Up until now, I thought fate was just something people talked about to feel better when stuff fell apart. Then suddenly, I’m wedged into the back of a moving truck with a Teddiursa cub, a jumpy Beldum, a Throh who looks personally offended by my existence, and a ranger with a clipboard who’s already rethinking his career choices. The cab rattles so hard it feels like the last stretch of road in these mountains is losing a fight with the truck. The heater’s on full blast, but all it really does is turn the air into an overheated, metallic haze. Luna’s spread out across my feet, dead asleep and snoring like she’s got somewhere to be in her dreams. She passed out as soon as we hit the first twist in the road, totally oblivious to every bump that’s rattling my bones. I wish I had her life strategy: eat if there’s food, sleep if there isn’t, and let somebody else deal with the rest.

  Beldum hovers at eye level with the ranger sitting across from me, both of them locked in this silent contest of who can look more unimpressed. If Beldum ever bothered to use those powers for anything except giving people passive-aggressive stares, I’m convinced half the country would be toast. Lin has one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm on the gearshift like he’s stuck in some traffic-jam Morse code. No music, no radio—nothing but the tyres humming and Luna snuffling away.

  Every so often, Lin flicks his eyes up at me in the rear-view mirror, sharp and bright like he’s trying to scan a barcode on my forehead. Not mean or suspicious, just curious in a way that says he’s paid to notice stuff. “You good back there?” His voice sounds rough, like he gargles gravel every morning and chases it with coffee. “You’re not gonna puke in my truck, are you?”

  I want to say I’m fine, but my stomach gives a warning roll before I can get a word out. I swallow it. “Not yet.” I pause, then add, “Didn’t you say this thing was supposed to have suspension?”

  He smirks at that—maybe it’s a smile, maybe he’s just trying not to laugh. “Yeah, well, budget’s tight. City keeps promising they'll fix the roads. My bet? Either the river freezes over or our paychecks do, whichever comes first.” He lets that one sit for a bit. Beldum buzzes softly like it’s trying not to lose its mind.

  The scenery blurs by in icy streaks and tree trunks. I watch through the smeared rear glass as tight turns and twisted birches flatten out into wider valleys. Patches of old snow fade away into tired grass and weeds poking up like they’re testing the weather. Then, without warning, the mountains are behind us and we’re rolling into open wetlands—a mess of water and low ground. Even inside the cab, I can tell the air has changed; I can smell the wet earth and all the stuff waking up underneath it.

  As we hit the lowlands, the trees start putting out new leaves in random clumps. Every other puddle along the roadside is busy with Ducklett and those grumpy-looking Lotad, heads popping up and down like some kind of aquatic whack-a-Drilbur. I squish my face against the glass to watch, still half-bracing for a Sneasel or something worse to leap from the brush, but the only thing after us is a gust of wind and Beldum’s side-eye whenever it needs a new target. Luna’s still out cold, even when Throh snores loudly enough to ruin air quality for everybody. Lin doesn’t slow down. The truck just keeps rolling, like it’s got somewhere better to be.

  Pretty soon, even the wilderness throws in the towel. Wetlands fade into fields, then into scraggly pastures where the grass is a little too green, like a set designer got carried away. We pass a sign that’s been through at least twelve winters—“UNOVA PUBLIC WORKS: MAINTENANCE ZONE”—the letters barely hanging on. Suddenly the road smooths out, actual pavement and real painted lines, as if civilization finally decided to show up for work. The cab gets weirdly echoey with every bump and cough bouncing around until I almost want to break a window just for variety. Beldum camps at the window now, zeroed in on the skyline like it’s tracking dinner. Out past the glass: hints of city—low buildings, tired red brick, and a water tower with a mural so faded it could be advertising anything.

  Before I even spot it, I feel it—the air buzzing with too many people in too small a space. Lin steers us onto a skinny side road, past a “Mistralton City” sign that looks like it’s about to quit on the spot. He parks behind an old grocery store and lets the engine idle. For a second, nobody does anything.

  Lin finally breaks the silence. “Alright, sleeping beauty, time’s up.”

  Luna claws her way back to reality and hauls herself onto the seat next to me, squinting at the city like it personally offended her. Throh wakes up with a noise that’d scare small wildlife.

  Lin kills the engine and gives us his best poker face. “So here’s how it goes. You can come inside for some coffee while we do paperwork, then you’re out of here. Or—” he jerks his head at the city “—you can head out on your own. If you want someone from the Centre to check your hand, they’re around. Or…” He pauses just long enough for me to fill in the blanks, “we can skip all that, you disappear, and I never saw you. Your call.”

  I can’t tell if he’s genuinely being considerate or just running down a checklist. Maybe it’s both. “Coffee sounds good,” I croak, voice rough but at least steady. Mistralton pavement feels weird under my boots—flat and unyielding, all smug after days of nothing but ice and sludge. I hesitate on the edge of the depot, watching my breath curl up like it’s not sure it wants to hang around here either. Beldum hovers close, for once looking actually awake; Luna grips tight to my sleeve, like she suspects stepping away from the truck is how horror stories start.

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  We head out anyway. The parking lot’s pure chaos—old slush mashed into potholes, puddles that look like they’re in a competition for dirtiest water. But once we get past it, there’s the real town: flickering lights, people everywhere, and machines making so much noise you’d think they’re protesting. Mistralton isn’t really a city—more like runways and a few tall buildings clinging on for dear life that barely pass for a CBD. The houses are basic, just prefab boxes stacked where the airport stopped caring, with scaffolding holding everything together purely out of spite. It barely qualifies as a town. Still, after all that wilderness, it actually feels like we’re back in the world—noisy, crowded, and way too bright, but it’s something.

  Lin leads us into the depot, which looks exactly like what happens when someone’s idea of architecture is “concrete box, but sadder.” The walls are that sickly beige hospitals love, and the floor’s a patchwork of ancient stains—coffee, mud, and things I don’t want to guess at. The whole place smells like stale coffee, damp sweaters, and the ghost of a microwave burrito. There’s a crowd of rangers around beat-up folding tables—some sporting the haunted, wild-eyed look of people who haven’t seen a bed in days, and the rest just look checked out entirely. A pair in the corner are comparing scars like it’s a sport; the rest are glued to their phones or staring into space, waiting for fate or management to hand out their next job.

  As soon as we walk in, the volume drops about halfway, just enough that you notice everyone noticing you. A few of the older rangers give me the kind of stare reserved for troublemakers and tax collectors. One guy looks at me so hard I’m positive he’ll be describing me to security later. Lin ignores all of it and steers me past them, down a short hallway to a door labelled “Staff Lounge.” Beldum floats alongside, acting like my personal shield, while Luna sticks close—her eyes huge from the glare of the overhead lights.

  The lounge is barely big enough to turn around in, with a dusty kitchenette, a couch held together by duct tape and stubbornness, and a mini fridge that rattles like it’s losing an argument with itself. Lin waves at the couch, so I sit; the vinyl immediately welds itself to my legs, but I don’t dare move. He finds an old mug, chips and all, and fills it from a coffee pot that probably predates electricity. “No milk, no sugar, just heat,” Lin says, handing me the mug. “If this stuff kills you, I’ll notify next of kin, if you have any.” He tries on a crooked smile like it’s new.

  I drink anyway. It’s awful, but at least it’s warm.

  “Hang tight,” Lin says, “I’ll dig up the paperwork.” He leaves the door slightly open and disappears into an office drowning in boxes and papers. I can hear him muttering threats at the filing cabinets as he searches for whatever forms he needs. Alone, I watch steam curl off the mug and try not to burn my hand.

  Beldum hovers by the ceiling, slowly scanning the room as if taking inventory for later. I catch glimpses of the plastic fern on the counter, the water stain above the vent, and the fridge held together by a single strip of duct tape. Beldum’s always memorizing stuff—like if we ever need to make a run for it, it already knows which screws are loose and when the cleaning lady shows up.

  Luna climbs up next to me on the couch and tucks herself into a tight ball, face buried so deep in her fur it’s like she’s hoping the world just forgets about her. She’s trembling—not from cold, but from the leftover nerves in the room. I rest my hand between her shoulders and scratch gently; after a minute, she lets out a sigh and slumps against my side, breathing slow and steady. Can’t blame her—this is the first time in days we haven’t been thinking three steps ahead about where to hide if things go south.

  Overhead, the light hums with that cheap bulb flicker. The wall clock’s running five minutes slow, not that it matters—feels like time barely exists in this place anyway. A vent rattles, pushing out air with a hint of old ramen that’s probably lived through better days. I wouldn’t call myself calm, but that tension I’ve been lugging around is finally dulling a bit. Maybe it’s the coffee working, or maybe it’s just these bland beige walls.

  Then come the footsteps—solid, steady, definitely not Lin. My spine goes rigid and Beldum turns to track the sound. The door swings open and a new guy walks in—tall, broad, and built like he could bench-press the whole couch. His uniform’s so crisp it actually squeaks, “SUPERVISOR” patch practically glowing at me. He gives me a quick up-and-down, glances at Beldum, then Luna, then checks us off in his head like he's reviewing groceries. No friendliness, no threat—just business.

  Lin follows him in, juggling folders like he’s trying to set a record for paperwork. “Okay, interview time,” he says with a grunt. The Supervisor gives a nod toward the door; apparently we’re late for an appointment nobody wants. I get up—even though my legs want nothing to do with it—and Luna slips off the couch after me like she thinks sticking close will keep us out of trouble. Beldum drifts over my shoulder, keeping one eye on everything.

  The interview room isn’t what I pictured—big, echoey, with a round table that looks lonely stuck in the middle and chairs scattered way too far apart. There’s nothing on the wall except a high strip of glass for a window. The floor is cold enough to seep into my shoes. Instinct makes me pick the seat facing the door, and Beldum gives me this approving little blink, like I finally got something right.

  Luna sits tight by my ankle, staring down any movement near the door. She seems less wound up than usual—probably because nobody’s left out snacks for her to swipe, or maybe she’s decided if this is the end of the line, she’ll take it lying down. Lin posts up against the wall with arms folded, pretending to read his folder like there’s going to be a pop quiz on my criminal record.

  The supervisor speaks first: “You’re the one from Route 7?” His accent is flat, the words scrubbed clean of any region, probably on purpose.

  I nod. “That’s me.”

  He opens the folder, glances at a single page, then closes it again. “We’ve had a couple of calls about you.”

  I try not to react. “Sorry, I don’t remember leaving a number.”

  He almost smiles. Almost. “You got a trainer card?”

  I shake my head. “Lost it.”

  “Ever had one?”

  I hesitate. This is one of those questions where the wrong answer is both “yes” and “no,” and I don’t know which way the room is leaning.

  Just then, the door cracks open and in come two cops—both built like they bench press for fun—with a Growlithe each. The dogs size me up right away: one parks itself and stares, the other paces like it’s waiting for a green light. One officer flicks the lock shut. The sound is way too loud in the quiet.

  The supervisor doesn’t so much as blink. “This is routine,” he says, but nobody’s buying it—not even the dogs.

  The first cop, the one with the chiselled jaw and barber-shop precision haircut, sits down and plants his Growlithe by his boots. The other stands by the door, hands behind his back. Both dogs just watch me—no barking, just full-on detective mode.

  Lin finally glances up from his folder. For half a second he almost looks sorry for me. “Protocol—we have to check the names,” he says, quiet, like we’re sharing an inside joke that isn’t funny.

  I look down at my hands knotted on the table. My bandaged palm prickles and itches like it’s trying to remind me it’s still there. Beldum pulses quietly above me, making it clear we’re stuck here for now. Luna pushes herself up, wide awake now and locked onto the newcomers, all nerves gone. She looks at me like she’s ready for trouble.