The first thing Ash noticed when he woke up was how warm Charmander felt pressed against his side.
It wasn't a bad thing, exactly. Just unexpected. The little fire-type had been rescued from a storm barely a week ago—pulled out of the rain and cold by sheer stubbornness and a fortunate timing that had less to do with planning and more to do with Ash not thinking very hard about the consequences of charging into a thunderstorm. Charmander had been abandoned then, left to die, and now it was sleeping against his ribs like it belonged there.
Ash didn't move. Not yet. The camp was still quiet—that suspended, sacred quiet that happened between night and morning when nobody but the two of them seemed awake. Even Pikachu was still sleeping, draped across a moss-covered log with one ear twitching slightly, ready for trouble but not quite done resting. Bulbasaur was curled up on the other side of their campfire, vines relaxed, bulb tucked against its body. Pidgeotto had found a high branch somewhere—out of sight, which was how she preferred it. And Butterfree... somewhere in the darkness, probably. That one was harder to track.
But Charmander was right here. Breathing softly. And Ash realized something as he lay there: he wasn't just a trainer collecting Pokemon anymore. When he looked at this small creature, vulnerable and warm against his side, he understood that everything had changed. He was responsible for this. For its healing. For its trust.
Some moments weren't meant to be interrupted. So he didn't move.
The sun rose slowly—Ash watched it happen, this gradual shift from darkness to gray to gold, painting the beach in shades of amber and rose. Their camp sat in a small cove a little distance from the main stretch of sand, protected by rocky outcroppings that had become almost familiar over the past few days. The ocean was visible from here, a soft murmur in the distance, and the smell of salt water and something older, something deep, drifted on the morning breeze.
Charmander stirred first. Its tail flame flickered briefly, casting small shadows across Ash's chest, before settling back to its usual gentle glow. The little fire-type lifted its head, blinking slowly, and for a moment there was that familiar hesitation—that split-second where it seemed to check if Ash was still there, still real.
"Morning, buddy," Ash said quietly, keeping his voice soft. "Sleep okay?"
Charmander chittered something in response and climbed up onto Ash's shoulder, wrapping its small arms around his neck in a way that was becoming routine. It had taken days for this. Days of sitting quietly, talking to the Pokemon, showing it that trust didn't have to be terrifying. That sometimes people stayed.
They had breakfast together—just Ash and Charmander, at first. Ash had some leftover rice and dried meat, nothing fancy, but Charmander ate like it was a feast. The little fire-type would occasionally pause, looking at Ash, as if checking permission to keep eating. Each time, Ash nodded encouragement. "Go ahead," he'd say. "It's yours. All yours."
Pikachu woke up eventually, offended that they'd started breakfast without announcing it. The electric-type bounded over, chittering complaints, and stole a piece of meat from Ash's hand in the way that had become familiar—strategic napping followed by tactical theft. There was a moment where Charmander looked worried, like maybe the food would be taken away, like nothing good could last. But Ash tossed Pikachu some of his own portion, and Charmander relaxed.
"He's not stealing from you," Ash explained to the fire-type, knowing full well that Pokemon couldn't understand words but that tone meant something. "He's just... Pikachu. He's like this with everyone. Doesn't mean anything's wrong."
Charmander seemed to understand the gist of it, because it settled against Ash's arm and
By late morning, the sun was already high enough that the shadows had shortened to almost nothing. Ash moved the small camp around, making sure the fire didn't sit in a place that would attract too much attention. Not that there was anyone around to attract attention—they hadn't seen another human in days—but old habits died hard. He'd learned, early in his travels, that it was easier to stay safe if you didn't make yourself a target.
Charmander followed him everywhere, which was both endearing and slightly complicated. The little fire-type would cling to his shoulder or lap, content to just be nearby, occasionally chittering to itself. Ash had read somewhere that abandoned Pokemon sometimes developed separation anxiety—fear that if they let their trainer out of sight, they'd come back to find themselves alone again. So Ash made a point of letting Charmander follow, of narrating what he was doing, of constantly reinforcing that yes, he was still here, yes, he would still be here.
"Just reorganizing supplies," he murmured to the Pokemon, moving their food pack to a spot that would stay cooler. "Nothing scary. We'll have more breakfast later if you want it. See?"
Charmander made a pleased sound and settled more firmly against his shoulder.
Pikachu, meanwhile, had discovered that the rocks in the cove made excellent scratching posts and was taking full advantage of that fact. Bulbasaur was attempting to bury itself in sand and complaining about the process the entire time—"Bulba, bulba, bulbabul," which Ash had learned roughly translated to "This sand is coarse and it's everywhere and I hate it." Pidgeotto remained mostly aloof, doing whatever it was that Pidgeotto did. Loop around. Observe. Possibly judge them all from a great height.
And Butterfree had disappeared again. Ash wasn't entirely sure where that Pokemon went during the day, but Butterfree always came back by nightfall, so he'd stopped worrying about it. Some Pokemon were just like that—they needed their space, their independence. As long as they came back to eat and rest, that was enough.
By midday, the sun was high and hot, and Ash decided it was time to explore more of the coastline. He'd been staying in the cove, keeping things quiet and manageable while Charmander adjusted, but there was this stretch of beach a little further south that had caught his attention. Tide pools, rocky outcroppings, the kind of place where you could find interesting things if you looked carefully.
He packed up the camp (well, bundled essentials into his backpack, left the main supplies in a pile), and the whole team started moving along the beach. It was a good walk—not too far, but far enough that Ash could feel his legs working, his lungs opening up in a way they hadn't in days. Exercise. Exploration. The kind of thing that reminded him there was more to the world than just survival and caretaking.
Charmander rode on his shoulder most of the way, watching the ocean with a mix of fascination and wariness. The fire-type had never been comfortable near water—made sense, given the nature of fire-types—but he didn't panic anymore. That was progress.
Pikachu ranged ahead, as usual, always looking for trouble or snacks or both. Bulbasaur plodded along with complaints about the sand getting between its vine segments, which Ash acknowledged with sympathetic noises while doing absolutely nothing about it. Pidgeotto circled above, making her loops in the sky, and Ash had learned not to try to understand where she was ever really going.
The tide pools, when they got there, were worth the walk. Shallow enough to wade through carefully, deep enough to hold Pokemon and other small creatures. Rocks jutted up at odd angles, creating mini islands and passages. The water was clear—or clear-ish, with the kind of clarity that let you see down a good distance if you looked carefully. Seaweed drifted in lazy patterns. The whole place felt like some kind of pocket universe that the main beach
The rocks themselves were ancient—worn smooth by decades or centuries of wave action, but still maintaining their jagged edges where they'd broken and reformed. Ash knelt down and examined one closely, running his fingers along the surface. Barnacles clung to the lower sections, tiny shells clustered together like a fragile city. The rock was cold and damp, smelling of salt and something mineral and deep. It was the kind of texture that made his fingers itch for his journal, wanting to document exactly what he was seeing.
But that could wait. Today was about exploration, about the space between discovery and understanding.
The water in the pools shifted with gentle currents—not strong enough to threaten anything, but enough to create movement, life. Small crustaceans scuttled across the sandy bottom. A few fish darted in and out of the deeper sections. Seaweed drifted like green ribbons, and once, Ash caught the glint of something metallic down in one of the deeper pools—probably just trash from the ocean, something lost or thrown but then he checked and it was a shell probably a pokemon. The coast had a way of collecting things they had forgotten about.
"Alright," Ash said to his team, setting Charmander down carefully on a rock. "Explore, but don't wander off too far. Pikachu, stay where I can see you. Bulbasaur, try not to complain for five minutes straight."
Bulbasaur made a noise that somehow managed to sound both offended and like a complaint anyway.
The Pokemon wasn't moving much.
At first, Ash thought it was dead. He'd learned, over the years, not to assume that stillness meant anything in particular—sometimes Pokemon just rested, stayed still, didn't react to approaching footsteps. But this one had that particular quality of wrongness that made his stomach tighten. It was a Squirtle, small and tucked partially into a deeper pool with walls that probably protected it from the worst of things. But it was the shell that made Ash stop.
Fractured. Not damaged from natural wear and tear, not the kind of thing you'd expect from just existing. The cracks ran through the shell in patterns that were almost geometric—too uniform, too deliberate. Claw marks? Impact damage? The back legs bore what looked like old bruises, faded now but still visible. Scars along the seams where shell met skin.
This wasn't a Pokemon that had just had bad luck.
This was a Pokemon that had survived something.
Charmander noticed the Squirtle at almost the same moment Ash did. The fire-type's head came up, eyes fixing on the small water-type, and before Ash could say anything—before he could think about whether this was a good idea—Charmander splashed into the pool.
Most Pokemon would have retreated. Most water-types, especially one that looked like it had been through hell, would have reacted to a strange fire-type approaching with at minimum a defensive maneuver. But this Squirtle just watched. Eyes hollow. Eyes that Ash recognized.
Two survivors, meeting in a tide pool on a random stretch of beach.
"Easy," Ash murmured to both of them, stepping carefully into the shallow water. His shoes squelched. "It's okay. Nobody's here to hurt anybody."
Charmander had stopped a respectful distance from Squirtle, not advancing but not retreating either. They were watching each other—and Ash could read something in the exchange, some acknowledgment that passed between Pokemon when humans weren't directly involved. Recognition, maybe. Or just the simple understanding that came from having survived something that shouldn't have survived.
Squirtle pulled deeper into his shell. Not all the way—just partway, like considering hiding but deciding against it. His eyes stayed on Charmander.
"I'm not going to catch you," Ash said quietly, and he really meant it. "I'm just... I wanted to understand what happened to you. If you want to tell me."
Squirtle didn't respond, obviously. Pokemon didn't talk—at least not in words. But the tension in his little body seemed to ease fractionally. Charmander had settled down now, sitting in the shallow water next to Squirtle, the fire-type's tail flame flickering with gentle reflections.
Ash sat down on a nearby rock and just... waited.
Ash wasn't great at meditation. His mind tended to wander, to spiral into problem-solving mode, to bounce from worry to worry like a ricocheting stone. But here, watching two Pokemon discover each other, he found something like peace. There was no problem to solve right now. No immediate danger. No trainer battle looming. Just the sound of water moving gently against rock, the warmth of the sun on his skin, and the presence of creatures learning to trust again.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Ash lost track. That was the point, he thought. Time didn't matter when you were just being.
Pikachu's presence helped, somehow. The electric-type had a gift for being calm when it mattered most, for settling situations that might otherwise feel too intense. Pikachu wasn't fussing or demanding attention. Just existing nearby, which seemed to be exactly what Squirtle needed—proof that other Pokemon could be around without being a threat, without being unpredictable.
Ash watched the way Squirtle's breathing gradually slowed, the way the tension in his little body eased degree by degree. This was trust building in real time, not through grand gestures or dramatic moments, but through patient, quiet presence. Through showing up and staying.
Eventually, even Squirtle seemed to relax enough to move. Very slowly, the water-type shuffled a little closer to Charmander, close enough that their bodies were nearly touching. Charmander, with that easy confidence that fire-types seemed to have, pressed closer, and the two Pokemon sat together in the shallow water—fire and water, natural opposites, finding comfort in each other's proximity.
Time moved differently when you weren't trying to move it along. Ash had learned this over the past week—that sometimes the most important moments were the ones where nothing happened. Where you just sat with someone (or someones, in this case), bearing witness to their existence, letting them know through simple presence that they weren't alone.
Pikachu found him there, an hour later, surrounded by the smell of salt and old stone and something metallic that Ash couldn't quite place. The electric-type bounded over, gave the Squirtle a thorough sniff of investigation—which was both rude and somehow endearing—and then settled down next to Ash.
"Yeah, buddy," Ash said, scratching behind Pikachu's ears. "I know. Interesting Pokemon. Something happened to him. We're figuring out what now."
Pikachu made a thoughtful sound and decided this was a perfectly fine place to nap, which somehow seemed to help. The presence of another Pokemon, unthreatening and chill, seemed to ease something in Squirtle. He pulled himself out of his shell fully and shuffled—carefully, favoring his left side—a little closer to Charmander. The two of them sat in companionable silence, fire and water coexisting in a way that shouldn't work but somehow did.
Bulbasaur, predictably, complained about the sand collecting on its vines and refused to get close to the water.
Noon became afternoon. The sun climbed higher, hotter, and Ash realized they should probably eat. He'd brought some food in his pack—enough for his team and for him—and he unpacked it carefully, setting portions on a clean rock. Charmander ate with Ash watching, making sure nothing got stolen (Pikachu tried anyway, successful in exactly one attempt). Squirtle watched this whole exchange and then, very slowly, very carefully, moved close enough to investigate.
"Go ahead," Ash told him, like he'd told Charmander a hundred times. "It's here. For you. Safe."
Squirtle ate. Not hungrily, like a Pokemon that had gone without food. More carefully, like a Pokemon that had learned to be cautious. And Ash understood something in watching this: that Squirtle had been alone. Not just abandoned—he had to survive on his own, figure things out, learn to be careful because nobody else was going to look after him.
Charmander leaned against Squirtle after they'd both eaten, the fire-type's warmth providing
Ash watched the two of them, thinking about the strange ways Pokemon worked. Most species didn't mix like this—fire and water were natural opposites, after all. But here they were, Charmander's tiny form nestled against Squirtle's hard shell, and neither seemed bothered by the contradiction. Sometimes being alone was worse than the strangeness of being together.
That was probably a life lesson, Ash thought absently. Probably something important about accepting help from unexpected places, about not letting your nature dictate your friendships. But mostly he was just observing, cataloging the tiny details. The way Charmander's tail flame reflected off Squirtle's shell, creating dancing shadows. The way Squirtle's breathing had finally slowed to something normal, almost peaceful.
Ash pulled out some of his own food—dried bread and a small container of berries he'd gotten from a village a week back. He ate slowly, methodically, watching his team. This was what life was, he thought. Not battles or gym badges or grand adventures. This. Sitting by a tide pool with Pokemon who trusted him enough to rest nearby, enough to be themselves.
The afternoon light began to shift, the shadows growing longer as the sun crept toward the horizon. The ocean changed color—from bright blue to deeper shades of green and purple, rippling gently in patterns that Ash could almost read if he tried. The air cooled fractionally, carrying that salt-spray smell that had become familiar over the past few days. Seagulls called from somewhere in the distance, their voices sharp and urgent a comfort that seemed to matter more than the strangeness of it. Squirtle didn't pull away.
"You can stay," Ash said quietly, speaking to Squirtle but looking at both of them. "If you want to. I'm not going to make you do anything. I just... we have room. And from what I can see, you've been alone long enough."
As the afternoon stretched into evening, the light changed. That golden, sideways light that only existed for a few hours a day, turning everything into something that belonged in dreams. Ash moved the camp—carefully, trying not to disrupt things—to this tide pool area. It felt like the right place to be. Protected by the rocks, small enough to feel safe, big enough to move around in.
Charmander and Squirtle stayed close to each other, this unlikely pair finding comfort in proximity. Pikachu eventually woke from his nap and demanded dinner. Bulbasaur's complaints about sand seemed to taper off into something almost meditative. Ash built a small fire—smaller than usual, careful to keep it away from the water—and made tea. Real tea, not just hot water, because sometimes you needed the ritual of doing something normal.
As the sun began to sink toward the ocean, Squirtle did something unexpected. He shuffled—still favoring that left side, still moving with the careful hesitation of something that had learned pain—over to where Ash was sitting. And then, very deliberately, he pressed his shell against Ash's leg.
It wasn't quite trust. Not yet. But it was something. It was Squirtle deciding that this human, this strange teenager who had appeared in the tide pool and shown him food and warmth, was maybe not a threat.
"Alright," Ash said softly, resting his hand gently on Squirtle's shell. Even through the cracks, even through the scars, he could feel the warmth that water-types held internally. "Welcome to the team, buddy. Or welcome to stay and see if it's something you might want. No promises, no pressure. Just... you're not alone anymore."
Charmander, feeling left out of this new bond, climbed into Ash's lap. Pikachu wedged himself between Ash's shoulder and Charmander. Bulbasaur sighed and settled nearby, vines loosening into something almost comfortable. Somewhere in the darkness, Pidgeotto called out once, a sharp sound that meant she was awake and watchful. And Butterfree... Ash wasn't sure where Butterfree had gone, but he trusted that the Pokemon knew what it was doing.
Night fell. The stars came out—real stars, not the watered-down version you got in cities. The kind that made the whole universe feel present and watching. Ash sat very still, letting his team settle around him, this small pocket of warmth and safety in a much larger, much stranger world.
That's when he noticed the debris.
It was just... there. A piece of metal, curved and torn at the edges, partially buried in the sand maybe twenty feet from their camp. Metal that had no business being on a beach unless something had gone very wrong. Not weathered, not organic—this was violent. This was impact damage. Something that had crashed or been forced down or deliberately destroyed.
Ash's stomach tightened. This wasn't random wreckage from some old shipwreck. The damage pattern was too specific. Too recent.
And next to it, caught between two rocks, a scrap of cloth. Waterlogged but still holding color—dark blue with something stitched into it. A symbol. Geometric, precise, organized. Not Team Rocket. Ash knew what Team Rocket's emblem looked like. This was something else. Something that suggested purpose and structure and... what? Military? Organization? Something deliberately hidden?
Ash's eyes moved back to Squirtle, who had fallen asleep between him and Charmander, both the fire-type and water-type radiating warmth on either side of him.
Those scars didn't appear on their own.
"What happened to you?" Ash asked quietly, not really expecting an answer. He was speaking more to the night, to the universe, to his own confusion and worry.
Squirtle didn't respond, obviously. But as if sensing the question, the little water-type pulled deeper into his shell. Not all the way—just partway, like considering hiding but deciding against it. Ash didn't push. But he was thinking about it. Thinking about the timeline. Thinking about Squirtle's scars and this wreckage and the symbol on this cloth. Thinking about how a severely injured Pokemon somehow ended up in a tide pool on the exact stretch of coast Ash happened to be exploring.
Coincidence or fate or something else entirely—he wasn't sure. But something had happened here. Something bad enough to scar a Pokemon. Bad enough to leave debris scattered across the beach like confetti at a funeral. Bad enough that someone had put a symbol on it, which meant it was deliberate, which meant it was organized, which meant it was probably worse than Ash wanted to imagine.
Tomorrow they could investigate. Tomorrow they could try to understand what the symbol meant, where the wreckage came from, what had happened to this small water-type that fate or luck or something worse had brought to him.
But tonight, as Squirtle finally fell into sleep between Ash and Charmander, both of them warming him because apparently that was their job now, Ash allowed himself something he hadn't allowed in a long time.
Hope.
Not hope that everything would be fine. Ash had learned better than that. But hope that when terrible things happened, when Pokemon were broken and scarred and left to fend for themselves, sometimes they could find their way to someone who understood. Someone who would sit with them in the dark. Someone who would offer warmth and food and safety, with no expectation except that they might, eventually, be okay.
The stars wheeled overhead. The ocean murmured against the rocks. And in this small circle of firelight, surrounded by Pokemon who had learned to trust him and a new one learning still, Ash pulled his jacket closer and watched the night.
Somewhere out there, something had broken. Something had crashed or fallen or failed.
But in this small camp on this small beach, with his Pokemon around him and the weight of Squirtle's shell warm against his leg, Ash allowed himself to believe in tomorrow.
In answers.
In the possibility that sometimes, when terrible things happened, something good could come looking for you instead.
Ash's eyes drifted over the debris again, studying the metal and cloth like they might suddenly make sense, suddenly reveal their secrets through sheer force of observation. The symbol was precise, methodical. Whatever organization had left their mark here, they'd done so deliberately. With purpose. Which meant there was a reason Squirtle was here, was wounded, was terrified. Which meant this wasn't random. Wasn't chance.
But tomorrow was soon enough for questions. Tonight, Ash decided, was for rest.
He watched as Charmander's breathing deepened into sleep, the little fire-type's tail flame burning steady and soft against his ribs. Squirtle had made a complete decision to trust—he was nestled between them now, his little form rising and falling with peaceful breaths, his shell no longer hunched in that defensive posture. Even his damaged sections seemed less pronounced in the firelight, as if sleep was giving him a reprieve from remembering.
Pikachu was curled up nearby, one ear still twitching, ready to wake if anything required his attention. Bulbasaur had finally stopped complaining and had settled into sleep with his vines loosely curled. And Pidgeotto was somewhere above, probably perched on one of the higher rocks, still watching. Still protecting. That was what she did.
Ash pulled his jacket tighter. The night air was getting cold, that particular kind of cold that came off the ocean, damp and penetrating. But under his jacket, surrounded by warm Pokemon and the glow of the small fire, Ash found it manageable. Found it, actually, kind of perfect.
The sky was navy blue now, not quite black, and the stars were beginning to emerge. First a few, then more and more, until the entire sky seemed to be opening up like a vast tapestry of light. Ash recognized a few constellations—old friends from nights spent traveling, navigating by starlight when there were no roads to follow.
Whoever had owned this stretch of beach before, whatever had happened here to leave this wreckage, it felt distant now. Irrelevant. Right now, in this moment, there was nothing but the small warmth of Pokemon who had learned to trust, the sound of waves against stone, and the infinite sky above.
Somewhere out there, questions waited to be answered. Mysteries waited to be solved. But they could wait. They could wait until morning. Until his team was rested and strong enough to face whatever answers might be hiding in that symbol, in that metal, in Squirtle's scars.
The first light of dawn stretched pale fingers across the tide pools, painting the world in soft gold and blue. Ash rubbed sleep from his eyes and glanced down at the sleeping Squirtle nestled between Charmander and himself. The previous night's tension seemed to have melted away, leaving behind only quiet breaths and warmth.
He knelt beside Squirtle, examining the thin scars that ran along its shell and limbs. They had faded overnight—mere echoes now, thanks to the gentle salves he'd mixed from medicinal herbs scavenged along the shore, a few drops of potion from his pack, and careful bandaging. Ash worked slowly, humming an old tune under his breath, and Squirtle accepted it with a docile curiosity. The healing was almost complete; only the faintest traces of old wounds lingered.
"You're going to be okay," Ash whispered, brushing a final strand of herb over Squirtle's shell with practiced hands. Squirtle blinked up at him and managed a weak smile, the light in its eyes stronger than yesterday.
Charmander woke, tail flame flickering with approval as it watched Ash's gentle care.
Ash smiled. "What do you say, buddy? Want to travel together?"
He set an empty Pokéball beside Squirtle, not forcing, just asking. Squirtle looked at Charmander, at Ash, and then, with a small burst of determination, tapped the Pokéball.
The ball snapped shut, wobbled in the sand, then settled with a soft click—caught.
Ash picked up the Pokéball, feeling a new weight settle in his palm. The beginning of another story. He looked at Charmander, who clapped its little hands and chittered in delight.
"Welcome to the team, Squirtle," Ash said, voice barely louder than the waves. The scars were gone, at last. What remained was a promise—of trust, healing, and new adventures.