Chapter 12 — Lines on a Map
"It's not that I think it's fake," the woman says, fingers drumming softly against the edge of the desk. "I just don't like that it exists without a category."
Across from her, a man in a League-issued jacket leans back in his chair, arms folded. The room is quiet except for the low hum of the projector casting a paused image against the wall: a public park, a rough clearing, and in the center of it a small figure standing far closer to an active battle than any civilian should be.
"A category for what," he asks, tone neutral. "A child being stupid, or a Dragon-type being somewhere it shouldn't be?"
"That's exactly my point," she replies. "Those are very different problems, and this looks like both at once."
He glances up at the image again. "Pause it back a few seconds."
She does, scrubbing the footage until the Axew lunges, disengages, and retreats on its own. The image freezes mid-motion, dust still hanging in the air.
"That's not uncontrolled," he says slowly.
"No," she agrees. "And that's why this landed on my desk instead of being closed out by patrol."
She reaches over and pulls up a side panel, bringing up a short list of notes attached to the file.
"Three separate observers," she continues. "Different days. Different times. Same clearing. Same child. Same Pokémon. No adult interference."
The man straightens slightly. "No adult present at all?"
"Present in the park," she corrects. "Not supervising. Not commanding. No visible Poké Balls besides the opponents'. No one stepping in to correct the child."
"That alone is a violation," he says.
"Of what, exactly?" she asks, turning her chair to face him fully. "Trainer licensing law? Yes. Public safety ordinance? Probably. Pokémon welfare statutes?" She tilts her head. "That one's less clear."
He exhales through his nose. "He's seven."
"Approximately," she says. "School records confirm the age."
"Seven-year-olds don't command Dragon-types."
"They also don't keep them alive after critical poisoning," she replies calmly.
That earns her a look.
"Poisoning?" he asks.
She taps another panel and a medical report opens, heavily redacted but unmistakable. "Two months before the first sighting. Axew brought into a Pokémon Center in severe condition. Antidotes administered. Extended recovery period. Released into private care."
He scans the report, jaw tightening slightly. "Private care by who?"
She waits a beat before answering.
"By a registered Pokémon Ranger."
The room goes quiet.
He looks up slowly. "Say that again."
She brings up another screen, this one clean and unmistakable.
RANGER REGISTER — SINNOH REGION
Field Specialist
Primary Focus: Dragon / Ghost
Control Assessment: Exceptional
Urban Risk Clearance: Approved
Status: Active
He leans forward now. "That's not coincidence."
"No," she says. "That's context."
He rubs a hand over his face. "So let me get this straight. A Ranger with one of the highest Dragon control ratings in the region takes custody of a critically injured Axew, and within a year his underage child is sparring with it in a public park."
"Yes."
"And you're telling me that somehow passed unnoticed until now?"
She shakes her head. "I'm telling you it was noticed. Just not escalated."
He snorts. "Because nobody wants to be the one who files a report on a Ranger's kid unless they're sure."
"Exactly."
He stands and starts pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "This isn't allowed. You know that."
She doesn't argue. "I know it's not permitted. That's different from 'not allowed.'"
He stops pacing and looks at her sharply. "Explain."
"Trainer licensing law assumes independence," she says. "A journey. A personal Pokémon. That framework doesn't exist here. The Pokémon isn't registered to the child. There's no League challenge. No badges. No travel."
"So it's still illegal."
"Not clearly," she counters. "Because the Pokémon is under the legal responsibility of a Ranger with clearance to handle Dragon-types in civilian zones."
"And the battles?"
"Unranked spars. No wagers. No League infrastructure. No official recognition."
He scoffs. "In a public park."
"Yes," she says. "Which is the part I don't like either."
They both look back at the frozen image on the wall.
"He doesn't fight like a kid," the man says after a moment.
"No," she agrees. "And that's actually the most concerning part."
He turns to her. "Concerning how?"
"Because kids who don't fight like kids usually learned not to," she says quietly. "Either from training… or from necessity."
Another pause settles between them.
"So what do we do," he asks. "Because ignoring it isn't an option anymore."
She sits back, folds her hands, and chooses her words carefully.
"If we intervene directly," she says, "we force a confrontation with a Ranger who has the authority, the experience, and the paperwork to argue us into a corner."
"And if we don't?"
"We accept that a child is gaining practical battle experience with a Dragon-type before the League ever sees him."
He grimaces. "That sets a precedent."
"So does pretending this isn't happening."
Silence stretches.
Finally, he exhales. "Observation," he says.
"Not unless something escalates."
She glances once more at the frozen frame, at the moment where the Axew disengages instead of pressing its advantage.
"We don't treat him like a violation," she says. "We treat him like a variable."
The man lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You really know how to make that sound worse."
She allows herself a thin smile. "That's because it is."
She reaches forward and types a final note into the file.
Subject engagement currently falls outside standard League pathways.
Risk assessment inconclusive.
Continued observation recommended.
The file saves.
The projector clicks off.
And somewhere else in the city, a child who isn't supposed to be fighting yet walks home beside a Dragon-type, unaware that the question is no longer whether he's breaking the rules, but which rules apply to him at all.