I wake up with my mouth tasting like drywall and my head doing slow circles, like I went ten rounds with a bottle I never actually drank. Luna is stretched out across my chest, snoring in these tiny, even puffs that you could set a clock by. Muse is half-dunked in the utility sink, bubbling through some off-key tune that keeps bouncing off the rust and coming back stranger every time.

  Beldum’s already up, which makes sense—Beldum doesn’t really sleep; it just powers down a notch and waits for something interesting to happen. Now it’s hovering above the coin-changer, staring around the room with that eerie, glassy eye. As soon as it catches me awake, it zaps out a quick burst: “Status?”

  “Alive,” I rasp, my voice barely making it out before my throat protests. Still, it’s true. We’re alive, we’re here, and all I’ve got to my name is a mismatched pile of sweatpants and borrowed blankets, all marinated in mothballs and that faint hint of other people’s choices.

  Muse’s humming picks up—so much that Luna wakes, squints at me like she’s not sure which reality she landed in, groans, and then shoves her head back into my arm, hoping she can just ignore the morning out of existence.

  But Muse is relentless. He keeps cycling the same few notes, tweaking them just enough every time to make you pay attention. Eventually it starts sounding less like a song and more like a hidden message. I sit up, and Beldum chimes in again: “Muse. Singing.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, “I caught that.” I try to work out the pattern. The melody isn’t anything like the usual get-to-work tunes, but there’s something bright in it. I even try to hum along for half a second before my voice betrays me, so I quit before anyone can judge—though it’s just a floating robot and a bear cub currently using me as a pillow.

  Muse pauses, then spits out three notes that are so sharp they almost sting. Never one to be left out, Beldum pipes up from its perch: “Composing.”

  I squint. “Wait—he’s what?”

  “Song. For us. Translation?”

  I blink again, but whatever. “Yeah, sure, let’s hear it.”

  Beldum holds for effect, then recites the lyrics with the kind of delivery that makes you feel like you’re being read your Miranda rights:

  "The sun is gold, the sky is blue! The morning mist is fresh and new! My lily pad is wet with dew, I'm ready for the day with you."

  I stare at Beldum, half-expecting it to bust out some jazz hands, but it just floats there, the world’s most monotone hype man. “Okay,” I say, “I see why his name is Muse.” I roll out from under Luna and immediately regret it—my back makes a noise like a cracked knuckle. The blanket clings to my ankles, and there’s a moment where I consider just going back to sleep forever, but Beldum’s eye is extra bright now, so I guess that’s not on the menu.

  “Ever considered spicing up your delivery?” I ask, shooting Muse an enthusiastic thumbs up and Beldum a look that says, ‘really?’ “You sound like you’re narrating a tax audit.”

  “Noted,” it says, and then—without even pausing—adds, “Sustenance required.” The tone doesn’t change. Still, it feels less like a demand and more like a practical update, which is honestly the most I can hope for.

  I make a show of stretching, then limp over to Muse, who’s still paddling circles in the sink. He stops his off-brand opera and looks up at me, the lily pad drooping rakishly. I scoop him out, ignoring the water that immediately soaks through my already-damp sleeve, and set him on the edge of the counter. “Good song,” I say. “Remind me to get you a better venue than a utility sink next time.”

  Muse perks up—honestly, he looks pretty pleased with himself—and switches to a softer tune, something not quite as dramatic, maybe trying out a breakfast soundtrack.

  Luna’s awake now, padding after me with a look of grim determination, like she’s ready to fight the concept of “morning” to the death. She noses my shin, then gives Muse a quick, appraising sniff before staking her claim on the only patch of sunlight in the room. Beldum floats over, unblinking, then gives a slow, almost dignified dip toward Muse, as if acknowledging a worthy adversary in the field of creative self-expression.

  It’s not that I doubt they can survive a little chaos, but honestly, my daily schedule is sixty percent dumb luck, forty percent hiding from trouble. I look over my so-called squad: Luna, still trying to merge with the floor; Beldum, playing hall monitor with that fixed stare; and Muse, who might be the only one genuinely happy I’m here. For a second, it hits me—just three strays holed up in a busted laundromat, nothing left for breakfast but whatever sadness we can divide up.

  “Team meeting,” I announce, and I’m not even sure who I’m trying to convince.

  Luna gives me a slow blink, very ‘do I have to be here for this?’ Beldum immediately hovers in, eye cranked to full supervisor mode. Muse opens his mouth to break into song, but I shut him down with a look. The notes just sort of wobble there, stuck.

  “Here’s the situation,” I say, keeping my voice low. “We have no food. My pack’s somewhere downstream, probably making friends with a branch. Unless one of you has a taste for floor tiles, we’re on empty.”

  “Beldum,” I say, pointing at the battered coin-changer and the floor-scatter of washers and dryers. “You think there’s any money left in this place?”

  Beldum doesn’t pause to answer. It rotates ninety degrees and then—very calmly—powers up a magnetic pulse that rattles every loose metal part in the building. The washers groan, a dryer door pops open, and then coins start trickling. Nickels, then quarters, then an avalanche of whatever change has been lost to the ages. The noise is so bright and tinny it feels like being inside a rainstick made of regret.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Within sixty seconds, Beldum has created a constellation of coins orbiting its body, spinning them gently in the air like it’s showing off a solar system. I’m not sure if I want to clap or cringe, but it’s impossible not to be impressed. Even Muse stops humming to watch, mouth a perfect “O” of aquatic astonishment.

  “Efficiency,” Beldum says, and lets the coins drop in a heap at my feet.

  I scoop up a few, feeling the chill of metal in my hand. It won’t buy us a feast, but it might get us some bread or something from a vending machine. “Okay. There’s hope,” I say, and Luna looks at the coins like she’s about to see if they’re edible.

  I crouch down for a quick gear check—Poké Balls? Safe. Luna’s wound? Healing up. Muse? Leaf looks fine. “Alright,” I tell them, “I’ve got to go find a store. Or a market. Anything, really.” Beldum’s eye blinks once, then just stares.

  I hand off the last two Poké Puffs—one to Luna, one to Muse. Luna demolishes hers instantly, barely chewing, crumbs clinging to her fur. Muse just stares down his treat, then, with absolute intention, nudges it clear across the floor, landing it just outside Luna’s sunspot. She lurches after it, claws skittering, and Muse calmly slides over to claim the newly vacated patch of sunlight. He settles in, looking smug, lily pad spread out, soaking it up like he owns the place.

  Beldum watches, then hits me with a private ping: “Muse. Light. Food”

  “Show-off,” I mutter, then glance at the door, the battered blinds letting in strips of city noise and light. My photo is probably splashed across every TV and cop station in Unova. I’m not paranoid—just realistic; the League wasn’t built for subtle forgiveness.

  “Okay,” I say, addressing the room. “I need to go out there. Alone. Fewer eyes, less trouble. You’ll all have to ride the bench for a while.”

  Luna shoots me a look—total drama, full pout—but doesn’t bother arguing. She sighs and flops down, just outside of the sunlit floor and shoots Muse a look of utter betrayal. Muse gives a half-hearted hum, like he’s queuing up his theme music for my exit. Beldum’s already drifting toward its Poké Ball, always the model of efficiency. I recall them—three quick flashes, and suddenly the laundromat is silent except for my own breathing and the lingering rattle of loose change. I gather up the Poké Balls, stuff some coins into my pocket, and head for the door.

  Outside, the city air is heavy with burnt oil and static. The laundromat huddles between two half-abandoned buildings, and I keep my head low, hood pulled up, trying to look like nothing worth a second glance. I’m just another of the myriad of homeless in clothes that don’t fit, hands buried deep, eyes locked on the pavement. The street’s already alive—trucks groaning, horns, some garbage truck screaming somewhere out of sight. I spot four types of cops in as many blocks: city, transit, and two flavours of League. No one clocks me, but I don’t give them a reason to start.

  I keep my head down, slipstreaming behind a guy pushing a shopping cart full of aluminium cans, until the foot traffic thickens and I can lose myself in the shuffling parade. The city’s already half awake—newsstands dragging their metal shutters, old men fighting over first dibs at the lottery, a pop-up flower cart unloading limp tulips for Mother’s Day even though the holiday is months off.

  I spot a news rack wedged between two vending machines, its glass foggy with last night’s condensation. The headline in block capitals shouts: “TERROR ON BRIDGE—PLASMA, GYM LEADER UNITE AGAINST FUGITIVE.” There’s a grainy freeze-frame underneath, some poor-resolution security still: me, hair wild, Beldum floating just above my shoulder, Muse clinging with all four feet to my wrist. The caption reads: “Unknown Individual Escapes Law Enforcement with Stolen Pokémon, Evades Capture After Destructive Standoff.” Underneath, a bullet list of “alleged crimes,” the usual cocktail of vandalism, obstruction, “grand theft—biological,” whatever that means. The narrative’s flipped: Plasma and the League as uneasy allies, a rogue element playing both sides.

  My face isn’t clear, but the shape is right. The shape is always right, and that’s all anyone needs: a silhouette to pin their disaster on. The whole city’s probably getting off on the spectacle. I watch as a couple of kids point at the photo, then at the sky, wondering if the “monster” is about to swoop down and eat them. The vendor notices me looking and shoots a glare: move on, or buy something. I move on.

  Past the newsstand, the city opens up into a grid of cheap diners and corner bodegas, each one lit with a different flavour of fluorescent misery. I duck into the first market that doesn’t look like it’ll frisk me at the door. Inside, the air is damp with the ghosts of last year’s produce, and the aisles are barely wide enough for one person. A security mirror above the register shows me my own face—hair matted, cheeks hollowed out, eyes bruised by five shades of sleep deprivation. I look like someone who would rob a place like this, or at least break a vending machine for sport.

  I grab a pack of instant noodles, a six-pack of bread rolls, a bag of dried Oran berries, and a litre of water. I also snag a disposable razor and a pair of cheap glasses from the impulse display. The razor’s got a cartoon Machop on the package, flexing over the slogan “CUTS CLOSEST—EVOLVED POWER.” The glasses are knock-off League brand, the kind with mirrored lenses and frames so flimsy they’ll probably snap in a day. But they’ll do. At the checkout, the guy behind the counter gives me a look—part sympathy, part suspicion—but doesn’t say a word. He rings me up, counts out my change, and slides it across the counter with a nod. The coins are warm from his hand, and I take them without looking up.

  I count the coins in my palm while the auto-door wheezes shut behind me. Beldum’s haul from the coin-changer is better than I expected—even after groceries, I’ve got enough to feel the weight of it in my pocket. I keep walking, because stopping is how you turn into a target, but my mind is already tallying up the deficit: Luna and I have food, Muse is fine with half a sink of tap water and a sunbeam, but Beldum runs on something less sentimental than carbs. I remember the mountain, the way it went after that wild Geodude and crunched it down, shell and all. Not violence—just a spreadsheet calculation: high mineral density, optimal recharge. I scan the street: all glass, neon, steelwork, and nowhere to find a slab of igneous on demand.

  But there’s a guy up ahead with a pushcart, wedged in the shadow of a tower block. Not a food stand—this one’s all rocks. Geodes, crystals, raw iron chunks, even a sign in marker that boasts “EVO STONES—REAL, CHEAP.” He’s got the beard and the cracked hands of someone who’s never worn gloves in his life, and his customer is a kid with a backpack so big it nearly doubles her height. She’s holding a chunk of quartz up to the light, squinting at it like she’s expecting a message from space.

  I slow down, pretend to be just another browser. The guy clocks me with a look, the kind that says he’s already decided whether I’m about to buy or about to pocket something, but he lets me come closer anyway. Up close, the “EVO STONES” are gravel-sized, but there’s a tray of proper stuff at the end: hunks of pyrite, cracked chunks of meteorite, and a jar with ten kinds of metal shavings floating in Leppa oil.

  “Need a gift?” the vendor asks, voice raw as a broken muffler.

  I shake my head. “Just browsing.” My eye drifts to the meteorite—dark, pitted, flecked with iron. “That one,” I say, nodding at the biggest chunk.

  He lifts it, weighs it on his palm. “Space rock. Real deal—got the docs if you want ‘em.” He gives me a quick, professional once-over. “You got a steel type?”

  I almost laugh, but just say, “Yeah.”

  He nods, sets the meteorite down, and slides a flat of crumbling, rust-red pieces my way. “Try this. Cheaper than the real deal, still good for their teeth. Not fake, just… last season’s finds.” There’s a look in his eye, like he knows exactly who’s desperate enough to shop the discount bin.

  I sift through, fingers coming up gritty. “How much for one?”

  He shrugs. “Ten. Or two for fifteen, if you promise not to eat it yourself.”

  I pay in coins, counting them out one by one. While he wraps the rocks in a napkin, the little girl at the cart next to me asks, “Does it really make them evolve?” The vendor nods with a gravity he probably saves for deathbed confessions: “Sometimes, yeah. If you get the real one.”

  The girl doesn’t buy it, but she wants to, so she nods and sets the quartz back down. Before she can say more, her mom—a woman with the posture of a Wigglytuff that’s seen one scam too many—cuts in. “We’re not wasting coins on fakes, sweetie.” She gives the vendor her best “I’ll have your license” scowl, then flicks her eyes to me, adding a bonus level of suspicion. “These are low quality stones, if you want to evolve your Eevee, I’ll get you a better one.” She yanks the girl’s sleeve, and within three steps they’re gone, dissolving into the crowd like they were never there.

  The vendor shrugs and pockets the cash, then gives me a look that’s half regret, half “business is business.” “She’s right, you know,” he says with a small grin. “But sometimes you feed ‘em a cheap one, and they get a little smarter for it.” He slides the meteorite chunk across the table, the weight of it solid and cold. “On the house,” he adds, voice low. “For your steel type.”

  I take it, tucking the napkin-wrapped pieces into my pocket. “Thanks,” I say, and mean it. He gives a quick shrug, already turning his attention to the next customer—a guy in business shoes eyeing the ‘meteorites’ like they’re magic beans, ready to drop serious cash for bragging rights.

  I duck out, careful to keep my head down as I cross the street. There’s a cluster of League uniforms the next block up, clumped around a coffee kiosk and radiating boredom. I thread through a side alley, past a dumpster colony of Trubbish, and double back toward the laundromat. My pulse thrums louder the closer I get: part paranoia, part memory of last night’s adrenaline dump. I slow at the corner, check for tails—nothing, just a woman with a stroller and a guy lighting a morning cigarette with hands that shake more than mine do.