. Didn't matter how many times I brushed them off they circled back eventually, drawn to whatever they thought I'd give.
The thought lingered as I slipped down the narrow hallway and into one of the side rooms set aside for Rangers to crash.
The door creaked when I shut it behind me. The lock slid into place with a heavy clunk, dull and mechanical, the sound somehow comforting.
The room was utilitarian to its bones, Spartan military style, like every other Ranger outpost I'd ever slept in. A narrow bunk pressed against the wall, its sheets starched stiff and folded with parade-ground precision. A battered metal table and chair filled the corner opposite, and beyond that, a small door led into the attached toilet and shower stall. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old concrete, with just a trace of oil from the generator humming somewhere below.
Not home. Never home. But serviceable.
I slid my gear off piece by piece, setting it down on the table with deliberate care. My sidearm came first, the weight of it leaving my hip strangely light. The magazine was still full I hadn't fired a single round today, though I'd thought about it. Too many times. Next came my vest, stiff with straps and still damp with sweat in places, followed by my gloves, my knife, and finally, the belt that held the Pokéballs.
Those I placed last, each capsule rolling slightly against the metal surface as if restless. I rested my hand on them for a moment. The silence stretched.
The weight lifted when I stepped away.
I stripped down slowly, my body moving with the stiff ache of exhaustion. Boots unlaced, socks peeled off. The undershirt clung to my skin before I pulled it over my head, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Cargo pants followed, unfastened with fingers that trembled faintly, though not from cold.
I caught myself in the mirror above the sink before I turned on the shower.
For a moment, I just stared.
The woman looking back at me was every bit the Ranger I had become and she was beautiful, in her own way.
My skin carried the evidence of years on the line: sun-darkened across my arms and neck, pale only where a dress usually covered. The contrast only made my figure stand out more sharply, curves defined by muscle and motion, not softness wasted. My bust was fuller than I ever gave it credit for, large enough that I cupped one breast in my hand, half in curiosity, half in jest.
"Kinda big for chest armor," I murmured to the empty room, lips quirking into a smile. It was true straps bit sometimes, plates never sat quite flush. But the men never seemed to mind. If anything, they loved finding excuses to notice.
Below, the taut lines of my stomach spoke of discipline and drills, each muscle firm beneath the smoothness of skin. The faint scars across my shoulders, collarbone, and ribs weren't flaws to hide but proof that I'd endured every pale line a chapter of a story I had survived. I didn't see weakness in them. I saw survival, strength, and the woman I had fought to become.
And my hair damp with sweat, pulled back into a rough braid spilled loose strands around my face, the dark length reaching halfway down my back. My mother used to call me striking, not just pretty, and staring at my reflection now, I could see it. A woman who had sharpened herself against the world, but who hadn't lost what made her worth looking at.
I leaned closer, my breath fogging the glass.
Then I shut off the thought like flipping a switch.
The shower hissed to life, steam quickly fogging the edges of the mirror. I stepped in, the first touch of hot water stinging as it ran over my shoulders, then sliding down my spine in rivulets. The ache in my muscles unwound by inches, not all at once, the tension bleeding out with the dirt and sweat of the day.
I tilted my head back, eyes closed, and let it wash over me. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the steady drum of water and the faint echo of pipes in the wall.
No orders.
No blood.
No weight.
When I finally stepped out, steam clung to me like a second skin. I toweled off quickly, pulling my damp hair free and letting it hang loose around my shoulders. It reached halfway down my back now longer than regulations technically allowed, but no one in this Division had ever pushed the issue.
The chill of the room hit as soon as I left the bathroom. I padded barefoot back to the bunk, the thin cotton towel my only cover until I dropped it on the chair. Bare, I sat on the edge of the mattress, the sheets cool against my skin, and reached for my PokéNav.
The screen lit with a soft glow, the time reading later than I'd realized. My thumbs hesitated for only a second before I typed out the message.
Staying overnight. Don't wait up. Lock the door.
I stared at it for a long moment, then hit send. The delivery ping echoed small and sharp in the silence.
I placed the device face-down on the nightstand, the light fading back to dark.
Finally, I lay back, the stiff sheets rustling under me. My body sank into the thin mattress more heavily than I expected, exhaustion pulling me down faster than the water had. I let it.
The room was silent save for the distant hum of the generator and the faint whisper of air moving through the vent. My hand drifted briefly to the table where my gear sat, fingers brushing the cold edge of one of the Pokéballs.
Safe. All of it safe, for tonight.
With that thought, I let my eyes close.
Morning broke wet and silver, Vermilion's skyline a silhouette of steel against the storm-heavy sky. Rain still clung to the streets, puddles catching faint reflections of Ranger patrols as they rotated shifts.
I slung my pack over one shoulder, boots crunching against gravel as I cut across the east quadrant. The city's hum was different now less the rush of markets, more the grind of recovery. Refugee camps still lingered on the outskirts, though fewer every month. The flood's shadow hadn't vanished. It had just grown familiar. I crossed the city and made my way back home to Saltwind
Our house stood tucked near the rocky outback, modest, marked with League emblems painted onto the siding.
I walked around the house towards the backyard and pushed open the gate.
And froze.
Arata sat in the yard, bare-armed despite the morning chill, still as stone. His palms rested lightly on his knees, eyes shut, breath steady. At first glance, it looked like meditation strange for a boy his age, stranger still as a form of training. But I'd long since stopped trying to understand all of his methods.
Above him, Livia wheeled in silence, her great wings carving arcs against the pale sky. Every feather seemed taut with control, each movement sharpened by years of discipline. On the ground, Caesar mirrored his trainer's stillness, the small dragon crouched low, his tusks faintly aglow with restrained power, chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm with Arata's.
It wasn't drills. It wasn't sparring. It was… something else. Sync. A current between the three of them, invisible but undeniable.
I folded my arms, watching. To anyone else, it would have looked like an odd boy and his Pokémon sitting quietly, wasting daylight. But I knew better. I'd seen what those moments, that bred precision in their strikes, the way they seemed to read each other before words were spoken. Whatever he was doing, however he was doing it, it worked.
And the results spoke for themselves. For his age, for the short span he'd had to train, Arata's team was powerful shockingly so. Three years ago, they had been small, fragile things struggling to stay afloat in a world gone to hell. Now, they carried themselves like they'd already earned badges, like they belonged in the ranks of seasoned trainers.
I leaned against the gate, letting a sigh slip out, pride twisting with something heavier in my chest. Pride, worry, love always tangled. Always fierce.
He sat there, unmoving, a boy on the edge of becoming something more. My nephew. My blood. My responsibility.
I almost called out. Almost told him to come in, eat something, rest. But I stopped myself. No this was his moment, not mine to break.