Galar

Chapter Fifty-Five

Galar

Gray decided international travel had been invented by people who hated researchers.

The first problem was not the distance. Distance was straightforward. Regions were far apart, transportation existed, and nobody had yet invented a method of moving an adult Bastiodon across an ocean by pretending he weighed less than half a ton. Gray could respect physical limitations. What he struggled to respect was the existence of seven separate forms asking, in slightly different language, whether Bastiodon was dangerous.

“Yes,” Gray said, staring at the fourth version of the question.

Lyra looked over from the other side of his office, where she was sorting travel documents into increasingly depressing piles. “Please don’t write that.”

“It asks whether he is capable of inflicting serious injury.”

“He is.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s asking whether he presents an unmanaged risk during transport.”

Gray looked at the wording again, then down at Bastiodon, who occupied most of the floor between the desk and the bookshelves and was currently asleep with his chin against the rug. “That is not what the sentence says. He could put his head through the wall.”

Lyra followed his gaze. “He could, but that still isn’t what they’re asking.”

“So yes.”

“Gray.”

“I’m not lying on an international League form.”

“I’m asking you to keep reading.”

He did, reluctantly. The next paragraph clarified that trained Pokémon with documented behavioral stability, transport certification, and no history of unprovoked aggression could be listed as controlled travel companions rather than hazards. Gray considered the distinction several years overdue and checked the appropriate box while Lyra returned to the stack of documents that had accumulated over the last two days.

The trip to Galar had gone from theoretical to inevitable with remarkable speed. Dr. Marian Bell had provided institutional sponsorship before Gray had even completed the initial League request, which eliminated one category of delays and replaced it with several new ones. The Fish and Drake required international fossil-transfer documentation despite having originated in Galar in the first place. Bastiodon needed veterinary clearance, travel certification, and proof that his restoration records were legally recognized outside Sinnoh, while Gray and Lyra required temporary research credentials, customs declarations, emergency medical information, and what Gray considered an insulting number of signatures confirming that they understood Galarian League authority superseded Sinnohan authority while they were physically inside Galar.

“I know how borders work,” he muttered.

Lyra did not bother looking up. “Apparently they wanted that in writing.”

“I am thirty-two.”

“Very impressive.”

“I have traveled internationally before.”

“And yet they still made the form.”

Gray signed it harder than necessary.

The ranch presented a different problem. He trusted his staff completely, which did not mean he enjoyed leaving during a period when ancient Fire-types were still waking beneath Oreburgh and scattered Unown continued appearing across Sinnoh for no identifiable reason. Marcus could handle habitat coordination, Tessa had the recovery protocols, Mira was overseeing sensor feeds with the League team, and Elias could keep the laboratory from dissolving into administrative chaos. Cynthia had also promised to call if anything changed beneath Oreburgh that genuinely required Gray himself.

None of that prevented him from checking the monitoring dashboard six times before breakfast.

Lyra noticed the sixth. “If the readings changed, Mira would tell you.”

“I know.”

“You checked three minutes ago.”

“I also knew then.”

“That isn’t really an argument.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Gray closed the dashboard before she could continue and forced himself back to the travel forms.

By afternoon, almost everything had been approved. Bell’s institution had arranged secure fossil transport once they reached the Galarian port of entry, and the Sinnoh League had issued temporary authorization allowing Gray to remove Rowan’s archived specimens from regional storage for comparative study. The final complication arrived shortly before five in the form of Roark.

He walked into the laboratory with his helmet tucked beneath one arm and dust still clinging to the knees of his work trousers. Gray knew something was wrong immediately because Roark normally announced himself from at least one room away, particularly if Chatot was present and available to insult him. This time he stopped in the doorway, looked at the sealed transport case on the central table, and then looked at Gray.

“So Marcus told me something interesting.”

Gray kept signing the fossil custody sheet. “Marcus says a lot of things.”

“He said you found Galarian fossils in Rowan’s archive.”

“Yes.”

“He said they’re Fish and Drake.”

“Yes.”

Roark’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And he said you’re taking them to Galar.”

“That is also true.”

For several seconds Roark simply stared at him, until Gray finally set down the pen and looked up properly. “Are you all right?”

“No.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You are taking two Galarian fossil components to an active restoration research center in Galar without me.”

There it was.

Gray leaned back in his chair while Roark moved farther into the room and regarded the transport case like a man studying an insult that had somehow acquired reinforced corners. “You have a Gym.”

“I know I have a Gym.”

“You can’t leave Oreburgh for a week because I found fossils.”

“I also know that.”

“Then what exactly would you like me to do?”

Roark looked irritated by the fact that Gray had reached the obvious conclusion before he could. “Bring me everything.”

Gray blinked. “Define everything.”

“Scans, restoration data, geological notes, excavation context if they’ll give it to you, comparative mineral analysis, machine specifications if they aren’t proprietary, and anything published that isn’t already available here. I want photographs of the source fossils with proper scale references too, not whatever terrible promotional photography they put in museum brochures.”

Gray stared at him long enough for Roark’s expression to shift.

“What?”

“That was a good list.”

“I’m a geologist.”

“I know. I just don’t usually hear you sounding organized.”

“Go to hell.”

Gray smiled despite himself. “I’ll ask Bell what can be shared.”

That took some of the irritation out of Roark, though not much. He crossed to the transport case and rested his fingertips against the outer shell without touching the fossils inside. “You’re not restoring them there, are you?”

“Not unless I become convinced it’s responsible.”

Roark glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to?”

Gray had endured the same question from Lyra, Tessa, and himself for most of the previous day. At this point, pretending the answer required further analysis felt less like caution and more like dishonesty.

“Yes.”

Roark smiled immediately. “Thought so.”

“I did not say I’m going to.”

“I know. That distinction matters.” His smile widened just enough to become irritating. “You still want one.”

Gray looked toward Lyra. “This is spreading.”

She continued checking the itinerary without looking up. “You have not been subtle.”

Roark laughed, then gave the transport case one final glance before stepping away. “Send me everything you’re allowed to send. And if you see an Arctozolt, I want proper footage of how it moves.”

“I thought you wanted Dracovish data.”

“I want all of it.”

“That’s unreasonable.”

“You’re going to Galar with two fossils you found behind a mislabeled storage file.”

“That is not an argument against me.”

“No,” Roark said, and some of the humor left his voice. “It’s why I’m jealous.”

The honesty took enough of the joke out of the moment that Gray nodded. Roark had spent most of his life around fossils and mining strata, and access to a Galarian restoration institute was the sort of trip he genuinely would have loved rather than merely envied on principle.

“I’ll send what I can.”

That was all Gray could offer, and Roark accepted it.

They left Sinnoh two mornings later.

The trip began before sunrise, which Gray considered a personal attack. He had slept for nearly four hours and regarded that as sufficient until Blissey discovered him trying to leave the house with nothing but coffee for breakfast. She blocked the front door until he ate toast, two eggs, and most of a bowl of fruit under increasingly hostile supervision.

Lyra arrived in time to witness the end of it. “This is one of my favorite things about working here.”

Gray looked at her over the rim of his coffee. “You should develop better interests.”

Blissey made a pleased sound and handed him the travel medication Dr. Halden had recommended for the lingering concussion symptoms. Gray took it without argument, which caused Lyra’s eyebrows to rise.

“What?”

“Nothing. That was surprisingly easy.”

“I am capable of following medical advice.”

Blissey stared at him.

Gray looked away and finished his coffee.

Getting Bastiodon to the international terminal required a cargo-certified League vehicle rather than standard passenger transport. Bastiodon seemed entirely unconcerned by the arrangement and spent most of the drive watching early-morning traffic through the reinforced side window. Gray sat with him in the rear compartment while Lyra occupied the front passenger seat, periodically turning around to ask whether Gray had checked his passport, credential packet, fossil custody documentation, or medication.

By the fourth time, Gray lowered the paper he was reading. “I did not become regional Professor by being incapable of carrying paper.”

“No,” Lyra said. “You became regional Professor despite being capable of leaving your phone in the lab overnight.”

“That happened once.”

“Twice.”

“The second time was technically the conference room.”

“That is still the lab.”

Gray decided the discussion had become unproductive and returned to the report.

A few minutes later, Lyra twisted in her seat and looked at the header visible over the top of the page. “Is that the husbandry report?”

“No.”

“It says Dracovish Husbandry Considerations at the top.”

Gray lowered it just enough to look at her. “It is part of the preparation.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking that you downloaded it before the machine specifications.”

“Welfare comes first.”

“That is a very defensible answer.”

Gray narrowed his eyes and returned to the report.

The first leg of the journey carried them west to a larger international hub, where Bastiodon’s transport certification was inspected by three separate officials despite having already been cleared electronically. Gray expected irritation after the second inspection, but Bastiodon tolerated strangers walking around him with the weary patience of a Pokémon who had spent years being measured by researchers.

The third official paused over the behavioral section of the documentation. “Has Bastiodon ever shown destructive behavior?”

Gray considered the question.

Lyra quietly stepped on his boot.

He looked at her.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“He has no history of unprovoked destructive behavior,” Gray said.

The official marked the form and moved on.

Lyra removed her foot.

Gray waited until they were far enough away to speak without being overheard. “That was censorship.”

“That was context.”

“He once broke a university loading door.”

“Because somebody dropped a steel cabinet on your foot and he thought you were being attacked.”

“He still broke the door.”

“Yes, Gray. That is why I stopped you from telling an airport employee the first half of the story.”

The long-distance flight itself took most of the day. Bastiodon traveled in a large Pokémon accommodation compartment connected to the passenger cabin by a secure access corridor, with environmental monitoring and an attendant assigned specifically to larger Pokémon. Gray visited twice during the first few hours despite being assured repeatedly that Bastiodon was comfortable.

The second time, he found him asleep.

Lyra found Gray sitting nearby five minutes later. She leaned against the doorway and glanced from him to Bastiodon before speaking. “You know they have sensors.”

“Yes.”

“You know the attendants have your number.”

“Yes.”

“And you can see that he’s asleep.”

Gray looked at Bastiodon instead of her. His breathing was deep and slow now, but one armored foot remained braced farther outward than usual against the floor.

“He’s twenty-two, he hates turbulence, and he’s never been this far west.”

Lyra’s expression softened enough that she wisely did not turn it into a joke. “Fair.”

They stayed for another ten minutes.

By the time the aircraft crossed the oceanic corridor into Galarian airspace, Gray had read the husbandry report twice, three papers Bell had sent specifically for the visit, half of a comparative restoration review, and approximately four pages of the actual novel Lyra had told him to bring because she claimed vacations and work trips were not legally required to be identical experiences.

“This is not a vacation,” Gray said when she pointed that out.

“I know.”

“I’m working.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why did you tell me to bring a book?”

Lyra looked over from her seat. “Because sometimes people sit in chairs without researching.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“It is called having a life.”

Gray glanced past her at the elderly man across the aisle, who had been asleep with his mouth open for nearly an hour. “That does not look especially productive.”

Lyra stared at him for a moment, seemed to consider several possible responses, and finally decided none of them were worth the effort. She returned to her tablet.

Galar appeared through the window beneath a low ceiling of gray cloud.

Gray’s first impression was green, but not the dense, wet green he associated with parts of Hoenn or the older, darker forests of Johto. This was broader and more exposed: pasture divided by stone walls, narrow roads threading between villages, and rail lines cutting long paths across the countryside. Farther east, industrial towns rose in dark brick and steel, their older smokestacks standing beside newer construction. Stadiums dominated several of the larger settlements so completely that Gray initially mistook one for transportation infrastructure.

“That’s excessive.”

Lyra leaned toward the window. “The stadium?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen the Hearthome Contest Hall.”

“That building does not hold half a city so people can watch two Pokémon hit each other.”

“You sound judgmental.”

“I am judgmental.”

As the aircraft descended, more of the landscape resolved beneath them. Gray noticed exposed rock before architecture, quarry cuts before advertisements, and rail lines before the crowds moving around the terminal complex. Even from the air, the geology looked immediately different from central Sinnoh’s, with older sedimentary formations visible along several ridges beyond the city.

By the time they landed, he had temporarily forgotten about the stadium.

Customs restored his priorities.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Bell’s institution had arranged sealed-chain authorization for the Fish and Drake, so the fossil container was inspected externally without being opened. Bastiodon’s clearance took longer. One official spent enough time reading through his restoration history, age, and competitive record that Gray began to wonder whether they had found an actual problem.

Eventually the official looked up. “He fought in the Silver Conference?”

“He did.”

The man looked at Bastiodon.

Bastiodon looked back at him with the patient, unimpressed expression of a Pokémon who had spent most of his life being discussed while standing three feet away.

“Right.”

Gray was not sure what conclusion had been reached, but five minutes later they were waved through.

Dr. Marian Bell met them outside the secure research-transfer area.

Gray recognized her from the institutional profile he had looked up before leaving Sinnoh. She was in her early sixties, perhaps a little older, with short gray hair that had once been dark and the sort of face that looked permanently accustomed to bright outdoor light. She wore a heavy brown coat over practical field clothes rather than formal academic clothing, and the only obvious sign of institutional authority was the research badge clipped to one pocket.

Her attention went to Bastiodon before either human.

“So that’s him.”

Gray glanced down. “Bastiodon.”

Bell approached slowly enough to give him room, stopping several feet away rather than assuming familiarity. Bastiodon raised his head and studied her in return.

“Rowan mentioned you in letters,” she said.

Gray blinked. “You corresponded about him?”

“Not extensively. Rowan complained that Sinnoh restoration labs had become too willing to publish successful restorations without enough behavioral follow-up. Your Shieldon was one of several examples he used when arguing that restoration should be followed by years of observation, not a photograph and a press release.”

Gray looked at Bastiodon.

That was new information, and for a moment he was not entirely sure what to do with it.

Bell seemed to recognize that and did not press. Instead she turned toward Gray and offered her hand. “Professor Linden.”

“Dr. Bell.”

“Marian is fine. If you call me Doctor every time we disagree, this is going to become exhausting.”

Gray shook her hand. “You expect disagreement?”

“I knew Rowan.”

That answered the question well enough.

Lyra introduced herself next, and Bell greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had already read several emails bearing Lyra’s name in the scheduling chain. Then Bell’s attention shifted toward the sealed fossil container as it was transferred onto a secured cart.

“I honestly thought those had disappeared into Rowan’s archive forever.”

“They nearly did.”

“He never told you about them?”

“I never met him.”

Bell’s eyebrows rose. Gray recognized the assumption immediately; enough researchers had made the same one since his appointment.

“I didn’t study under Rowan.”

“Really.”

“No.”

Bell considered that with visible interest. “Then this may be more entertaining than I expected.”

Gray was not entirely certain whether that was complimentary.

Their destination lay several hours from the airport, so Bell had arranged institute transport. The drive gave Gray his first real look at Galar beyond terminal glass, and the region seemed to wear its history openly. Villages of dark stone sat only a few kilometers from industrial towns dense with brick and metal. Old bridges carried modern traffic, rail lines crossed countryside where Wooloo grazed behind low stone walls, and enormous stadiums rose from urban centers like monuments to a national obsession Gray had somehow managed to avoid studying in any depth.

Fossils appeared everywhere.

Not literally, though after the third museum sign it began to feel plausible. There were advertisements for restoration exhibits, fossil-themed cafés, League merchandise featuring Dracovish and Dracozolt, and one roadside sign depicting an aggressively cheerful Arctozolt beside a geological heritage site.

Gray watched it disappear behind them through the vehicle window.

Bell noticed. “That bothers you.”

“The mascot?”

“The normalization.”

Gray considered the word. “Maybe.”

Bell waited rather than explaining what she meant for him.

“In Sinnoh, fossil restoration still feels specialized. Museums, universities, some private facilities. Here it looks like part of public culture.”

“It is.”

“Does that create problems?”

“Constantly.”

That answer pleased him more than a defensive explanation would have.

Bell smiled. “You were expecting me to defend Galar.”

“I was expecting context.”

“You were expecting me to defend Galar.”

Gray glanced at her. “Maybe a little.”

“Rowan did too.”

“You keep comparing us.”

“I’ve known you three hours.”

“Exactly.”

“And in those three hours you’ve questioned customs terminology, restoration ethics, the wording of our visitor agreement, and whether a roadside museum sign creates distorted public expectations about extinct biodiversity.”

“The sign is misleading.”

“I know.”

Gray paused.

Bell looked out through the front window. “You’re going to have a much better week if you stop assuming I disagree with you because I work here.”

That was fair enough that Gray did not answer immediately.

Beside him, Lyra smiled at the scenery and wisely chose not to help.

The research center occupied a sprawling compound outside one of the larger towns, built partly into an old quarry complex. The oldest sections were dark stone and brick, while newer laboratories extended outward in glass, steel, and pale concrete. Gray noticed the restoration infrastructure almost immediately: secure loading bays, geological processing rooms, environmental enclosures, a veterinary wing, and at least two buildings large enough to contain significant aquatic habitats.

Bell let them leave their luggage at the visitor residence before beginning the tour.

Gray expected a presentation.

He received one for approximately seven minutes.

Bell showed them the main geological laboratory, several archived collections, a restoration observation suite, and a veterinary imaging facility containing equipment Gray briefly considered stealing. Then, without ceremony, she walked straight past the restoration machine.

Gray stopped.

Lyra took another step before noticing he was no longer beside her. “Come on.”

“She walked past it.”

“Yes.”

“That’s the restoration chamber.”

“I gathered.”

“We came here to study restoration.”

From farther down the corridor, Bell called back, “You can stare at the machine later, Gray.”

He disliked how quickly she had begun using his first name.

He followed anyway.

The corridor ended at a heavy door marked for habitat access. Bell scanned her badge and led them into a climate-controlled observation room overlooking a broad enclosure behind thick glass.

Gray heard the splash before he saw what made it.

Something struck the water hard enough to send a wave rolling against the stone edge of the pool. A moment later, a Dracovish surfaced.

Gray stopped walking.

The Pokémon was larger than the footage had made it feel.

That was his first coherent thought.

The second was that nearly every still image he had ever seen had done the species a disservice.

Dracovish was strange. There was no point pretending otherwise. Its proportions remained abrupt, its anatomy looked assembled according to a logic Gray could not derive from conventional skeletal reconstruction, and the placement of its head still provoked the instinctive sense that something about the body plan had gone badly wrong.

But it was alive, and that changed the entire impression.

The head turned before the rest of the body followed. Its eyes tracked Bell through the glass while water ran across the broad surface of its face and down the red skin around its jaw. Then it kicked once, powerfully, and crossed a section of the pool far faster than Gray expected.

The movement was not graceful in the way Milotic moved, but it did not need to be. There was control in it, power, and obvious familiarity with its own body. Whatever Gray thought of the reconstruction problem, the Pokémon itself was not struggling to solve it.

Bell watched Gray rather than the enclosure. “His name is Bramble.”

Gray glanced toward her. “You named him Bramble?”

“I did not.”

“Good.”

Bell raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“No reason.”

Lyra covered a smile with one hand while Bell chose not to pursue the question.

“He’s nine,” Bell continued. “Restored here from Fish and Drake components recovered from separate geological deposits. We have complete records from restoration through current adulthood.”

Gray had already moved closer to the glass. “Separate deposits?”

“Different excavation sites.”

“How far apart?”

“Roughly eighty kilometers.”

“Same formation?”

“Related strata, not identical horizons.”

Gray looked back toward Bramble. “That does not help.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

Bramble submerged again, disappearing beneath the dark surface. For several seconds only widening ripples remained. Then the Pokémon accelerated underwater and broke the surface hard enough to throw a sheet of water over the stone edge of the pool and across the lower portion of the observation window.

Gray smiled before he could stop himself.

Bell saw it.

She had enough mercy not to comment.

The habitat door on the far side opened, and one of the handlers entered carrying a bucket. Bramble responded immediately, hauling himself from the water with movements that looked awkward only until Gray watched closely enough to see how efficiently they resolved into balance. Once all four limbs were beneath him, the apparent clumsiness disappeared. His body might have looked strange in a static image, but the Pokémon clearly understood how to use it. Pasted markdown

Gray’s attention narrowed to the details he trusted more than first impressions. He watched Bramble’s weight distribution, the rhythm of his breathing after exertion, the angles of the joints as he shifted, the way his head compensated for the unusual placement of the rest of his body, and how quickly he recovered after leaving the pool.

“No visible limp,” Gray said.

“Correct,” Bell replied.

“Any routine analgesics?”

“None.”

“Anti-inflammatory treatment?”

“Occasionally after unusually heavy exercise, but nothing beyond what we would consider normal management for a large battling Pokémon.”

Gray kept watching Bramble rather than Bell. “Chronic spinal stress?”

“Some age-related changes, but less than older models predicted.”

“Respiratory compromise?”

“Not in him.”

“And sleep posture?”

That finally made Bell smile. “We have recordings.”

Gray turned toward her. “Good.”

Bramble ate two pieces of food from the handler’s bucket, then apparently decided dinner had become less interesting than whatever was happening near the gate. His head lifted, his attention fixed on the opening, and he abandoned the bucket with the complete lack of apology Gray was beginning to suspect might be typical.

The inner access door opened again.

Bastiodon entered.

Gray had known this was scheduled. Bell had asked earlier whether he would be comfortable allowing a supervised introduction, and Gray had agreed only after reviewing the enclosure specifications, staff positioning, and emergency barriers. None of that preparation made the sight itself feel routine.

Bastiodon stepped onto the habitat floor carefully and stopped when he noticed Bramble staring at him. For a moment, both Pokémon simply watched each other. Gray became aware that he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale.

Bramble approached first.

There was no dramatic recognition between two creatures drawn from ancient lineages, no mystical pause implying they remembered a shared world, and no sudden proof that restoration preserved some hidden memory humans had never understood. Bramble simply seemed curious because something new, large, and armored had entered his enclosure.

He came close enough to sniff Bastiodon’s shield.

Bastiodon remained still.

Bramble shifted nearer, pressed the side of his head experimentally against the armor, and then bit him.

Not hard.

Gray knew that immediately from Bastiodon’s response. His partner merely turned his head and looked at Bramble with the tired patience of an adult Pokémon being inconvenienced by somebody else’s overenthusiastic youngster.

Lyra laughed, and Gray had to cover his mouth with one hand.

Bell looked delighted. “He does that.”

“I noticed.”

“Investigative mouthing.”

“He has teeth.”

“Yes.”

“That phrase is carrying a lot of responsibility.”

Bramble released Bastiodon, stepped back, and circled him with obvious interest. Bastiodon tolerated the inspection for another minute before lowering himself onto the habitat floor, apparently deciding that if Bramble insisted on being strange at him, he could at least be comfortable while it happened.

Bramble seemed to interpret the movement as permission to continue.

Gray watched for nearly twenty minutes.

The scientific questions did not stop. If anything, they multiplied. Bramble’s balance was better than he had expected on land. His breathing remained steady after swimming. He used the enclosure deliberately, chose between water and dry ground without prompting, responded to the handler’s presence without appearing dependent on it, and interacted with Bastiodon as something socially meaningful rather than as scenery.

But while Gray collected observations, something else happened in parallel.

Bramble stopped being a restoration controversy.

He stopped being a diagram, a disputed body plan, or a question about what machinery did with incomplete fossil data. He became a Pokémon with habits, preferences, curiosity, terrible boundaries, and an apparent scientific interest in whether Bastiodon tasted different from the enclosure wall. Pasted markdown

Bell eventually opened the visitor-side access door and looked toward Gray. “Do you want to meet him?”

Lyra looked at Gray too.

He ignored her.

“Yes.”

They entered through a disinfecting vestibule while Bell reviewed the handling rules despite Gray having already read them. No sudden approach. No touching unless Bramble initiated contact. Stay clear of the jaw if he became excited. Most importantly, do not mistake awkward terrestrial movement for slowness.

That last rule proved useful almost immediately.

Bramble noticed Gray.

His head turned first, and then the rest of him followed with startling speed. Gray had enough field experience not to retreat, though several instincts insisted something shaped like that should not have been able to cover the distance so quickly.

Bramble stopped less than a meter away.

Gray lowered one hand and held it open.

The Pokémon studied the hand, then Gray’s face, and finally the bag hanging from his shoulder.

Gray followed his gaze. “No.”

Bramble shoved his head directly into Gray’s chest.

The impact forced Gray half a step backward before he caught himself. Lyra laughed behind him.

“He likes you.”

“You cannot determine that from one impact.”

Bramble pushed into him again.

Gray braced this time. “All right.”

The Dracovish smelled his coat, his hands, and the side of his bag with methodical enthusiasm before discovering one of the reinforced straps. He took it gently between his teeth.

Gray looked at Bell.

Bell offered no assistance whatsoever. “He likes textures.”

“He is eating my luggage.”

“He isn’t swallowing it.”

“That is a weak defense.”

Gray eased the strap free carefully, taking care not to turn the interaction into a tugging game. Bramble stared at him for several seconds, expression difficult to interpret in human terms, then immediately reached for the strap again with enough obvious intent that Gray laughed.

He could not help it.

The sound came out before he had time to flatten it into sarcasm or turn it into some comment about behavioral sampling. Bramble released the strap and pressed the side of his face against Gray instead.

Gray stood still.

After a moment, he rested one hand against the area Bell had indicated was safe to touch. The skin was warmer than he had expected, and the breathing beneath his palm stayed steady even as Bramble shifted slightly closer.

It was such a simple thing that Gray found it more convincing than half the data he had read.

This Pokémon was not an argument.

He was alive.

Completely, inconveniently alive. Pasted markdown

Later, in the veterinary wing, Bell complicated the simplicity of that moment in exactly the way Gray wanted her to.

She showed him the problems.

Not catastrophes, and not enough to justify the kind of sweeping moral conclusion people preferred when something made them uncomfortable. Real problems were worse than that because they required judgment.

Early Galarian restoration programs had not always understood what they were producing well enough to care for it properly. Some Dracovish had been housed primarily on land because handlers saw functional legs and assumed terrestrial accommodation was sufficient. Older individuals from those programs showed higher rates of joint strain, reduced voluntary activity, and stress behaviors that often improved once deep-water access became a regular part of their care.

Arctozolt presented a different set of concerns. Thermoregulation required careful habitat management, especially when trainers tried to keep them in climates their restored physiology did not tolerate comfortably. Arctovish could experience feeding and orientation difficulties when enclosures were designed around what humans thought a Pokémon ought to need rather than how the Pokémon actually navigated its environment.

Gray read through every case summary Bell gave him.

“What happened to the early individuals?”

Bell sat across from him in a records room surrounded by shelves that Gray suspected could occupy him happily for several months. “Some lived perfectly good lives once their care improved. Some developed chronic problems we almost certainly contributed to. A few died younger than they should have.”

Gray looked up.

Bell did not soften the statement or rush to explain it away.

“For years, the phrase everyone cared about was ‘restoration worked,’” she continued. “If a living Pokémon came out of the chamber, people treated that as the success condition. It took longer than I’m proud of for enough researchers to understand that successful restoration is not the end point.”

Gray thought of Shieldon emerging under harsh laboratory lights more than two decades ago, confused and angry and immediately alive in a way no fossil preparation had prepared him for.

“What is?”

Bell’s answer came without hesitation. “The beginning of a life.”

Gray studied her for a moment before nodding.

That was when he decided he liked Marian Bell. Trust would take longer; Gray did not hand that out quickly, and Bell did not seem like someone who expected him to. Liking her was easier. She had just shown him the strongest argument against some of Galar’s historical practices without pretending the evidence condemned restoration itself.

The afternoon dissolved into scans, habitat records, and increasingly technical arguments. Bell introduced them to two veterinary researchers who had followed restored fossil Pokémon for more than a decade. Gray asked enough questions that one of them eventually laughed, announced a need for coffee before answering another, and returned with enough for everyone. Lyra took notes, interrupted when Gray became so interested in mechanisms that he skipped practical consequences, and occasionally rephrased one of his questions when his wording started sounding more accusatory than he intended.

By four, Gray had seen three Dracovish, two Arctozolt, one Arctovish, and a Dracozolt old enough to have participated in one of the institute’s earliest modern welfare studies. None of them looked like a mistake. None of them looked simple either, and Gray increasingly suspected that distinction mattered more than any categorical answer he had hoped to find. Pasted markdown

They finally returned to the restoration wing near the end of the day.

This time Bell let Gray stop at the machine.

The chamber was larger than the systems he knew in Sinnoh, built around several scanning arrays and a central restoration cradle surrounded by equipment whose purpose he could identify only partially. Some components were familiar enough: mineral separation, preserved biological-pattern extraction, energy stabilization, tissue reconstruction. Others belonged to the part of Galarian restoration he had spent two days becoming increasingly annoyed by.

Gray circled the machine slowly. “The integration stage happens here?”

Bell nodded toward one of the larger assemblies. “That system manages overlapping reconstruction data from multiple fossil components.”

Gray stopped. “Overlapping.”

“That is the term the engineers use.”

“What does it mean?”

Bell’s expression became suspiciously amused. “Depends which engineer you ask.”

Gray looked at her.

“Now you understand why Rowan kept writing.”

She led them into the adjoining analysis room, where the Fish and Drake had already been transferred under supervision. Technicians scanned both fossils without removing them from their protective supports, and Gray watched the results populate across several displays while trying not to stand close enough to annoy anybody operating expensive equipment.

The comparison took almost an hour.

His Fish matched several known Galarian fossil signatures with good preservation integrity.

The Drake was better.

One of the technicians sounded genuinely impressed while reviewing the density and pattern retention, which Gray tried not to find personally gratifying.

Bell studied the results twice before rotating the main display toward him. “Both are viable restoration candidates.”

Gray looked at the scans.

He had known that was possible from Rowan’s records and the institute’s preliminary analysis. Hearing someone say it while the actual fossils sat on the other side of the glass felt different.

“If combined?”

“Yes.”

“Probability of standard Dracovish morphology?”

“High.”

“How high?”

“With this preservation quality, above ninety percent according to our current models.”

Gray’s eyes moved from the display to the sealed specimens beyond the observation glass.

Bell did not fill the silence.

That made him like her more.

“You could do it here,” Gray said eventually.

It was not really a question.

Bell understood that. “Yes.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow, if you authorized it.”

Lyra shifted beside him, but she did not speak.

Gray looked through the glass toward the restoration chamber.

He could imagine it too easily now: the doors closing, energy building through the system, old biological information becoming tissue and blood and bone and nerves until something that had not been alive for an incomprehensible span of time suddenly was.

Then the doors would open.

Bramble came to mind first, pressing his head into Gray’s chest and trying to steal the strap from his bag. After that came the veterinary files, the joint studies, the early husbandry failures, and a Shieldon twenty-two years ago walking across a laboratory floor to hit Gray in the shin.

“No.”

Bell nodded without disappointment or surprise. “Not yet?”

Gray looked at her. “Not yet.”

“I thought that would be your answer.”

“Why?”

“Because you came all the way to Galar instead of turning on a machine in Sinnoh.”

Gray had no good argument against that.

He turned back toward the fossils. “I want the complete longitudinal records you mentioned this morning. I want to see older Dracovish, preferably outside institutional habitats. I want source-site context for Fish and Drake components, and I want somebody from engineering to explain the integration stage without using the phrase ‘overlapping reconstruction data’ as though those words mean something by themselves.”

Bell smiled. “That last one may take longer than the others.”

“I have time.”

Lyra looked at him.

Gray caught the expression and amended the statement before she could say anything. “A reasonable amount of time.”

“That is better.”

Bell arranged the next day while they were still standing beside the machine. An older Dracovish lived with a former field researcher less than an hour away. The institute could give Gray access to archived excavation material in the morning, and if the weather held, Bell could take them to one of the original fossil recovery sites after lunch.

By the time Gray and Lyra reached the visitor residence, rain was tapping steadily against the windows and darkness had settled over the institute grounds.

Gray was exhausted.

He refused to describe himself that way.

Lyra ordered food because neither of them had enough energy left to leave the institute and find somewhere to eat. Gray sat at the small table in the common room with one of Bell’s reports open in front of him, reading the same paragraph three times without retaining enough of it to admit the attempt had become pointless.

Lyra noticed from the sofa. “You’re not absorbing any of that.”

“I am.”

“What does the paragraph say?”

Gray looked down at it, then back at her. “That’s manipulative.”

“You don’t know.”

“I know generally.”

“Gray.”

He closed the report.

Their food had arrived twenty minutes earlier, and half of his portion remained untouched. Lyra glanced at it without saying anything. Gray understood the gesture and ate another bite before she could upgrade it into verbal criticism.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Rain ticked against the windows, and somewhere outside something large moved through the institute grounds before disappearing into the night. Bastiodon was asleep in the adjoining Pokémon room, where the staff had installed a reinforced bed before their arrival.

Eventually Lyra set her tablet aside. “You like him.”

Gray knew exactly who she meant.

This time there was no useful reason to evade it.

“Yeah.”

The word felt surprisingly comfortable once it existed outside his head.

Lyra smiled, though not in the irritating way she had back in Sandgem. “He liked you too.”

“He tried to eat my bag.”

“He tried to eat your bag affectionately.”

“That is not a recognized behavioral category.”

“It should be.”

Gray looked down at the closed report, one thumb rubbing idly along the edge. “I thought seeing one might make the question easier.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

He leaned back in the chair and looked toward the dark window rather than at Lyra. “It made one part easier. I don’t think the anatomy alone is a reason not to restore one. Bramble is healthy. He moves well, chooses what he wants to do, has preferences, and has relationships. Whatever argument humans are having about whether his body perfectly matches a historical species, he does not appear to be waiting for us to finish the argument before living.”

Lyra listened without interrupting.

Gray appreciated that.

“But that still does not answer whether creating another one is responsible. If there is a predictable risk of chronic pain, that matters. If they require conditions I can’t provide, that matters. If restoration outcomes vary enough that I’m gambling with a Pokémon’s body because I happen to think Dracovish is interesting, that matters too.”

“You have twenty-seven acres.”

“That does not automatically make them suitable habitat.”

“You could build suitable habitat.”

“I could.”

“You have veterinary support.”

“Yes.”

“You have experience with restored Pokémon.”

Gray finally looked at her. “Yes.”

Lyra shrugged slightly. “I’m not arguing that you should restore one. I’m pointing out that wanting one is not the only thing on the scale.”

“That is the problem.”

“I thought wanting one was the problem.”

“It was easier when it was.”

Lyra smiled faintly and let him think.

For most of his life, Gray had treated desire as the least interesting part of acquiring a Pokémon. Children wanted Pokémon constantly. Trainers wanted stronger teams. Researchers wanted rare species. Collectors wanted things primarily because other people did not have them. Wanting was easy, and because it was easy, Gray had learned not to trust it very much.

Responsibility was harder.

But perhaps he had gone too far in the opposite direction.

Wanting a Pokémon was not inherently unethical. Bastiodon had not become less loved because Gray had desperately wanted a Shieldon when he was ten. He had wanted Absol to stay with him after Johto. He had wanted Aerodactyl despite several sensible people warning him that Aerodactyl was an aggressive nightmare with wings, and time had proven those people mostly correct without making Gray regret the decision.

The important question had never been whether desire existed. It was what happened after the desire became responsibility.

Could the Pokémon live well? Could it make meaningful choices about its own life? Could Gray provide what it actually needed rather than forcing it into whatever life he had imagined for it? Could he accept that restoring a Pokémon created obligations lasting years, possibly decades, long after the novelty of the science ended?

He already knew his answers to those questions in principle.

He simply did not know yet whether Dracovish fit inside them. Pasted markdown

Lyra picked up her tablet again. “Tomorrow should help.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re seeing an older one.”

“Yes.”

“You’re visiting an excavation site.”

“Yes.”

“And Bell said she’ll get someone from engineering to explain the restoration stage you hate.”

Gray frowned. “I don’t hate it.”

“You called it scientifically evasive.”

“That is not hatred.”

“It sounded close.”

Gray reopened the report, though mostly because he wanted something to look at other than her expression.

Lyra watched him for another moment. “You know you don’t have to decide this week.”

“I know.”

“The fossils can go back to Sinnoh.”

“I know.”

“You can think about it for a month.”

“I know.”

“Six months.”

Gray looked up. “That seems excessive.”

Lyra smiled.

He realized immediately what he had done.

“Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Gray returned to the report, although the paragraph remained impossible to care about.

The Fish and Drake were secured overnight in the institute’s fossil vault less than two buildings away. He could picture them without trying: two incomplete pieces of stone, each carrying enough preserved biological information to become something neither fragment resembled on its own.

Yesterday, that had been the interesting part.

Tonight, Gray kept thinking about Bramble leaning into his hand.

The issue was no longer whether he wanted a Dracovish. He had crossed that line somewhere between watching one swim and having it attempt to steal his bag, and pretending otherwise would have been dishonest.

What remained was harder.

Gray wanted to know whether wanting one could coexist with the responsibility of making one exist.